When you live in an urban or semi-urban setting there is often more to getting along with neighbors' pets than the neighbors themselves. Yes, you might have to deal with their kids who can sometimes give challenges of their own but just as often, you have to deal with their family pets.
They say that a dog or cat contributes to a longer life. I guess if you like pets then, yes, that can contribute. But there are some who choose not to own a dog or a cat who might dispute that claim. JC grew up on a ranch with cattle, horses, pigs, chickens, dogs, and cats. When he got into the Second Grade in school, he was in charge of looking after the chickens. He fed them, gathered the eggs and cleaned out the chicken house. For that bit of effort, he got a percentage of the egg sales, providing the family and ranch workers left some over for selling. He was also the grounds keeper which required him to drag out the mower and push it around for an entire Saturday--there were some large yards on that spread. Needless to say he was busy on the weekends and after school, and the last thing he needed to do was put up with wayward pets.
Oftentimes he could hear some agitated chickens when he approached the hen house. He would enter to find a dog in there killing chickens. He took a bullwhip and beat the dog within an inch of its life, then let it loose, hoping that it had learned its lesson but, in reality, only to find it back in there a couple of weeks later. This time the dog would try anything to avoid the whip. Realizing that there was no cure to killing chickens, a .22 caliber shot of lead fixed the problem, once and for all. I might add that JC had heard about tying the marauding dog up and taking a chicken carcass and savagely beating the dog with that often cured the dog. However, the rifle worked a lot better.
Of course getting rid of the dogs on the ranch was only a bandaid. It seemed that the neighbors' dogs, who lived about nine miles away, decided that the chickens on JC's ranch were more sporting than the ones on their home place. That's right, they wouldn't dream of killing chickens at home but sure didn't hesitate to go to JC's place to do it.
Hail, the .22 hollow point.
Another problem with dogs was they would rumage around the barnyard in search of something to do and during calving time, they would drag a filthy piece of decaying afterbirth onto the lawn where they would chew on it then leave it in a far corner. JC would come by with the lawn mower and not see the small strand of placenta (which led to the main cache) in the grass. The blade would catch it and instantly wrap that disgusting mess around the blade and shaft of the engine, often requiring removal of the blade to get everything dug out. The stench would be with him for the rest of the weekend.
The kids couldn't have a sandbox because the cats would use it to make unwanted deposits which had to be carefully strained out before the kids could get back in.
Yes, after a life on a ranch, pets were about as welcome to JC as the proverbial turd in a swimming pool. He grudgingly consented to his wife bringing a dog home (she did it on the sly); he tolerated the thing but soon after his wife left (and left the dog behind because dogs weren't allowed when she moved to), the dog went to a deserving and loving elderly couple. Since then he viewed dogs as a 7-letter word that began with D-I-V, and ended with R-C-E. But he still smiled and tolerated the neighbors' pets, until they began to come over to his place.
The dogs were easy to control. A well-aimed pebble from his wrist-rocket usually sent a dog back to its own place to dump on its own lawn. Ditto if the dog tried to mark its territory. It was interesting that the neighborhood dogs would actually cross the street to the opposite side instead of crossing in front of JC's property. Cats, though, were another thing.
Cats are independent, and nocturnal. And once they decide that a certain plot of dirt is their latrine, that's it. JC didn't have a sandbox but he had flowerbeds (left there by the previous owners of the house). His next door neighbors (who also hated pets) had a fabulous flower garden in the backyard. Between the two yards the neighborhood cats swarmed and proceeded to anihilate every plant in existence.
Some said that scattering coffee grounds in the flowerbeds tended to keep cats away. Apparently the grounds get in between the cat's toes and make things very uncomfortable. That almost seemed true because after JC and his neighbor started scattering spent grounds, almost overnight, the unwanted cat population almost ended; all but one.
There was one black cat with a bell on its collar. JC and the neighbor referred to it as 'Tinkerbell.' That cat was oblivious to coffee grounds in the flowerbeds and kept on doing its business as if nothing was wrong. JC had seriously considered a .22 caliber remedy and even discussed it with the neighbor. Well, one summer morning just before dawn broke, JC was out on the deck enjoying the first cup of Joe for the day when he heard a POP, followed by a ZAP, and a THWACK; the sounds were almost simultaneous. Then silence.
JC knew what the sound was; he had fired enough of them to know that someone had just discharged a .22 rifle within town limits. He didn't say a word; he just went back into the house and proceeded to get ready for the day ahead.
That night, JC and his neighbor pulled into their respective driveways at the same time. It often happened that way and the two of them would get into some good conversation before heading inside.
"Don't have to worry about Tinkerbell anymore," the neighbor said with a grin. He turned and indicated the board fence that separated the alley from the trailer park beyond. On one of the posts was a cat's collar with an acorn-shaped bell. "I threw the carcass into a dumpster a hundred miles away; no doubt it's looking for a flowerbed in the next world by now."
