My neighbors Shelley and Roger Katz are the most fearful people I have ever met; I call them “the Frady Katz.” We met them soon after we moved into our house when they welcomed us to the neighborhood by saying that they hoped that we were going to chop down the two “menacing trees” in our front yard.
Perplexed, my partner and I looked at the trees in question: we have two magnificent royal palms flanking the front door; they were planted when the house was built in 1959 and are easily the tallest trees in the neighborhood. We love them and told our new neighbors that they were staying right where they were. The Katz’s were not pleased.
“During a hurricane those things become pillars of death,” said Roger.
“One lightning strike and the whole neighborhood burns,” said Shelley.
Years later the trees are still thriving, unlike our relationship with the Katz’s. I go out of my way to avoid them but occasionally we are all walking our dogs at the same time and decorum requires a brief chat. This is how, over the years, I’ve learned that, among other things, they are afraid of I-95, the western suburbs, immigrants, Chinese restaurants, gas water heaters, red vegetables, goldfish, and the color purple.
On one of our walks I foolishly let it slip that my partner is a retired veterinarian, and suddenly they were seeking out our company on a regular basis, mainly because they regarded my partner as a source of free veterinary care for Max, their Rottweiler. Although the Katz’s are afraid of everything, nothing causes them more angst then their obsession over Max’s health. Now, if we even see them walking Max down the street we take our big dog, Ali, run into the house and close the blinds.
But last week the closed binds did not deter them, and when I answered the door there were Roger, Shelley, Max and Emma, their teenage daughter, on our front porch. At least I was glad to see Emma, whom I like very much. At 17 she is smart, friendly, sarcastic and very, very funny. She clearly knows that her parents are idiots but loves them fiercely in spite of, or perhaps because of, it. But she can’t help yanking their chains.
Shelley got right to the point; she wanted to see my partner. “Max ate half an Oreo,” she said breathlessly. Roger, on his knees cradling Max, looked as though he might faint; Emma looked at me and rolled her eyes. Max, unconcerned, looked as hale and hearty as ever.
“My partner is not home,” I lied, although his car was clearly in the driveway.
“Well what should we do?” Shelley demanded. “Chocolate can kill a dog.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Watch him? Take him to the vet?” We all looked at Max who was investigating a lizard on the front porch; he looked at me apologetically and wagged his little stump of a tail. “He looks fine,” I added.
“Sure, he’s fine now,” said Shelley. “But what about an hour from now?”
Just then my partner unwisely walked out the front door to see what was going on; he saw the Katz family, said “Oh shit!” and tried to retreat back into the house but Shelly grabbed his arm.
“I didn’t know you were home,” I said weakly, hating to be caught in a lie.
“My car is right there,” said my partner, confused. “Where else would I be?’
I gave him a dirty look but Shelley didn’t seem to notice; now that she literally had her hooks in my partnr she told him her story, but this time around she said Max had eaten the whole Oreo. Perhaps she thought it made a more compelling narrative that way.
“He looks fine,” said my partner, adding, “he’s a pretty big boy. It would take more than an Oreo to kill him.”
“Easy for you to say,” said Shelley with a sneer, “but what would you do if yourAli ate an Oreo?”
“I would never give Ali an Oreo,” said my partner primly as Shelley and Roger, stung, began to protest in unison. He held up his hand. “Has Max ever eaten something he shouldn’t have before” he asked. Shelley and Roger shook their heads morosely but Emma took over.
“He does this all the time,” said Emma as Roger and Shelley glared. “Once he ate a picture frame,” she continued. “He’s also eaten a pillow, a bar of soap, a roll of film, a bag of mulch, two C- batteries and my brother’s pantyhose.” By unspoken agreement my partner and I refused to look at each other. “Then there was the time Mom left her top nightstand drawer open and he ate….”
“The doctor does not need all the details,” said Shelley quickly while Roger, beet red, was clearly wishing he was dead. “And Max was always fine,” Emma concluded.
“I’d take him to the vet anyway,” said my partner, backing into the house. “He might need blood work or an X-ray.” He smiled. “And make sure you tell the vet exactly what you just told me.”