In an attempt to avoid the local killer poodles, I started walking my dogs quite early in the morning. While there are people exercising then, they seldom have a dog with them, so I felt quite safe, and a bit smug, for having figured out a solution to one of our three daily walks. However, I had not reckoned in the weird neighbor factor. Something about my little dogs trotting along semi-obedient was a siren call to the community oddball. No sooner had we rounded the corner near our apartment when a local citizen, dressed in corduroy knee britches, a corduroy jacket with lapels and an Austrian Tyrolean hat complete with jaunty little feather would spring into view. I should mention he carried both a riding crop in one hand and a whistle in the other. The sight of my fat little dogs would stir up some military instinct in him and he would shout “Hey!” at my dogs, then point at them with his crop, expecting them to spring into some sort of obedience. I’m sure a Royal Lipazzan stallion would know what to do, but I was as befuddled as my dogs, and would back away slowly, cursing whatever unlucky star brought me in contact with this man. It wasn’t just a one-time thing, either: it happened every morning for a month.
I’m not the brightest bulb: it wasn’t until I was showing a famous musical movie in class that I understood what was in his mind. As the opening sequence began, shot after shot of nuns peacefully gliding about the abbey, one of my students turned to the others knowingly and said, “Muslims.” I choked back a snort of laughter, and then it hit me: my neighbor was the ultimate fan boy, living out his ideal of a European gentleman of means controlling the few things he still loved in the world. The next morning as our neighbor greeted us, hands on hips, whistle poised between his lips, riding crop at the ready, I sprang into action. I pulled hard on the dogs’ leashes, stepped forward smartly with a military salute, said “Leisl!” then stepped back into place. He nodded approvingly and went off without a word, Captain Von Trapp having finally tamed Maria.
I’m not sure if having a semi-delusional neighbor is a great substitute for killer poodle attacks, and part of me feels a bit odd for playing into an old man’s delusion, but at least it’s done with good intent. It doesn’t hurt to play along – indeed, it may well be the high point to his day – and he’s stopped with both the whistle and the riding crop, which he used to flick across his palm when he saw us coming. Ethics of the situation aside, there’s one great advantage to pretending to be a member of a family musical supergroup, as annoying as his regular appearance is: I may have to salute this man every morning, but by the sweet mercy of heaven, I never have to do it with a bag of dog poo in my hand.
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