Evil Dogs

We have an idiot neighbor with an assortment of vicious small dogs. She has lived here for several years, at least as long as we have. She lacks basic dog-handling ability, and indeed social skills. Every day, twice a day, I hear her out walking her little darlings, the relative quiet destroyed by their barky shrieks--no doubt brought on by an elderly resident shuffling by to pick up his mail. I remember the first time I had the misfortune of passing this ditz-bag and her devil creatures; the aggressiveness of the barking was as violently startling as its earsplitting volume. I looked at their owner, a slim middle-aged lady with a gray helmetlike bowl cut, who gave me a pathetic look that was more "What can I do?" than "Sorry about these little terrors, I'll try to get it under control." I said, "Those dogs are going to give someone a heart attack." She shrugged.

I don't know how many dogs she has. Three? Five? Ten? I can't bring myself to look at them because the urge to grab one and chuck it over the wall, as a warning to the others, would be too great. I just keep hoping they'll go the way of Fifi (see Driverz n the Hood), making their escape at the exact moment that Nathan Barley and his spray-on-tan goddess zip by in their snooty red spaceship. That would take care of several problems simultaneously.