Okay, this is one of the times I'm going to jump right into the recent present.
I really am looking forward to telling you all the story of how I got here. Of the crazy trips in the airports, stories of this fucked and beautiful island that I now love so much, hilarious little antedotes of what it was like the first week traveling around with my beloved family- the Prices, the Grizzers. But for now I'm jumping right into the recent present because I need to vent.
I need to vent about the Fucking Dog.
Let me preface this by saying I love dogs.
Man, I really love dogs.
I love all dogs. All of your dogs. I love Spunky, my Dad's adorable Cocker Spaniel named Spunky. A dog who we affectionately around the PTS office call The Vice President, The Veep, or if espanol is your thing- El Presidente.
And last but not least, and above all else, I love my dog Kaya. My sweetie. My baby. Me Amore. A dog who I miss so much and who for the time being is being loved and looked after by my sister and her family. She's in a good place, trust me.
Have I mentioned how much I love Kaya? A dog who was practically born in my hands and who has ran with me ever since. A dog whom I would do anything for and never disrespect... except maybe in cute moments like these-
What can I say? I love the bitch more than anything else in this world and know for a fact that she's got a sense of humor- just as long as she gets fed on time.
So yeah, I love dogs.
However, sometimes there are exceptions.
And here's where we begin to vent.
Even before I even considered coming to Puerto Rico I had heard my father complaining about the next door neighbor's dog.
We live on the second floor and share a back balcony with him. They're Argentinians in case you were curious. The only thing dividing the balconies between the two apartments is a thin layer of plywood that is typical Puerto Rican master craftmanship.
Now here's the problem.
The Argentinian works nights. And when he goes to work at night he leaves his dog alone and on the back balcony. What kind of dog, you might ask. Not sure. I've never seen it. But I can tell you this, it's a little one, and the little fucker is a yapper. And once it starts yapping, it never stops.
So my father has been telling me about this for some months now. He warned me about the dog even when I arrived here days ago. However, the Grizzwald family was traveling a lot all over this fucked up island so until recently I never really had a chance to heed his advice.
And then there was last night.
The first night I went to sleep naturally- bender and booze free and excited and ready to go to work the next morning (That long commute of walking down the stairs to the office and onto my first cup of Puerto Rican coffee {Rocket fuel, O'Dog and Private can tell you} atnd up and ready to go at 8:30 in the a.m.- That's Florida Gang Time in case you were wondering.
And there I was.
Out like a light at 12:30 in the a.m. and sleeping like a baby.
Precisely at 1:30 a.m. The Fucking Dog started up.
Yap. Yap. Yap. YYYYYYYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPP. (30 Second Pause) And fucking Yap some more.
Now, please remember, the yapping is right outside my window.
And the worst part, it would stop for about twenty minutes, just enough time for you to take a breath and fall back to sleep, and then the little son-of-a-bitch would start again. And would proceed to keep yapping for the next hour. Repeat Process.
Around 3:30 in the a.m. my Father and I exploded into the living room, meeting together in accidental frustration and torment.
"You see? Know do you understand why I complain to the landlord all the time," he asked.
It was then that I realized he was right and just. And you had to hand it to him. A man I have always marveled at as being a man of little patience and living in a place where it requires the greatest amount of patience in order to survive.
Then and there, I did understand. I understood and respected his frustrations. Furthermore, I truly appreciated all the actions he had taken to resolve the matter. There were polite calls to the landlord. Polite notes and requests to the neighbor. He even went out and bought some crazy contraption called The Dog Bark silencer. And all to no avail. Not even taking the measure of throwing water on the mysterious, faceless dog next door worked.
He had told me all about this. And now I understood.
So I sat staring at him in the living room at 3a.m. and suddenly an idea popped into my mind.
Half jokingly I said, "You know... we could always dose him."
"What do you mean?"
Still jokingly I explained that in that pharmacy my father called a medicine cabinet there had to be some sleeping pills. And indeed there were. Nothing major, just a few good pills of Advil and Tylenol p.m.'s.
BINGO!
And my father, he was all about it. All business, baby.
Í'd like to tell you that we weren't there at 3 in the morning thawing out hot dogs in the microwave and stuffing them with a shitload of sleeping pills. I'd like to tell you that at that point in time I was delirious, two and a half hours of sleep, and ready for anything. I'd like to tell you that as the little fucker kept yapping I was actually considering even more drastic measures. Most importantly I would like to tell you that my Father and I actually had the heart to throw the dosed hotdogs over the wall and let curiosity take it's course from there.
In the end, we both decided against it.
The dog stopped yapping around 5 a.m. and we both logged in two more hours of sleep.
Oh that fucking dog.
Quicknote: The next day was tough. On no sleep I continued in my endeavor to learn 30 years of logistic business as quick as I could. In english and in Puerto Rican spanish. The landlords soon returned my father's early morning phone call and said they would handle the situation. The Argentinian also politely told us that he would try not to leave the little yapper outside when he was away at work.
And now...
I'm kind of curious about that too. (Eric Stolz. Pulp Fiction. Tarantino. Tarantino.)
And now I got to bed and pray for sleep.
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