Our neighbors are moving. These are the neighbors that live at the end of our neighborhood, the last house on the back entrance of cookie cutter houses that look pretty much just like ours.
We don't know them very well. In fact, not at all, because the woman who lives in that house, we've never actually seen outside before (just a glimmer of her shadow in the garage) and her husband is a grouch. Mr. Grouch.
I feel a little like I probably shouldn't call him that, but I don't know his real name, and he is pretty grouchy.
For example:
Whenever I've passed him on the street, whether it be running, jogging, walking, or biking, he turns his back to me. "Maybe it's a coincidence," you might say, "maybe he's just shy." Well, get this - when I greet him, I am met only by stony silence as he exhales his cigarette smoke and holds on to the loose end of his dog's leash.
I've tried to feel sympathetic toward him. Maybe he's totally depressed. Maybe he's intensely shy. Perhaps my greetings have offended him.
I don't know. But his total non responsiveness makes me want to say something every time I pass him, just in case this time it'll be different.
Another example:
He growls at his dog. Mr. Grouch has a small, white, fluffy dog who takes him on a walk a few times a day. I'm not sure of the point of this walk, except maybe to help the dog get some fresh air. They're definitely not getting any exercise. Here is how their walk goes. Mr. Grouch puts the leash on the dog, and stands there until the dog ambles down the driveway. Every time the dog stops walking, Mr. Grouch stops, even if it's in the middle of the road. And then he (Mr. Grouch) growls in a grating voice "Come on!" and pulls the dog onward. I guess this doesn't technically make him grouchy, but you'd think a dog owner who so dedicatedly walks his dog would use those encouraging kinds of tones to urge him onward.
Or maybe Mrs. Grouch makes him walk the dog and he resents it.
And finally:
I've fallen off my bike in front of him three times, and he's never asked if I'm okay. Once was in the driveway (just call me Grace Armstrong) and twice on the road as I've come to a semi-stop and tried not to have to stop, just coasting slowly until I fall off. And forget getting on the bike in front of him. I have enough trouble getting started as it is, and he makes me totally nervous. The last time, we were both trying to cross the street at the same time. I stopped/fell off, and then pretended to check my water bottle and odometer until he had crossed the street and wasn't looking at me anymore. It was strange, because he stood there in the road, or rather, his dog stopped in the road to watch me for several minutes. I was starting to feel stupid (that feeling probably should've kicked in sooner) trying to find thing to fiddle with on my bike.
Sheesh.
And I think they're moving, because they're house is for sale. Which reminds me of another set of neighbors two houses down from them that moved last summer, who were equally as friendly. Mr. and Mrs. Leather. Also not their real names, but these two earned the nicknames even more than Mr. Grouch. I've never seen a tanner set of overweight 60-year-olds more content to work in their yard in the heat of the day in their underwear. They were the color of those leathery people you see in National Geographic who have lived in the desert their whole lives.
They were always outside, typically in the least amount of clothing possible. Mr. Leather's favorite yard work outfit was a pair of ill-fitting boxer briefs. Mrs. Leather preferred halter tops and Daisy Duke-esque shorts. She wasn't out as much as her husband, but was equally as tanned. I'm not sure what they did all day in the yard. It wasn't like they had a great lawn or beautiful garden. Just liked being in the sun, I guess.
I was fine with them as neighbors until their poodle bit me. I was running, and saw the ugly thing in the yard with Mr. Leather as I approached the back entrance to our neighborhood. A brown full-size poodle, standing at watch dog attention as I made my way onto the street. The dog gave a warning growl as I came closer to their house, and I slowed to a walk so as not to antagonize it. "Oh, go on, she won't bite," called Mr. Leather.
I should have trusted my instincts and not Mr. Leather's coaxing, becasue as soon as I started to run again, it snarled and ran for my leg. Thanks to my leg muscles (ha!) and Mr. Leather's reflexes, the dog only scraped my thigh, and I was able to keep running as he swatted at the dog and yelled at it to "git" back into the garage. I didn't look back. Just kept going toward home with parallel sets of teeth marks on my thigh.
The advice I got on fixing this situation ranged from "You should shoot it,"(that was my other neighbor, Rocky) to "You should call animal control," (most of my classmates in my summer class) to Ben's advice which was, "Well it's not like the dog drew blood or anything..."
I'm not sure if that counts as advice.
Anyway, Mr. and Mrs. Leather moved when the weather got cool - I assume to some place that gets more sun - and I'll be interested to see who buys Mr. and Mrs. Grouch's house.
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