The retired man next door, Mr. S (rhymes with 'slinky' which cracks-up my kids), he does this thing for us. Or, more specifically, he does this thing for our dog. You see, Mr. S is a warm-season griller of thick delectable cuts of meat. Pork and beef are his top performers. The heralding of this heart-clogging habit is known not by the scent of seasoned slabs of seared perfection wafting over the fence from his yard but by the ringing of our doorbell. And there he is. Tanned. Stocky with a rounded but solid belly. Neat goatee and short hair white as Santa's self same. A few tasteful pieces of real gold jewelry in place. Oft times, the subtle (okay maybe not always so subtle) odor of a whiskey sour or two emanating from his pores. Always a smile in place as he proffers the plastic baggie or foil-wrapped package of sizeable bones still warm, red and brown ragged pieces of flesh yet clinging to the inner curve and outside edges.
"For your dog! Tell her to enjoy!" he booms in his deep resonant tone of neighborly friendliness. We always accept with many a thank-you for his thoughtfulness. He's a huge fan of our masculine orange kitty, Fabio, and it's not unusual for him to launch into a short soliloquy on the subject. I listen and smile. Amused at his interpretation of our cat's name -- FLAVIO. Besides the fact that Mr. S's heart has been the topic, either directly or indirectly, of a surgery or two, he's losing his hearing but is not ready to surrender to the fact. So, one day he thought he heard Flavio instead of Fabio. No amount of convincing by his wife could change his stance on that. Thus, my feline is the recipient of two names. I'm certain that when said cat enters Mr. S's house at his behest, a tasty tidbit if set before him, too.
I drink herbal tea and don't golf; he's got a standing weekly tee-time. I rarely have an opening to swim in the pool which has been put at our disposal by Mr. S and his very kind wife. He drives a big shiny gas-guzzling Cadillac Escalade; I bemoan the fact that I must mug around town behind the wheel of that GMC Yukon mentioned in a previous blog entry. But for whatever reason, this sixty-something robust retiree next door to me has engaged in the act of neighboring via my pets. We don't rub elbows anywhere except where our side yards reluctantly converge: his lawn is weed-free and professionally serviced with an impressive array of chemicals while my mixed-green expanse is busy hosting a national dandelion convention this Spring.
We aren't very close.
I'm great friends with the neighbors to the north of us. My kids babysit their kids. I walk with the wife, and we play Bunco on a monthly basis. There are dinners for the couples and BBQ's and parties in the summer. A sack of sugar, an extra egg or dozen, a bit of basil -- dried and straight from the garden . . . yeah, that idyllic back-and-forth happens ALL the time. And, I dig it.
But what about my southside giver of gristle, fat, and marrow? I don't question it. I like it. He worries when my familiar presence is missing from the yard for too long. He once told me that I reminded him of his wife's older daughter. An educated professional woman of high standards and spotless work ethic. A psychiatrist who adopted several troubled children from Guatemala. Probably the longest conversation we've held save for the time he related how he lost his cat and later found him in the upstairs closet. He bolsters the security I feel in my neighborhood. He is typecast as the generally strong and silent type with a heart of gold. Or, at least a chunky pinky ring of gold
In fact, he was here tonight. He told my son to let our dog know the season was upon us. Our carnivorous harbinger of Spring. The bone still held a substantial amount of nibble meat. I confess to being THIS CLOSE to sampling just a wee bit -- my mouth actually watered as I handed it off to our eager canine. Our Mr. S.
You really ought to get you one. But not ours . . . back off . . . he's taken!
Very entertaining!
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