Fuck Ratchett and Her HOA

OK, so I live in a neighborhood with a Homeowner’s Association. Granted, not the best choice for a non-conformist such as myself, but a passable choice for a passable neighborhood. To the south, lives a very cool younger couple, who I quite like and who, upon reading this rant, may never accept my FaceBook friend invitation. As for the rest of the neighborhood, well, since I’m already on my soapbox…

Tonight I’m pondering the unthinkable. My neighbor – we’ll just call her “Ms. Ratchet” - to the north, my next door neighbor, is a miserable sack of a woman, 60 going on 100, she plods the neighborhood hour, after insufferable hour, barking dog in tow, monitoring the comings and goings of all around her, ever ready to strike up a conversation with anyone willing to suffer the re-telling of her hip replacement surgery in graphic detail. I heard it once, last summer, when I had the misfortune of sharing a waiting room at a local physical therapist office (sports injury for me – 2 treatments and Bob’s your uncle, I was done). But I digress.

Today I got a call from the HOA to advise me of a pending formal letter of complaint about my dogs. Both are rescues, Levon, the deaf one, was a tragic case when I got him and his “issues” still haunt his every waking moment. Stella, the puppy, is Levon’s dog, and has been his companion and sense of self-confidence ever since I took her in last April. Apparently, though, the dogs bark. They bark when they play, they bark when they’re happy, they bark when I pull into the driveway because in their world, nothing compares to the first 10 minutes when I get home and we three run like banshees around the back yard. They bark because they love life, and I bark back, because I love them. At the moment, big Levon is sleeping on the sofa next to me. He’s on his back, with his hind feet against my left side, snoring through the sleep of the truly righteous and just. Two years ago I got him as a pup after some douche-bag threw him through a plate glass window into a local pet store. He’s in a much better place now, I think.

The downside? My kids bark in the morning when old Ratchet wants to sleep. Forget for a moment that her dog barks non stop, forget for a moment that I’ve actually seen Ratchet walking along the outside of the 6 foot fence around my back yard, peering through the slats like some Peeping Tom that should register with the local PD, and forget for a moment that the big deaf traumatized dog actually barks at her when she skulks, Ratchet has the nerve to complain to the HOA. Levon barks because Stella plays with him, he barks because she loves him, he barks because in her company he finally is learning the courage to trust humans once again. I love to hear him bark; Ratchet, on the other hand, can sleep through her barking mutt at the window every morning, but not Levon barking from 50 feet away. OK, first – fuck her and the stick she limped in on. Yeah, I said it. And just once more for emphasis: "FUCK HER AND THE STICK SHE LIMPED IN ON." But I still have to contend with the HOA.

As it happens, my particular HOA is controlled by a whole group of other “Ratchets” – all in their 60’s, 70’s and beyond – who’ve transplanted their snow beaten asses from some useless, forgettable hamlet north of the Mason-Dixon, bent on combining their social security checks with just enough alchemy to forge a few golden years “down south” from the pustulous quicksilver that was their lives before retirement. The standing joke among local southerners: “Why are there so many Jersey transplants in NC? It’s as far as a Ford Taurus can go on 20 gallons of gas.” Yeah I said that too.

So, what the hell is it with my neighbors? It can’t possibly be just their age(s). Hell, my Mom died this year at 92, my dad is 83, they love animals, treat everyone well, and even now, both of them are far cooler than I ever could hope to be. It’s can’t be the local “Yankee” heritage either, for that matter. Mom and Dad both were from Jersey, and show no similar signs of social de-compensation. No, I blame the HOA. Enabled by statute in 1967 (I was in the second grade), the North Carolina legislature chose to enable the egocentric whims of those who actually value living among others such as themselves, to regulate themselves within the narrowly proscribed geographic constraints of what have come to be known as “subdivisions.” Translation: “A-holes of a feather, flock together.” And, as has come to pass over the past 42 years, the HOA has manifest itself less as a champion of the common good and more as a shared spine for those too cowardly to speak their addled minds to their neighbors.

So what now? Do I fight “the Man?” Drag out the lawyer-asshole I try so hard to keep in check and pound them thin? Couldn’t hurt? I’d feel better and while my elders might advise to make nice with the neighbors, in my business we’re not expected to make a lot of friends, being adversarial and all, and for us, any press is always good press. Hell, 6 months from now, no one will remember why I went to war with the HOA, or just what war we fought. As quickly as people will forget the name “HOA, Defendant(s),” they will remember me and, in truth, someone who’s heard of the case will hire me and I’ll probably make money off the effort.

Again, I ask: “So what now?” It’s no secret that I look down my nose at the new Union Army soiling my sacred birthplace. I admit this freely, and while I welcome all to my table, so to speak, I do make mental allowance for diners who would arrive wearing the occasional dirty wife-beater and sweatpants ensemble. So, no, I don’t fight the man, yet. I quiet my rage, still my wrath and steel myself for the day when I may have to say goodbye to my sweet girl Stella. I am angry, indignant and vengeful, but mostly I am heartbroken that I may have to break the sacred promise I made when I rescued Stella in favor of placating the gaseous bag of vitriol next door. Nope, I was wrong just now. "Heartbroken" doesn't begin to describe it.

Well, I’ve finished my glass of Jamesons and this rant as well. I think I’ll take the kids out for a walk and we all may pee in her yard. Good night Ratchet.