The Ryno Pen

Dear father of my neighbour man who my ex-neighbour (the same one who cannot support a mortgage, alcoholism and an ice habit that keeps him up and raging for days on end, and is thus in the throes of a bank-foreclosure-led-eviction) believes may be related to him (and if his mother can’t corroborate, who knows?),

I have seen and heard far more of your putative child than I ever wanted to. I have seen him kick and punch basketball-sized holes in his own back door: possibly the gimcrack repair with Sellotape made it easier the next few times he took his rage out on the house.

The shouty 2AM cellphone calls from just under our kitchen window were a source of entertainment on many a night that might otherwise have been wasted on sleep. In themselves, they were nearly as definitive a character reference for the lad as the succession of short-stay, stridently-screeching, tarty girlfriends, who left their various dull-eyed offspring unattended for hours on end to play Let’s Get A Disease from all the dog-chalk that was left to stink for months on end.

To be fair, the snotty toddlers would hit each other with sticks or push each other off the kennel for a bit of variety. Those sharp metal edges were a nice touch: who’d have thought a concept like social-Darwinism-by-stealth would occur to you? Oh: it didn’t?

We try to be tolerant and understanding: we know your co-ordination isn’t the best, and having seen you help your lad through the daily booze quota from about 8AM on many occasions, we would expect the odd tremor. It was unfortunate that you should develop Wobbly Boots while trying to move that huge metal kennel that played anchor to The Levitating Dog, when you could be bothered to tie it up at all.

Yes, the one that managed Harrier-like VTOL clear-jumps over fences the height of my shoulder, carrying a few pounds of chain.

I say The Levitating Dog, to avoid confusion with The Hunting Dog (that would be the one that shredded and killed Mrs NextDoor’s puppy while Binny Skitch screeched in terror), or The Rottenweiler who was left unattended in searing heat without water two summers back (oh come on, you do know the one I’m talking about: the one with untreated hip dysplasia. Walks like Quasimodo. Yes, the one you tried to urge to attack me on the weekend: do try to keep up!).
Sorry if my dog barked when you and the Spotty Yoof dropped the kennel. After all, barking 24/7 is the forté of all those bloody great dogs your boy leaves to fill that pocket-handkerchief backyard with Bogan Play-Doh (aka pures), isn’t it? Still, I guess you were shocked: it’s rare for mine to bark.

I assume it was me you referred to when you slurred “Get ‘im Boy! Attack the retard!” to the poor old Rottenweiler, as if he’d make it through, or over, the fence. Perhaps you’re developing Korsakov’s Syndrome and thought you had the Levitating Dog there instead.

Perhaps you’ve heard the word “retard” used around you, and know it means something bad, but don’t know what.

Let me extend a helping hand: here’s a mirror.