A Yippee Story: A Woman, a Dog, a Problem

Let me first just preface this by saying that I am a dog lover.

As in, I love dogs.

As in, I’ve never come across a dog I didn’t like.

Except for Chihuahuas. I think they’re big versions of rats.

But really, I digress.

I love dogs.

Which is why it pains me so to admit that I have a newfound hatred for — you guessed it — a dog.

But please, let me explain.

I just moved into a fabulous one bedroom apartment (thank you, I’m excited too). It’s everything I had been looking for and more, and I couldn’t be happier to finally be out on my own. I mean, all the rules change when you’re living solo, and can be summed up with one simple rule: there are none. Red wine and cookie dough ice cream for dinner? Sure! Leaving your towel on the floor for more than 30 seconds? Completely acceptable. It’s a glorious life to be lived.

Except for those moments (or in this case, days that turn into nights) that you’re just not prepared for. Like not wanting to use the air conditioning because … hello? That costs money, and so you open those windows and let the breeze in.

And then, after settling in for a nap to ease the exhaustion that comes from moving, I hear it.

A bark. Actually, a yip is more like it.

And I think once again how nice it is to live in a building that allows dogs because I love dogs.

But then what I thought was a single yip —- a “feed me” warning, perhaps — turns into a series of yips.

I toss, I turn, I try the old pillow-over-the-head trick. I remind myself that I can sleep through the Second Coming and an earthquake at once.

But the yipping continues. And so does my frustration, which has now turned into anger.

Fast forward a few days, and I’m in the manager’s office, telling him that there is a mongrel — er, I mean, dog that won’t stop barking and what can we do? I learn that I have to find the source of the noise first and try to take care of the matter on my own. The manager hands me a list of residents with dogs that live near me and bids me good day.

Lovely.

Fast forward to the next night, during which I promptly take matters into my own hands and with list in hand, stand in front of each apartment and jingle my car keys, hoping to provoke Canine Satan. Finally, I hear the yip inside the last apartment I visit.

I knock. The dog barks. My blood begins to boil. And after a bit of coaxing, I get the woman to open the door to discuss her dog’s…issue.

“Well, there are a lot of dogs here. Maybe this isn’t the place for you,” she says.

Breathe, I tell myself. Deep breaths.

We end on an incredibly awkward note, but a note that lets her know that this problem needs to be solved, and I go upstairs, put in my earplugs (my new best friend) and head to bed.

While cooking dinner with a friend a few days later, I hear it. We both do. I run to my balcony and, in utter disbelief, look across the way and see a dog barking his fool head off.

A dog that does not live where I made that unwelcome visit.

A dog that sounds strikingly similar to Canine Satan.

I accused the wrong dog.

See you in hell, Canine Satan.

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