You can’t pick your neighbors

If “Dick” had a piano drop on his head, causing major brain damage that turned him into a nice guy, I wouldn’t waste my time with a moment’s remorse for his misfortune. In fact, it would be cause for some amount of rejoicing. I can honestly say that I never wished a piano-related injury on anyone until Dick moved next door.

First, my apologies to PETA for this allegory. You all are doing a great job, in your own annoying, self-righteous way.

A man was out hunting ducks one day. He had just brought down a nice mallard when a lobbyist showed up and said, “You can’t do that, a%#hole!” Obviously, the lobbyist didn’t know that he was talking to Dick Cheney.

“Never mind that my net worth is more than God’s,” he replied, “my children will starve if I don’t bring home a duck.”

The lobbyist wasn’t swayed. “Tough sh*t. These are living breathing creatures, and your piddling problems don’t matter.”

The lobbyist is now undergoing reconstructive surgery after having his nose blown off.

I don’t own a shotgun, I don’t know any lobbyists, and no ducks (or lobbyists) were harmed in the making of this allegory.

Dick (my neighbor, not Cheney) cusses me out if I mow outside the lines, or park my motor home in my driveway. Mostly, he hates my dogs. I have a Doberman and a Great Dane, so when they bark, people in Nome, Alaska jump.

Being as how they are alive, my dogs need to pee and poop and stretch their legs. I have a fenced in yard, I’m outside with them every minute, and as soon as they bark, I bring them in.

Dick is not satisfied with my attempts to be a responsible pet owner. If I hear, “I’m reporting this” one more time, I think I may go looking for a shotgun … or a piano.