Click this link to hear what summer sounds like, from the dining room at The Funny Farm. With all but one window downstairs closed and the fans running to drown out the noise. (Apparently the link doesn’t work. But imagine this: AAAHHHH!!!! YEEEEE!!!! SCREAM!!)
What you don’t hear are the dogs pacing and pacing and pacing and pacing around the house, wanting to go out and join the fun. If I let them out though, they bark, all of the other neighborhood dogs bark, the children scream more, then all the dogs bark more, the children scream more …
Rinse. Repeat. For hours on end. All summer.
Am I getting old? Seriously.
Because I’m feeling a little like that cranky neighbor we all remember from childhood. You know, the one who was always yelling out the window, telling us to pipe down and to stay off his grass. Which only made us louder and bolder as we cut through his yard.
Is this some sort of payback for years tormenting the neighbors when I was a child?
My father reminded me that when we were kids and he worked the night shift on the police force, we’d keep him awake all day yelling “Marco! Polo!” as the neighborhood kids gathered in our swimming pool. He was laughing when he said it. Not because it was funny then, but because I’m getting back a serving of what we kids dished out decades ago. And he thinks that’s funny.
Karma, as they say, is a bitch.
And lest you think I’m only pointing fingers, let’s not forget our own addition to the seasonal cachophany. I can’t even go in the yard for the vast majority of the day because of Scout and Bandit’s barking at the kids. I’m working with them, I promise. (The dogs; I don’t have any control over the kids.) But they are dogs, after all. And after a few minutes of barking they do quiet down.
As long as the kids don’t bark back.