A new neighbor moved in downstairs this week. His 4½ foot tall great dane moved in as well. His 4½ foot tall great dane that does not stop barking, howling, and generally being unbelievably loud, even for such a prodigious animal, from the time the guy leaves in the morning until he returns at night. Understandably, the dog is quiet in the evenings. He has to be absolutely exhausted from trying singlehandedly (or -pawedly) to bring about the apocalypse all day.

It’s true that I could simply have a chat with the guy, but then again, this is 2005. Nobody talks to their neighbors anymore. What if he thinks I’m weird? Or worse yet, what if he’s weird and thinks I want to be his new best friend and starts stalking me? No, that is not the way.

I also could complain to the rental office, but that scene does not play out well in my head. I’m afraid once the floodgates were opened, I’d be unable to stop going on about how it would be nice if the laundry room wasn’t out of service more often than in service. How the creepy maintenance people mysteriously seem to never actually be doing anything. How the light bulbs in the “subdivision lighting” (that I pay a monthly fee on my electricity bill for—hello, don’t I already pay rent, bitch?) haven’t been replaced since I moved in. A year and a half ago. In my mind it always ends with me being forcibly ejected from the office, having had my fingers pried from around the leasing agent’s scrawny, chipper neck.

Update: Music, oddly enough, seems to make the beastie shut up. Who knew?