The Charlie Bravo Story

Am I my neighbors keeper?

Am I my neighbors keeper?

Everyone knows the story of Victor, the neighbor’s family pack-sized dog that invites himself into the Casa del Whackos on a routine basis. The massive doofus is getting older, and a nice couch and the company of a bunch of rowdy compadres is just what the Canine Council on Aging recommends in such cases.

Or so he tells me.

This has been going on for quite some time, as the neighbor in question deploys with the military and frequently leaves old Vic to fend for himself. Our food bills take a significant spike upward during these times, but what else do you do? The answer is: All you can do, and worry about it at night.

So imagine my shock to find a note on Victor’s collar, asking us not to take him in; no problem here. Take care of your own dog and I won’t have to. Then they shaved him, no doubt in a misguided attempt to control his shedding, but I fail to see the wisdom of removing the clothes of an elderly person just as winter approaches, and continue to leave him outside.

Mom tried to make a point by taking him back to his home every night, but they always let him back out, and here he is again, breathing OUR oxygen, hogging MY chair, and he’s tall enough that nothing is safe on the counters. I can’t count the times that I’ve gone grazing for some leftovers only to find that Vic has packed his own doggie bag.

So now Vic had invited a new buddy, a scruffy little fartbag mom has named “Jonas”. Another irresponsible neighbor’s dog, to my utter horror he also has taken to hanging out around the Casa. We have reached critical overload, approaching the tipping point where the Casa slowly heels over and slides beneath the waves of dogs not unlike the Titanic, with Titus playing the part of the iceberg.

Well, last night it was forecasted to drop down into the twenties. Sure enough, Vic and Jonas showed up at the door, so here we go again. Vic bogarted his place on the couch, and mom put Jonads in the kitchen to spend the night in relative comfort.

Later, I come into the bedroom to find Jonas IN BED WITH MOM. The shameless Lothario was not only moving in on my wife right in front of not only me but the other dogs as well. When I asked her why she let the hairy little ingrate out of the kitchen, she had the outright gall to accuse ME of letting him out, and it was somehow MY fault that he just happened to end up in the bedroom.

I have no idea where she came up with that idea.

So here we are, awash in a heaving sea of snoring dogs, and we’ll shoo them out in the morning and pretend this whole sordid affair never happened; denial is much more than just a river in Egypt.

It’s always a party at the Casa del Whackos.

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