My Opinion

Tonight started out as a relaxing Friday evening. My friend Katie stopped by for a glass of wine after work and we sat on my back deck, enjoying the gorgeous spring weather and chatting about royalty and weddings and how if life were fair, we’d be Kate Middleton.

We’d just decided to go to dinner and had stepped inside to pour another glass of wine when suddenly the sounds of a dogfight erupted from Cowboy’s backyard next door. We both ran into the deck and looked into the yard. The sounds were coming from the back. I grabbed a chair and ran to the very back of my yard, standing on it to see over the fence.

In Cowboy’s yard, their two dogs were in a vicious fight. Lucky, a German Shepherd mix was being attacked by Buddy, a pit bull mix. Buddy had Lucky by the neck and wasn’t letting go. In a panic, I jumped down, gathered several sticks and threw them at Buddy, shouting at him. He didn’t move from Lucky’s neck. Other neighbors were running out to see what was happening. Katie yelled at me to go tell Cowboy and so I sprinted through my house, but by the time I got to their house, they’d already hurried into the backyard.

And it was too late. Buddy had wounded Lucky so much that there was nothing to be done. The little girl who lives in the house was screaming crying. The older girl was crying and hugging her. Cowboy was yelling profanity and yelling for someone to get his knife. He was going to kill Buddy because Buddy still wouldn’t let go. Then he started yelling for someone to get his gun. And then, he started quietly telling Buddy that he was going to die.

It had quickly become the worst Friday night ever.

Cowboy cut Buddy and Buddy ran away. Then Cowboy killed Lucky to put her out of her pain. Lucky cried for a few seconds at which point Rosie became so distraught she began yelping and actually bit my hand when I tried to calm her. Lucky and Rosie have chased each other up and down the fence for the last two years I’ve lived here.

A few moments later the police arrived. Apparently another neighbor had called them. They were there to pick up Buddy. Cowboy was extremely upset. He became more upset when the police demanded that he put down his knife, which he was apparently still carrying. He yelled that it was his property and they couldn’t tell him what to do. They yelled back. Things got pretty exciting for a few minutes at that point.

But then things became very sad because Cowboy had to surrender Buddy to Animal Control to be put down. And so Cowboy and his girlfriend both said very tearful good byes, while the police stood back. Cowboy kept hitting the fence and yelling GD, obviously distraught about what had happened. It was awful.

As Katie and I left to get dinner (we’d kind of lost our appetite, but wanted to get out of the house), there were still police in the front yard and Buddy was doing his best Old Yeller post rabies impression in the back of the Animal Control van. I don’t know how things ended for Cowboy.

I do know though that it was terrible and that for the rest of my life I’ll never forget seeing one dog kill another. Or hearing Cowboy repeatedly tell Buddy he was going to die. It made me want to hug my dogs and be grateful I have such sweet pups. It also made me want to move. Anyone want a lovely Charlotte bungalow with the worst neighbors on earth?

Katie (10:50 a.m.): I saw a photo on a blog of Pippa holding the train and the caption was “We’ve brought slaves back.”

Katie (10:51 a.m.:) Wait. I take that back. It said “We’ve brought sleeves back.” I read that before my coffee.

One of my favorite parts about working at a magazine are the totally random and completely crazy people who try to contact you. Over the years I’ve developed a collection of some of my favorites, which have included notes scribbled in red crayon on post cards, a short story submission from a guy who was obviously drunk and possibly high when he wrote it, and even a card written from an insane asylum in Virginia (really can’t thank the workers there enough for providing the patients with our magazine).

Today I got a voice mail though that might be my favorite yet. In it, a very slow speaking woman says “Sarah, your article in this month’s issue is terrible. I disagree with it.” Ok, fair enough. But then, she abruptly ends with this:

“The worst thing that happened is that while I was reading your article, my hands, my hands, both of them, turned black. Go figure.”

Then she hangs up. Because really, what else can you say after you’ve told someone your hands turned black? I only wish I’d picked up when she called because I have so many questions. What did you hate? What color were you before? Have your hands gone back to their natural color?

These are answers I’ll never know.

Last night I had a dream in which I was a fairy with sparkly wings. I lived on a magical island in the middle of a blue, blue ocean that was filled with exotic animals I’ve never seen. I had a cuddly, pet Siberian tiger who could breathe under water. And at night I would scoop up handfuls of the soft sand from my island and fly across the sea to other people’s islands where I would sprinkle it on them while they slept so they would be happy when they awoke.

As most of my dreams are of the incredibly mundane variety (as in something to do with vet bills or work), this was pretty much my favorite night’s sleep of all time.

Related: I do not do drugs.

Also related: I’m aware blogging about your dreams is pretty much the most self-indulgent thing ever, but seriously, I had a pet Siberian tiger. It’s worth mentioning.