Turning OFF the Sound

If you’ve followed my posts going back about a year you’ll know how tortured I’ve been by the various kinds of clamor coming from my multitude of neighbors, and I do have plenty of them. In fact, even with my bad pitching shoulder, I could probably chuck a baseball from the middle of my yard and hit the roof of any of a dozen houses. That is how closely packed the homes are in this part of the subdivision.

Last month marked the beginning of my breaking point when it comes to this never-ending racket. A new neighbor on the other side of the wall from my master bathroom put a caged dog under the eaves of their east side roof. This phobic animal is no more than a dozen feet from where my head hits my pillow. From spying over the wall it appears to be some kind of husky or pug mix. It doesn’t “go off” all the time, maybe a dozen times a day, but that’s plenty.

Folks around here routinely acquire dogs with the sole purpose of raising a ruckus in case anyone approaches. These poor animals then never leave their tiny enclosures for the rest of their miserable lives. Most become neurotic and bark at anything, out of sheer craziness if you ask me. You hear them all the time, these wretched animals barking incessantly for hours on end, probably to simply while away the unending hours of close captivity. It nears the height of animal cruelty, but few people here seem to understand this. ‘The very poor and the plight of animals, eh, so what; we have our own problems, so why worry about some stupid dog?’

The absolute final straw was my “favorite” neighbor, the one that nearly caused me to pull stakes and take off earlier this year when I had the temerity to ask the woman of the house to control her new puppy’s continuous yapping. Three times since then they’ve brought in roosters for a few days at a time, each occasion the piercing sound of the cock’s erratic crowing caused nerve-racking exasperation. Even with two layers of foam over all my windows sandwiched between two panels of plywood, it was not enough. So, enough was enough. I called in Eddy, my fiancé’s brother-in-law, a man who has become my personal builder, for a planning session for one last try at fixing the noise intrusion problem.

I told him I wanted to try four things: first, pack insulation thickly between the ceiling and roof; second, attach shag carpeting over all the walls; three, completely seal all the cracks around the air conditioner; and four, rubber seal all the openings around the doors.

He listened carefully and then countered with: “How about this: We’ll brick up and seal over all four windows of the bedroom and bathroom, and instead of insulating the space between the roof panels and ceiling, we’ll install a second ceiling and insulate the space between the two ceilings.” He agreed that we could easily seal around the aircon and doors, and then, if all that wasn’t sufficient, we could go ahead and put shag carpet on the walls.

“All right! Let’s do it!” I gave him an enthusiastic go ahead. That was last Sunday, a week ago.

Monday was a holiday so they started work on Tuesday morning the second I took off for the office at 0845. After working with my last client at noon, I dallied at the fitness center so as not to get home until well after 4pm. By that time Eddy’s boys had finished cementing in two of the three large windows. Before working with installing cement blocks though they first they had to remove all the glass panels along with the louvers and aluminum framework.

By Wednesday afternoon they had the last of the three windows filled in with cement blocks. When I came home on Thursday half the new ceiling was up and all the finishing cement neatly covered all the blocks where the windows had once been.

Friday was a long day. Eddy and his workers stayed till well after 5pm to finish painting the new ceiling and the walls where the windows used to be.

By yesterday, Saturday, they had the bathroom done as well. The small window in there had also “disappeared,” while the new second ceiling with its own layer of thick insulation was up, with the ceiling and walls given a final whitewashing signaling the completion of the big sound proofing project.

The neighbor’s dog yapped away when I entered my renovated bedroom for the first time after all the new sound resistant features had been added. I closed the door and sat in my easy chair with the TV off. I could still hear the dog, but barely; it sounded miles away.

‘Ahhhh! Success!’ I sighed with great satisfaction. I turned on the aircon and ran a small fan aimed at the open bathroom door where I figured the exhaust fan would help reduce the strong odor of the fresh paint. I notice that the low hum of the aircon along with the small fan completely masks whatever hint of outside sound still manages to infiltrate the room.

To further illustrate the effectiveness of Eddy’s work a storm passed through early in the afternoon today. Normally I cannot hear the TV over the drumming of hard rain on the corrugated metal roof panels overhead, even with the volume full up. But now, with the newly insulated ceiling I could barely hear a faint drumming. I listened to the TV just fine without having to adjust the volume at all.

Most Filipinos cannot understand the consternation I feel every time a dog “goes off” or when one of the neighbors plays karaoke at full volume till way past midnight. I’m not even sure other Americans get as agitated as I do when these horrible sounds invade my space. But for me, it is supreme torture; or I should say, WAS torture, because NOW, all that is behind me.

Last night, my first blessed night under my “new roof,” was one of uninterrupted dreams and tranquilty. In fact, I stayed asleep way later in the morning than I normally do, all because of the wonderful lack of outside sound. The kitchen is just across the breezeway from this room and the usual morning clatter of pots and pans, not to mention the conversation of the girls and the maid as they prepare breakfast was no longer to be heard. In effect, this room is as quiet as the inside of a sealed coffin. Thus, I literally slept like the dead. The hundreds of dollars I paid to achieve it was worth every penny.

Two Pit Bulls and a Dane

Last year, when my daughter told me that she was pregnant I was ecstatic. Then, it occurred to me that she then owned an American Pit Bull Terrier, or APBT, or just plain pit bull, as they are commonly called. My first response to her, or perhaps request would be more accurate, was, “So, now you’re going to get rid of your pit bull, right?!”

My request, which seemed totally logical to me, did not draw the response that I had hoped for. Evidently, suggesting to my daughter that she decide between her pit bull and new baby was an untenable choice. In effect, I was asking her to choose between children, and although the human child is important, so also is the "animal child."

I had never met her pit bull named Patches, but she assured me that Patches was a sweet tempered dog that would never hurt anyone. Naturally, being an expectant grandpa, I was not convinced. I was miffed that she would even consider keeping such an animal with such a violent reputation with a small baby in the house.

I had heard all the horror stories where infants and small children had been left alone with a large dog, the beloved family pet, only to find the child horribly mangled and even killed, perhaps with the face completely bitten off. Physically and physiologically, that is completely possible. The human face, particularly a small one, is not installed all that tightly to its moorings. A large dog with its big jaws can easily strip the face off a small child.

One of my Air Force mates, a fellow master sergeant, had a young son whose face was in the multiyear process of surgical reconstruction. Her boy, at the time I knew him he was about 12, had wandered into a neighbor’s yard when he had been 5 or 6. Waiting in ambush for the little fellow was a ferocious canine “man-eater,” I believe it was a German shepherd or a Doberman.

Before someone could get in there and pull the crazed animal off the lad, half the boy's face had been mangled and one ear destroyed. A face so young with so much developing and growth ahead of it cannot simply be stitched back together to a normal appearance. Plastic surgeons have to bide their time and let the facial features mature close to adult size before the really important final touches can be made.

Of course that’s unfortunate because children can be cruel. They will go after one of their own deemed “different,” and with the boy’s obvious facial deformity he was quite “different.” I think it was my father that told me how a flock of chickens will become mean and destructive to one of their own, exactly like kids. If one develops a bald spot where feathers have fallen out for some reason, perhaps because of some benign skin disease, the other chickens will become compelled to pick at that spot, and do so until their victim has no feathers left. Bet you never thought chickens could be as cruel as kids, did you? Ed Abbey, you’re a chicken expert; can you corroborate, or is all that just a “modern chicken legend?”

So here’s the capper: not only did my daughter NOT get rid of Patches the pit bull, she got ANOTHER pit bull puppy, named Riddick, after the boxer. Now I was REALLY upset. I couldn’t imagine how she could be so irresponsible. And to make matters worse, a few months after my grandson was born they brought home a Great Dane puppy. WHAT! And what really drove me bonkers is when I asked her if they mostly kept all the animals in the yard and her nonchalant answer was, “No Dad, all three are house dogs.” Again, from me: “WHAT! Are you kidding?”

Well, since I had already vociferously made my reservations known, I decided to keep my mouth shut and hope that she and her husband knew best. Still, it didn’t stop me from worrying. I just kept imagining that tiny defenseless little bundle of pink humanity and all the horror stories and it gave me fits.

I was quite expectant last month, (and not in the pregnant way) when my daughter picked me up from the Killeen airport terminal. I was anxious to meet my new grandson and see how it was with him and all the big dogs in the house.

My daughter went in ahead of me through the garage and into the kitchen. Inside, she sternly ordered her furry crew to calm down. Hesitantly, I entered behind her, hearing the telltale sounds of 12 huge doggy-paws excitedly ticking on linoleum along with the energized panting dogs make when they are “happy to see you.” My first impression: Dang! These are three HUGE dogs!

They were indeed big animals. The Great Dane is technically still a puppy but already he towers over the two Pit Bulls and they aren’t exactly midgets. All three were curious about me. They inspected me in a friendly non-threatening way, doing lots of snuffling and bumping against my legs and reassuringly for me, with lots of heavy tail wagging. Once I realized they weren’t going to eat me, I just stood there and rubbed the tops of their constantly bobbing heads as they drew in my scent and memorized it. They seemed more like small affable jumpy ponies than dogs.

Then, my son-in-law brought out my grandson. Wow! I was even more impressed. My son-in-law is a 6-foot tall handsome devil and my grandson is a smiley good-looking chip off the old block, both from his daddy’s and mine. I couldn’t have been happier. 'Now, to see how it goes with those three canine monsters.' I had a hard time imagining how such a small human could possibly coexist safely in the same home with three such gigantic furred creatures.

At first, my fears were half-realized when the little guy—not quite a year, and still just pulling himself along by the furniture—was felled by the excited movements of Riddick, the teenage pit bull. The clumsy thing had backed up without looking and bumped the little guy into a full on header. I was immediately angry, with a “see, I told you so!” aimed at my daughter; but truthfully, during my five day stay, that was the only time I ever saw my grandson in anything that looked remotely threatening, except when he would get an occasional hard slap from an unmindful tail wag. I took a couple of those myself from the Dane, and it HURT.

I soon learned one thing—my grandson will never be bitten or mauled by any of the three dogs. And amazingly, he lacks all fear for any of them. He doesn't try to hurt them as babies sometimes do, and they look at him as a tiny version of one of the other larger human "masters." Actually, I was pleasantly shocked at the sweetness of them. They are so big and yet so starved for human contact and affection. If one of them comes over for a tummy rub, which is constantly if you let them, the other two look over in complete jealousy, and have to be told to stay away. Otherwise, you'll be mobbed by about 240 pounds of doggy love.

My daughter and her husband have done an excellent job of establishing who is in charge and the order of exactly "who is boss." Its a bit like the military chain of command. Its crucial, as dogs MUST know who is number 1, who is Alpha, and all the humans in the home MUST be that. Even the baby has "rank" over the biggest dog and EVERYONE knows it. Patches is the doggy matriarch and she understands that she is prime among the dogs, followed by Riddick, and at the end of the hierarchy is the big Dane puppy. With animals that large, its important that they know and understand this. I’ve got to give her credit, my girl is on top of the psychology required to handle these animals. Without these “rules,” you end up with anarchy and probably with dogs that have to be put to sleep at the shelter.

I did a little reading on pit bulls and I learned a few things that put my mind at ease concerning my grandson. First, these animals have been bred to NOT be aggressive toward humans. And although they have been bred to fight other dogs they will not necessarily be aggressive against other dogs if they are not trained for it. In fact, my daughter tells me that Riddick, despite his huge size is a bit of a coward when it comes to conflict with other dogs. Once, during a walk, when a much smaller dog made a charge, Riddick whined and hid behind his mistress. Imagining it, I had to laugh at the big softy.

Remember, pit bulls are the breed that Michael Vick made infamous with his cruelty toward his own dozens of fighting pit bulls. Also, the gangster rap community uses these animals as status symbols and representative of their aggressive “culture.” I read that many cities in the US and in other parts of the world, such as the UK, have actually made illegal the ownership and breeding of these misunderstood animals. I find this to be very unfortunate and unfair, especially since learning more about these loving animals and after actually experiencing how sweet-natured they truly are.

Again, remember I wrote earlier of my friend’s boy who had been mauled? Well, it wasn't by a pit bull. If any animal is likely NOT to maul a human it’s the pit bull; its just not in their genetics. Other animals like German shepherds are much more likely to attack people, yet these dogs are not generally banned. Sometimes legislators make laws based more on gut reaction than on reality.

I’m certainly a believer now. My mind has been changed. Every time I sat down one of the pits would immediately come to me for some affection and then would lie down on the floor and purposely act like a canine ottoman. These animals, with their huge heads, broad chests, and giant jaws, are more interested in being close to people out of apparent love than to bite and fight.

If you want an aggressive guard dog get a German shepherd. You’re wasting your money going for the pit bull, which is more likely to lick than bite you. Seeing the four of them together, I'm absolutely certain that my grandson will be just fine with his three buddies.

A Dog Yarn

Dogs and me—we go WAY back! My memory bank contains a dog yarn or two, and I plan on recounting a few. Here’s the first, BUT, be warned! This story may not be fit for dog lovers, but sometimes, a boy's gotta do what a boy's gotta do! Enjoy if you dare:

I’ve had a love-hate relationship with dogs ever since I was old enough to watch “Lassie” on TV. From the time I was 8 years old, I pled endlessly with my parents for a puppy. But alas, my dad was raised around farm dogs, and he considered them unsanitary and unfit for indoor life with people. If you've ever been on a farm and watched them, you'll understand just why he thought them so repugnant. I visited our family farm several times in the 60s and 70s, and I was amazed to watch the half-wild farm dogs follow closely behind young calves and small lambs, with the express purpose of gobbling up their freshly dropped dung. Yuck!

Still, I never stopped bugging my parents for a puppy. The problem is that we were a military family, always on the move, and my father argued that it just wasn’t practical to keep a dog, no matter how small. Finally, he relented; for in 1968 we moved into our very own house in San Antonio, Texas, complete with a fenced-in yard. One day, my dad brought home an adorable little dachshund puppy. We named him Buster.

I loved that little fellow, but I quickly learned that my dad had been right all along. From Buster I found out that dogs bark incessantly, and worse, they defecate and urinate where they shouldn’t, which is basically EVERYWHERE they happen to be when the urge arises. Furthermore, I learned that dogs attract ticks and fleas, they chew up shoes and garden hoses, or anything else that you would prefer they NOT destroy. And once you fall in love with them, they die. Buster was My first and last dog; I've never wanted another one. (check out Buster's story in my "Uncle Mike Memories). Oh, we had more dogs after my dad retired and we moved to Michigan, but I never considered those dogs mine. They were the family's.

But my life with dogs did not end with my beloved Buster. After my dad retired from the service, we moved to the small Michigan town of Birch Run. Not too long after our final move, I became a runner for my high school. Farms encircled our place just outside of town, and that meant I had to learn to defend myself from biting, yapping dogs as I did my training runs past the many farmsteads.

It was in Michigan that I also started my adolescent career as a paperboy, and THAT destined me to have to deal with the enmity of every dog on my extensive paper route. However, there was one particularly unruly mongrel terrier that REALLY hated me. He was small, mean, and covered with dark wiry hair, but mostly I remember his teeth.

Every afternoon as I peddled past his owner’s house, he would sprint out on stubby legs, and yelp nonstop, all while snapping at my right foot and tugging at and shredding my pant legs. During all this minor mayhem, I peddled furiously, trying to get away from my pintsized tormentor. At times, he’d get lucky and sink his nasty needle-sharp teeth into flesh. I’d kick at his tough little head, but I rarely connected satisfactorily. After two years of suffering through this daily ordeal, something happened that interrupted our mutually hateful relationship.

The fateful day started like any other, but I sensed a change in the air. Just a day earlier, my furry little adversary had managed to draw considerable blood from my leg just above my right ankle, and I was still fuming about it. I wanted revenge! As I drew near the driveway leading up to the terrier’s domicile, I really worked the peddles of my three-speed. I had a good head of steam up, as my toothy antagonist leaped from his place on his master’s porch, and began his normal charge up the gravel driveway towards where he knew I would be.

As he made his furious approach toward the street at a right angle to my own path, his frantically moving hind legs threw gravel with every step. For an animal with such short legs he could move! I stood up on my peddles, trying to squeeze even more speed from my trusty black bicycle, which was weighed down with my 115 pounds, plus another 85 pounds of papers packed tightly into two large wire saddle baskets mounted over my rear tire. Our momentous encounter was just seconds away!

I was always amazed at the dog’s timing. He instinctively knew to run not directly at me, as I strove to fly by him, but instead, as he reached the street, he would angle slightly to the right, aiming at where I was GOING to be. Then he’d subtly change course to run full tilt at my side, growling and snapping at my ankle, pant leg, or shoe, seeking to bite whatever he could. But on THIS day, things didn’t work out quite the way the diminutive devil dog had planned.

I don’t know if it was because I was going faster than usual, or if it was just my luck, but the loathsome, four-legged little son-of-his-mother tripped as he made his calculated angular right turn. I couldn’t believe my good fortune! His irritating yelping stopped abruptly when his compact little body sprawled and skidded almost directly into my path!

My heart skipped a beat in delight; and I laughed and roared at the gift the paperboy gods had just delivered to me. I had just enough time to steer my vehicle-of-vengeance directly toward the middle of the dog’s prone and struggling body. I lifted the front-end of my bike and dropped it as hard as I could onto the center of my enemy’s hateful little form. I felt and heard the satisfying results as ribs snapped and lungs collapsed. Then, my rear tire followed the track of the front one, and I sat down heavily to complete the destruction of my furry foe. I had my revenge and it was sweet! I laughed cruelly at what I thought was his untimely, yet fitting finale, but was it truly the end?

For the next month, I gloried in the peace left in the wake of that dastardly dog’s demise. But one month to the day after what I thought was his permanent absence, the son-of-a-demon caused my heart to sink and jump into my mouth, all at the same time, when his "ghost" leaped out into the street and grabbed my pant leg with all his old hateful gusto.

He had a noticeable bend in his body and he wasn’t as fast as he used to be, but he was back! Try as I might, I never got another opportunity to end my daily torment, but at least he never was as effective as he once was at chewing on my lower extremities. Thank God for small favors and death to all such dogs!