The Note

Last night, when we arrived home after attending a book launch party for a friend of ours, I found this note tucked inside our mailbox.  Let's see what I can make of this...

To the writer: 

First: Gee, pretty poisonous stuff. I suspect you're the creepy drunk who lives upstairs at the bar on the corner-- the blotchy-faced inebriate who once staggered to our front door at 10pm to complain that Harry was barking, even though he was next to us, asleep on the couch. But of course I can't be sure, because you were shrewd enough not to sign your name. Instead, you cleverly attributed it's authoring to the entire neighbourhood. ZING! Point scored! I'm staggering in fuming disbelief. [At whom, confound it, should I direct my outrage at receipt of this impertinent memorandum?!!? ]

Second, let me congratulate you on not misspelling anything. These kinds of alcohol-induced primal screams are usually penned by folks who couldn't parse the letters of their own names if their lives depended on it. You're one up on them. (Of course, you didn't spell your name, either.)

Third, Harry was in the back yard for about three hours unsupervised-- a rare occasion. Occasionally, he'll emit the velvety, languid sort of bark that just lets you know a dog is present; no teeth, no foam, no threat, no urgency at all. Far from it. The only thing that Harry views as urgent is his dinner, and he's smart enough to know that you don't have it. But boy, I hear you; incessant barking can be really annoying-- like the constant, frantic yapping of the terrier from the house across the street. That dog just doesn't quit, does he? In fact, he's barking right now. Day and night, he's yelling his head off. I know the world looks and sounds fuzzy to you, but perhaps you should pop a couple of aspirins, turn your attention to the house 90 degrees to your left and leave your notes in that mailbox. You might get more bang for your buck, and the hangovers will hurt less.

Sincerely,

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