The View From Here
The deaf woman who lives in building 4 is out walking her dog. An over-weight, aging, white poodle that we believe is named Baby, waddles along the paved walkway while his deaf owner waddles behind him. Her hair is dyed a deep burgundy and thick blue eyeliner nearly covers both her lids in a sad attempt to appear stylish. I’m watching them from the middle of my living room through the window. To them I am invisible, if I were any closer to the glass they could see me and I would run the risk that she might try to sell me some of the cheap jewelry that she has in a shoe box. Last time, I bought a bracelet on elastic cord that I plan to take apart and make something “better.”
From this vantage point, I am able to not only look down at my neighbors but also judge them from a comfortable distance where they cannot judge me.
The deaf woman is not the only person with a dog in this complex; there are three in building one, one in building 2 (the building where I live) and the deaf woman in building four. Building 3, I now realize, is mostly pet free. There’s a man on the second floor who has a tortoise shell tabby cat named Tiger.
I have two cats, Jocelyn, 9 years 4 months, and Dresden, 1 year 3 month. The woman below me has a cat then on the other end of the building there is a dog, Poe whom I love dearly. He must feel the same because every time he sees me he stands up on his hind legs and paws the air at me with his front legs. If I’m sitting down, he jumps up onto my lap and tries to put his tongue in my mouth. He’s a mutt with a tuft of blond fur that stands up on the top of his head.
I have a good friend who lives in building 4 who has a cat named Tyger. The “Y” in her name is the least of what sets her apart from the other cat I have mentioned by the same sounding name. She, with the Y, is in her upper teens, quite old for a cat that isn’t Siamese. She is a funny cat; I kissed her on the head the other day and she hissed at me. There’s something matronly about Tyger with a Y, she moves slowly like the old woman that she is, and yet she scrambles up the front of her owner to get snuggles. Granted my friend is usually sitting down when this happens but it doesn’t decrease the joy that it gives me. Prior to the scramble there is a pawing technique that always makes me smile. She sits down then rears up and taps her owner’s leg. Or is it a poke? It’s a bit of both.
“Excuse me, waitress,” Tyger’s paws convey, “Love me.”
If it weren’t for the pets that my neighbors have I would have no reason to have talked to them in the first place. I am a private person, my alone time is important to me, knowing people who live within walking distance runs the risk of someone dropping by.
I do not like it when people drop by. I want a call first. A chance to say, “Now? Why not tomorrow? Or in a year?”
I like my neighbors; I love my space.
But the introduction to pets makes me want to seek them, my neighbors, out. If there was a way to just see the animals I could go for that. However ringing a neighbor’s doorbell and asking, “Is Butch available for a walk?” doesn't seem right.
Am I the kind of person that someone would want to date their pet?
Most of my neighbors like me; a large number of them are elderly and I always offer to clean the snow off their cars, or carry that large heavy bag of groceries, or offer my number should they need anything. Then I eyeball my Caller ID and think, “They can leave a message.”
How much would they like me I wonder if they knew that I was standing in the shadows, judging them?
typed with reckless abandon by Rynn @ 7:58:00 PM
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