Their hundred-pound mammoth-of-a-dog charged my husband and knocked him to the ground, and the first thing they did was rush over to comfort their “traumatized” dog.
My new neighbors were a young, “cool” couple who called themselves “dog-parents” to Zeus, their big, untrained animal they treated like a human toddler.
They let him run wild all over the neighborhood. He dug up my prize-winning flowers and used my lawn as his personal toilet.
Their response was always the same condescending smile. “Oh, he’s just playing! He’s our fur baby, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
I tried to be nice. I love dogs. I offered training tips and suggested a local dog park. They saw my concern as a personal attack on their “parenting.” They thought I was just some cranky old “Karen.”
They thought I would scream or sue, but they never imagined I was quietly building a digital arsenal, a crystal-clear dossier of their every violation that would dismantle their lives with one polite, devastating email.
A Welcome of Sorts: The Unfurling
The U-Haul next door groaned like a dying animal, its ramp crashing onto the asphalt of the driveway. I was trimming the boxwoods that lined my walkway, the scent of crushed green leaves sharp in the May air, and I paused, shears in hand. New neighbors. A chance for a reset after old Mr. Henderson finally moved into that assisted living facility.
My husband, Tom, waved from the front window before heading out for a round of golf. I waved back, feeling a small, optimistic flutter. Our street was quiet, settled. A little new energy might be nice.
Then they emerged. A man and a woman, both looking like they’d been artfully assembled by an Instagram algorithm. He had a deliberate beard and impossibly white sneakers; she had distressed jeans and a loose tank top that revealed a tattoo of a feather unfurling down her spine. They looked to be in their late twenties, radiating a kind of effortless cool that I, a 52-year-old landscape designer, had never possessed even in my youth.
And then, a third figure bounded out of the truck’s cab. A dog. A big one. Brindled fur, broad chest, the unmistakable blocky head of some kind of mut. He was beautiful, in a powerful, unnerving way. And he was completely untethered.
Before I could even register a proper thought, the dog shot across his new lawn and then, without hesitation, across mine. He tore right through the bed of impatiens I had just mulched, his paws sending dark clouds of cedar flying onto the pristine grass. He wasn’t malicious. He was just a pure, unguided missile of canine energy.
The woman, Brittany, laughed. A light, tinkling sound. “Zeus! You silly boy, exploring already!”
The man, Chad, gave me a little salute. “Sorry about that! He’s just so excited to check out the new digs.”
I forced a smile, the metal handles of the shears feeling cold in my grip. “No problem. Welcome to the neighborhood.” But it felt like a problem. It felt like the edge of a problem, just starting to unfurl.
The First Offering
Two days later, the problem had a name: Black-Eyed Susans. My prize-winners, the ones I’d nurtured from seedlings, the ones that framed my mailbox with a shock of brilliant yellow. Or, they had. Now, three of them were lying on the lawn, roots exposed to the sun, a crater of displaced soil marking their former home. Zeus was trotting back to his own yard, a dirty snout and a proud wag in his tail.
I took a breath. I’m a dog person. Our old Golden, Gus, had been the center of our world for fourteen years before we lost him. I know the exuberance. I know the dirt. But I also know what a leash is for.
I waited until I saw them bringing in groceries that afternoon. I walked over, hands tucked into the pockets of my jeans to keep from gesturing too much. “Hey there,” I started, aiming for breezy. “Carol, from next door.”
“Oh, hi!” Brittany said, shifting a bag of organic kale. “So good to finally meet you.”
“You too. Listen, a small thing. Your dog—Zeus, is it? He seems to have taken a liking to my flowerbeds. He dug up a few of my perennials this morning.”
Chad leaned against the car, crossing his arms. He wasn’t smiling. “Oh, yeah. He’s in his digging phase. It’s a developmental thing. He’s just trying to express his instinctual self.”
I blinked. “Okay. Well, my instinctual self is hoping to keep my garden in one piece. I’m a landscape designer, so my yard is kind of my business card, you know?” I tried a small, self-deprecating laugh. It fell completely flat.
“He’s not hurting anything, really,” Brittany chimed in, her tone shifting from friendly to faintly condescending. “He’s just a big puppy. A total fur baby. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
I looked from her earnest face to Chad’s defensive posture. They weren’t hearing “your dog is digging holes.” They were hearing “your child is a menace.” I could see the shutters coming down. “I get it,” I said, already backing away. “Just thought I’d mention it.”
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