What if you just rescued a starving puppy, found in a field? You accepted, took him in, and then three weeks later, the very same people from whom you got him send you a letter threatening to take him away because, after getting over his fear of literally everything, he barks now—finally—and it has irritated a mentally disturbed neighbor?
Here’s his mugshot; his booking into the San Jose Animal Care & Services Division, a couple of months ago.
Here he is a week ago, about 2 weeks into our stewardship.
“Where’s that food you promised 30 seconds ago? And how about the sniffing tour of the neighborhood? Huh!?”
I’m absolutely sure SJAS didn’t connect the dots on this, the response letter lets ’em off the hook on that. In the meantime, there’s the matter of the mentally unstable woman who lives next door to us, Margo. She has a pussy for a husband, too: Marcus.
…Let me digress. Just so you know, I was famous at 350 N 2nd St. lofts in San Jose. I’ll tell you the story if you’ll allow my self-indulgence for a minute. Beatrice, as is her nature, was effervescent, all smiles and friendly one morning to a guy in the elevator on her way to work to teach kids, her childhood passion. It was new construction, so everyone was new and stranger, and it had only been a few months in.
The pussyboy called his wife—turns out he was in “law enforcement”—go figure—and she does an email on the community email list about how “unwelcoming” it was for her husband to be “interrogated” in the morning, in the elevator. People who already knew Bea’s school teacher-nature were laughing. Bea herself piped up on email, actually apologizing, saying she was just trying to get to know everyone and be friendly. Perhaps it’s a foreign thing nowadays, but when Bea talks to you, she doesn’t tell you all about herself. She asks you about you, inviting you to tell it all.
Should have ended it. Of course. Simple misunderstanding. But the *#&t doubled down. “I’m sorry, Bea, but this is my husband, and I believe him.” So I piped in, and actually, said something about incredulity, given the situation. Completely outside of my nature, I did not go for a written kill. This was our own doorstep in a small community. I’m adverse to shitting on it, if it can be helped.
She doubled down again, and when I got up in the morning—still in my Nordstom’s brown terry cloth bathrobe that I still wear—I saw her response, and…popped. And Beatrice was horrified and shocked when she learned of what I’d irrevocably done.
Fuck You and Your Pussy Ass Husband.
Went out on the community email to all 64 loft units. I became famous, not infamous. They, on the other hand, became pariahs in their own community. Over the next 5 years we lived there, I had that sentence quoted back to me with a laf and smile dozens of times, from dozens of the residents.
Why do I relate the story? Two reasons. Many of you think that my schtick behavior on this blog is only from behind the “protection” of the Internet. It’s not. When pushed, I’ll say worse to my own family, to their face. They’ll tell you. Second, when this is published, it will be printed out and dropped in the mailbox next door: along with a note that hundreds of thousands are going to laf at what a *&#t you are, Margo, and what a pussy you are, Marcus. Moreover, in primitive fashion, copies are going to every single of the neighbors on the street. We don’t have a community email.
I’ll let my letter to the San Jose Animal Care & Services Division recount The Rest of the Story to you.
May 20, 2014
Animal Care & Services Division
2750 Monterey Rd.
San Jose, CA 95111
Mesdames et Messieurs,
It comes to pass that I am once again the subject of a Public Nuisance Complaint, pursuant to your municipal codes.
I call to your attention Case No. A10-107101 and Citation No. AN007208, both issued in the September-October, 2010, timeframe, one after the other. Same story. Different year. …Same complainant. Same knee-jerk baselessness.
We told the officer who issued the citation back then that we would fight it. She told us, “Good luck;” that, “nobody ever wins.” My wife Beatrice submitted a third of an inch of papers, including testimony from all other neighbors surrounding us.
Check the numbers. We did win. Citation reversed. It wasn’t about the $100. It was about us, as very conscientious dog stewards.
In that case, the complaint ensued the very same day we moved in (literally; she actually complained before we were fully moved in—the dogs were in the backyard to remain clear of the moving crew), September of 2010. The dogs simply took a couple of weeks to adjust to a new environment, while hearing other dogs barking all around the neighborhood. Since then, the neighbor has complained about anything she can come up with. Conversely, we don’t bother to complain about their yard waste on our curb, their ‘gangsta rap’ blaring out the door, the random basket balls that end up in the backyard that I happily toss back over the fence, the annual fireworks, outside movies with blaring sound, or construction remodel work at off hours. I seem to have an amazing capacity to understand that I live in a neighborhood in close quarters, and there’s an inherent cost associated with it. My neighbor seems to feel entitled.
As to this OFFICIAL WARNING NOTICE, let me first explain that one of our two dogs, Rotor, a 15 year old rat terrier, died a couple of months ago, after long health battles and veterinary interventions such that my wife lived mostly at the veterinary hospital his last 4 days. We debated long and hard about whether to keep just the one left—about half his age—or get another one, younger than her, in need of a good and caring home.
My wife—the one who did all the work to beat that 2010 citation—won out, as always. She searched the Internet over and over. She conversed with dog rescuers from San Diego to Everett, WA, and almost spent her last school break (she’s a 6th grade school teacher in her 30th year) going up to Washington state to rescue a rat terrier.
In the end, she decided on Scout. Scout would be AID # A890122 in your own records. That’s the number assigned by San Jose Jose Animal Care and Services. Their address is 2750 Monterey Rd., San Jose, CA 95111. It’s very similar to the entity and address the letter we’re responding to came from, and to where this reply is addressed.
Of course, we didn’t expect you to connect those dots; but if you’re interested, Scout is doing marvelously and we could not be happier. Yes, as your own info sheet on him says, “he’s fearful of new environments.” That was at first. Now, he’s fully integrated with the family and has put on about a pound toward recovering from his starved status.
Initially, he was very worried. I just thought the fix was food, and I fed him luxuriously. He dearly needed a few pounds, if you look at the file. So, he was worried and withdrawn, for a few days, then came out of his shell, and then went full puppy on us, running around everywhere, barking at everything, particularly at dogs in the surrounding neighborhood that are barking. However, I work at home and it annoys me more than my neighbor. Accordingly, in the ten or so days since the date of your letter and her complaint, it’s well under control, getting better daily. Rat terriers have a notorious “off switch,” where after their morning rituals of feeding and walking, they turn off for about six hours, until they’re ready to go again. In the evenings they’re on the bed with mommy, playing or watching TV with her.
He and Nuke, his big sister, get the best food, and two long walks around the neighborhood daily, and as much socialization with other dogs as comes by opportunity.
You’re welcome to come see for yourself. This is well in hand at this point.
I have noted that my neighbor has closed her bathroom window the last few days. Last time I saw it open all the time like that was 2010.
I don’t ever feel entitled to anything from anyone else that’s not by mutual agreement. I have never known any time that my neighbor does not feel entitled to my efforts that I have never agreed to provide, and never would.
Accordingly, I count her and her pussy husband as enemies, and I don’t think that’s unreasonable.
…Oh, a final note about our mentally disturbed neighbor, Margo. The very day we moved in, September of 2010, her bathroom window was fully open 24/7 and she lived in the bathroom. It was quite hilarious. We’re in the backyard, getting used to the new place, and here’s this woman ubiquitously pressent, pretending to be dolling herself in the bathroom mirror, but shooting glances because she can’t resist.
What a pathetic waste of flesh.
Cc: All the neighbors