The monkey dog, smugly sunning himself at the office in between reigns of terrorLuckily, I have no mean landlord of my own. And now that I own my own place, and realize that one day I may actually be a mean landlord myself, I've maybe even developed a bit of sympathy toward this archetypical nemesis. (I know, I can't believe it either, but you try living across the courtyard from a dawn-to-dusk college house party, and you, too, may become a fan.)
But all feelings of sympatico with the iconic landlord flew out the window when, yesterday afternoon, the worst thing EVER happened--and I discovered it was the handiwork of none othe than a landlord. Specifically, the landlord of Katie the Dogsitter, who cared for my little terror of a monkey dog on Tuesdays and Thursdays so I could work in peace.
I only caught the highlights before I went down: Complaints from neighbors. Out of business. So sorry to see Baxter go.
When she revived me, I was solemn. It was out of my hands. There were only two options:
1) I would have to bring Baxter with me to work five days a week instead of the previous (manageble) three. Said change would indeed drive me insane, and I would jump out a window. It would simply be destiny. Death comes for us all; I just didn't think he'd come for me in an office park in Louisville.
2) Baxter will have to be relocated "to a nice farm in the country."
I've since been reminded that other options--such as dog training, getting a doggy door at home, etc.--remain, but for now, I'm wallowing.
But all feelings of sympatico with the iconic landlord flew out the window when, yesterday afternoon, the worst thing EVER happened--and I discovered it was the handiwork of none othe than a landlord. Specifically, the landlord of Katie the Dogsitter, who cared for my little terror of a monkey dog on Tuesdays and Thursdays so I could work in peace.
I only caught the highlights before I went down: Complaints from neighbors. Out of business. So sorry to see Baxter go.
When she revived me, I was solemn. It was out of my hands. There were only two options:
1) I would have to bring Baxter with me to work five days a week instead of the previous (manageble) three. Said change would indeed drive me insane, and I would jump out a window. It would simply be destiny. Death comes for us all; I just didn't think he'd come for me in an office park in Louisville.
2) Baxter will have to be relocated "to a nice farm in the country."
I've since been reminded that other options--such as dog training, getting a doggy door at home, etc.--remain, but for now, I'm wallowing.
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