Today, Labor Day, my husband and I were sitting at our table looking out over the back yard, watching our dogs play. Rocky has been barking a lot, but not overmuch, it seemed to us. He barks at everything, squirrels, birds, insects, leaves fluttering in the breeze. Usually I bring him indoors when I think he's barking too much. I don't want to annoy the neighbors. I try to be a good dog owner, a good neighbor.

But then we saw the neighbors behind us looking over our fence - it's a double fence, we built the new fence inside the old fence, so there's a "zone" between the neighbors' yards and ours and our dogs aren't allowed in the zone. Anyway, a police officer was standing with our neighbors looking into our yard. Three of our dogs were facing them, but not barking, just watching. Patrick and I wondered what was going on. "It's the dogs," he said, "they're complaining about the dogs." But they didn't seem to be looking at the dogs, I thought they were looking at the plants. "Is there a stray hemp plant growing in the yard," I wondered. (Hemp is a type of marijuana, and used to be farmed here in Iowa. It's not unusual to find it growing in yards or along roadsides.)

After a few minutes the police officer walked away and Pat went outside to the driveway, knowing the police car would pull up in front of our house. By the time I walked outside, the officer and Pat were having a conversation. "It's the dogs," Pat said, "barking too much."

The officer was very polite and chatted in a friendly fashion. "Your neighbors are trying to enjoy their holiday in their garden and your dogs have been barking all morning." He offered some options. "Thin out the dogs. Two would be plenty. Try a bark collar or put up a solid fence. Keep them quiet or I'll have to come back."

My dogs are only out in the yard when one of us is home. And we bring them inside if they get on a barking rant. We don't let them just bark constantly all day or all night. I really didn't think
Rocky was barking that much, perhaps I just wasn't paying attention.

This is what I think. If you have a problem with your neighbor, you go to your neighbor and say, "I'm sorry, but I have a problem." You give your neighbor the benefit of the doubt - you allow them to fix the problem, maybe they didn't even know there was a problem. You try to work it out together. You don't treat your neighbor like a criminal. You don't go to the police first.
When you go to the police first, it creates bad feelings.

I went in the yard with the dogs and played quietly with them for awhile. Meanwhile, over in my neighbors' yard, the neighbors who had complained about our barking dogs, their little dachshund was going, "yapyapyapyapyap!"

home

A friend asked me the other day if I was settled into my new house - she said, "are you all organized yet?"
I laughed and said, "I wasn't organized before the move, why should I be now?"

A few days after that someone else said in surprise, "Aren't you unpacked yet?"

I moved into the house on May 20. You'd think I'd have everything done. But I don't.
Boxes are piled up in corners, in the middle of some floors, in closets and the stairwell and the garage. Every once in a while I'll make a half-hearted attempt at unpacking. I'll pull out a box and open it up, look at the contents, sigh, close it back up and shove it back into its place. Sometimes I actually manage to unpack a box. I put the contents on counters and in drawers, because I don't know what else to do with them. I'm not putting them away - I'm just storing them someplace different than a box.

Every once in awhile I drive over to the old house and walk through the dark, ashy, smoky rooms and pick something up and put it down, open a closet door and shut it, bring an empty box upstairs in order to fill it, then leave it empty on the floor. Dirty pieces of furniture are shoved haphazardly in rooms. Clothing, bedding, trash, papers and toys are scattered here and there. Books sit patiently in stacks near the door. I walk into the kitchen which my husband has gutted.
I look out the windows to the lush, overgrown back yard. Then I walk back through the house and shut the door behind me, get in my car and go home.

Quack, quack, seat back!

(Life happens so fast lately I can't keep up. Here's something I wanted to share several weeks ago, not long after our house caught on fire, and our 11 year old daughter woke up her brother in time to escape from the fire.)

My kids fight incessantly over the best seats in the house, recently that means 2 recliners, which is basically all we have since our house caught on fire. "Quack, quack, seat back," one of them will chant as he or she leaves the desirable seat in order to get a snack from the kitchen. Invariably, one of the other kids will immediately slip into the vacant chair, causing a huge fuss when the original occupant returns.

One evening 11 year old Mary hopped up to go to the kitchen, chanting the quack quack as she went. Her 15 year old brother David hopped up and flopped down into Mary's chair. When Mary came back and surveyed this disaster, her face turned stony. "Quack Quack Seat Back," she said sternly. David shrugged his shoulders and smiled, "nope." Mary repeated the chant and Davy continued to smile.

Finally Mary stood up very straight and glared down at her brother with narrowed eyes, "I saved your life!"

Quack quack, she got her seat back.