Karmental Livingston Seagull

I used to have a boss we referred to as “The Seagull” because she was not around often, but when she did choose to get involved with an issue, she’d swoop in, make a mess, and leave us to clean up the shit.

This weekend while we were visiting my mom and Mike, the evil neighbor (aka:  Weasel’s) little dog yapped  the entire time it was outside.  I understand why it would yap when the kids were in the yard running around, but even when we were all inside,  Satan yapped until Weasel would yank on it and make it stop. 

This has been going on forever.  My mom’s hospice nurse even asked her about all the barking and if it bothered her.  It does, but she’s afraid to do anything because the owner (Weasel) is off his rocker, volatile, and irrational.   Their first exposure to Weasel was when he went ballistic about a shrub they had pruned for him because they had planted it his yard years before he moved in and they had always taken care of it for the previous owner.  He went so far as to scream into my mom’s windows at her and then called her on the phone when he didn’t get a response.

 Weasel looks like strikingly like how I envision Elmer Fudd on Crack, but a lot less cute. 

And he has a talent for inserting the word fucking between every noun, verb, and preposition he can string together.  I was lucky enough to witness his mastery of the spoken word on Sunday morning before heading back home to Minneapolis. 

I’m not sure what put me over the edge on Sunday - maybe it was the thought of being another year older, or spending the night on a pull-out sofa bed with these kicking and clawing at me.   

When I awoke to the little beast yapping away, I knew Weasel and I would be having a little chat.  In order to be as effective as possible, I made sure not to comb my hair and checked to see if my googley eye was still all googley.   Something told me that was the kind of woman he would probably relate well to. 

Weasel was in the yard watering his plants when I approached him and asked if I could talk to him for a minute.  He gave me an evil glare.  I asked him very nicely if he could do something about his dog barking so much.  He went ballistic on me.  Honestly, I expected him to either spray me with the hose or take a swing at me - he was that enraged by my request.  He told me to call the cops if the dog is bothering me.  I told him that I would, but I was offering him the courtesy of asking him personally. 

He told me to get the fuck away from him.  It took all I had to not go off on him but he is just crazy enough that I had no idea what would happen.  And I can’t afford to have my good eye punched bloody right now. 

So, as challenged, I went inside and called the cops.  They came and talked to him.  He was yelling at the cop that he knew who complained and argued with them about all the other dogs he hears barking (along with a lot of voices in his head, I’m sure). 

While the cop was there, we finished packing up the car and then we headed back to the Minnepolis as soon as the officer left.

The entire drive home I felt like “the Seagull” because I totally swooped in, stirred up a bunch of shit, and then promptly left, leaving my mom and Mike to deal with the aftermath with Weasel and his psychotic tendencies.  Nice daughter.

One thing became clear to me this week end though:  Mentoring sure has its success stories.

~ by karmental on July 30, 2008.