I hadn’t heard much from my downstairs neighbor for a couple of months, for which I was very grateful. I know my creatures disturb her, especially at night, but I figured she had just resigned herself to the fact that her upstairs neighbor has pets and they are boisterous, but we’re only going to be here for a short time so she’ll live with it. I hear hubbub from my upstairs neighbors all the time – some days it sounds like they’re lifting (and dropping) weights or something, and there’s definitely a high heel wearer – but I would never bang on the ceiling (with what does she bang? A broom? The ceilings in these apartments are pretty high) or pay them a visit. It’s just LIFE. LIFE is noisy. And this is not a terribly quiet location. There is a lot of commotion from outside and also from the nearly 100 apartments (16 per floor on six floors plus two on the ground floor), not to mention laundry rooms on every floor and an incinerator that makes a loud “WHOOMP!” every few hours. I’ve always known there were a few other dogs in this building, but I’ve only ever seen one other dog parent face-to-face (she actually had two adorable black Maltipoos), and I did see (and hear) a little white one hanging out on the terrace with its mom. According to a building resident with whom I shared the elevator, she feels bad for the dogs who have been trained not to bark (one person evidently uses an electronic collar): “It’s like asking people not to talk!” she said.
Truth be told, the biggest noise, at night, in my apartment is not from the dogs (although they do occasionally release short, sharp barks at the cats or in response to a sound from outside). Rather, it’s from the cats, in particular Savannah, my 16-pound Big Bertha who likes to go rug surfing at night when everyone else is asleep. I’m sure that’s what my neighbor is hearing, although I seem to be able to sleep through it.
I may have exacerbated matters by taking home an adorable little Pom puppy named Natalia on Sunday night (my friend Barbara took her sister) for an emergency foster until she can go into the city to get spayed and move in, with her sister, to a more long-term foster home (although I bet they’ll get adopted pretty quickly – they’re cute and very even tempered, but do require more of a firm hand than I’m able to muster). It was just going to be for a couple of days – how hard could it be?
Natalia smiling. Who could resist that face?
Well, first of all, she hasn’t gotten her rabies vaccine, so she can’t walk on the dirty ground. But I can’t leave her in the apartment by herself when I walk the other two because she barks – a sharp little yip that’s definitely on the annoying side – so I have to carry her (luckily she only weighs about 10 pounds). Second, contrary to the story told by the woman who surrendered them to Post Pets, neither of the girls turns out to be housebroken. I put a wee-wee pad by the door, where she has tended to poop, rather than trying to convince her to go on the wee-wee pads I already have in the kitchen for the other guys. But her pee spots have been hit and miss (mostly miss). Third, she annoys EVERYONE with her playfulness. She’s adorable, but she doesn’t understand why no one wants to engage with her. Mimi has been a hissing machine and has even developed a bald spot from the stress. Gizmo and Munchie are constantly growling at her, and I’m afraid Gizmo might bite her because she doesn’t seem to heed his warning messages. She follows me everywhere, which sets up awkward battles with Savannah in the bathroom.
She also seems to have separation anxiety, which is something I’ll have to warn her new foster family about. I was doing laundry today, and every time I left the apartment I heard her shrieking. Then, when I attempted to go for my early evening walk (I’ve been diligent, I’m proud to say, for three weeks now), I could hear her ear-piercing yapping from outside on the street. As it gave no sign of abating, I turned around and went home. Things were already bad enough with my downstairs neighbor.
In the morning, she had pounded on her kitchen ceiling, likely prompted by some dog-chasing-cats incidents that were admittedly a tad thumpy. Natalia is an early riser, unlike me and the boys, who will stay in bed with me until I rouse, no matter what time it is. (In fact, some mornings I only get out of bed because I feel bad that they haven’t been out for a pee for 8 or 10 hours.) But Natalia wakes up at 7, and she wants to get off the bed (and it’s too high for her to jump), so I have to put her down and then get up myself to lead her to the wee-wee pad, where she just sits, cocks her head, and stares at me, like “You want me to do something?” And even though I try to go back to bed, when Natalia is left to her own devices, that’s when she does a lot of her cat chasing. If I lift her back into the bed, in an effort to get closer to me, she jumps on Gizmo (who sleeps right next to me, sometimes even partially UNDER me), causing him to grimble angrily and threaten to bite whoever might get in the way of his teeth (which could very well be me, if I’m not careful).
So there was that. I was kind of bothered about the ceiling banging so I took great joy in vacuuming when I cleaned the litter boxes a while later. She couldn’t very well complain about me CLEANING, could she? Then I actually took Natalia out for a couple of hours to give everyone (including the downstairs neighbor) a break, bringing her with me to the vet to pick up Mimi’s medication and then taking her to Pet Value for a bath to try to dislodge some of the poopie that’s stuck to her butt, at which I was largely unsuccessful, although she’s nice and clean otherwise. (Linda, the head of Posh Pets, told Barbara and me that the girls needed to be clean before they went under the knife for spaying because they wouldn’t be able to get wet for a while post-surgery. They both seem to have this dingleberry problem, which unfortunately requires scissors rather than soap and, as far as I am concerned, is a two-person job.)
But when we got back to the house at around noon, Natalia’s crazy act continued. I completely understand; she just wants to play. She’s a puppy, after all. And there was the barking every time I left to go to the laundry room. So when my wimpy old front-door bell clanged, I was hoping it was my friend Ellen to ask me about redeeming cans but I knew that it would be HER.
Of course, all the dogs (and especially Natalia) carried on as soon as I opened the door, and continued the whole time we were talking, which just underscored her complaint. She said she knows I’m a nice person, and she doesn’t want to get confrontational, but the noise situation is out of hand, especially at night when who knows what goes on up there. She said that other people complain, but she’s got it the worst because she’s the one right below me. I sheepishly apologized and said I do try to minimize the noise as much as I can, but she said, “Can’t you do MORE?” She said if she had the money she would pay for me to get carpet. (I do have area rugs covering most of my floor but, for the most part, they don’t deaden the sound that effectively and, frankly, the area rugs are what Savannah uses for surfing purposes at night.) I feebly tried to tell her it will only be for a few more months, and I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, but honestly, what does she expect me to do?
I feel for her, I really do. I’ve had a million conversations with her in my mind (see “Truly Random Thoughts (Or, a series of pretty accurate snapshots of my daily brain)”, 6/22/16) where I try to plead my case and/or defend myself. But she’s right. We make too much noise. I feel horrible about it. And all I could do was stand there and apologize. I wonder what would have happened if I had started crying (which I pretty much felt like doing)? But what more can I do? Perhaps I can look into some kind of inexpensive floor padding (my contractors are targeting a return home by the new year, and if they lower my house this week like they’ve promised, we’ll be well on our way to our homecoming, so I don’t want to spend a ton of money – besides which, I don’t HAVE a ton of money; what I DO have is a ton of debt and no end in sight, but that’s another blog post for another day).
I’ll be so happy when I get back into my house and can make as much damn noise as I please. I’ve already promised the dogs I won’t yell at them for barking anymore. I hate living in a high rise apartment building, tiptoeing around and shushing the creatures when they’re just being themselves. It feels like I’m living in somebody else’s house, even though I pay my rent like just the next guy. I try to be a considerate neighbor, I really do. But there’s only so much I can do.
And so, downstairs neighbor, as I told you a dozen times today alone (and as I’ve ALWAYS told you, almost every time we’ve spoken, since the day I moved the dogs in), I’m very sorry for the bother. But I’ll be out of your hair before you know it, and I hope a nice quiet lady-of-a-certain-age moves in and wears soft-soled house slippers and doesn’t have any pets to disturb you in the night.