I Hate the Whistler
You cannot convince me that someone who attempts to mentally and emotionally manipulate a dog, the most lovable species of animal on our fair planet, is not an asshole, or at the very least, extremely unbalanced. I’ll fucking fist fight you over this and I’ve never hit anyone in my life, except for this one guy once but he really deserved it and I think you would have been on my side if you knew the particulars.
There is a man who lives on my street whom I call, “The Whistler.” He craves endless attention and I think he may be a drug dealer based on the fact that he’s always popping in and out of houses all over the street. He’s either a drug dealer or a grown version of the kid that every neighborhood had that would go to everyone else’s house and ask for a snack or if they could come in and play, even during dinner time. And not the kind of kid you wanted to help out because you knew things at home were rough for them or that they were just simple-minded and hoping to be liked. The kind of kid that came off greedy and entitled beyond his years. That’s whom I’m talking about.
Every day he walks up and down my street, emitting a high-pitched whistle from his pointless mouth. He acts like he’s treating all of us to his amazing whistling show and that we should all be so lucky to hear him and his magical ability, but I don’t feel lucky. I feel deep anger and hatred, because his whistling upsets my dog and every dog in the neighborhood. He leaves a dozen yelping dogs in his wake every time he cruises down the street in his bus driver sneakers and beat up track jacket and he smiles to himself as he does it. He can whistle and smile at the same time. I just tried it to see how hard it is, and it’s pretty hard so I guess he might have an ounce of unusual talent.
He’s often eating on the stoop outside of the halfway house on my street (where he does not live, so that doesn’t explain all of this behavior away,) and several times while I’ve been walking my dog past him, he’s baited him into an exchange by waving a French fry in his face and whistling. Upon getting my dog’s attention, he’ll shove the whole fry in his mouth and ask me for what is probably the hundredth time, if he is a boy or a girl.
It’s because he’s crazy, right? That’s the only explanation. He’s Jeffrey Dahmer crazy and it’s a matter of time until I find out that every dog that lived in the neighborhood a decade ago is in a storage freezer in his basement (LOL, like this whistling fool can afford a basement,) and that he’s tasted human flesh before. My grandfather once met a cannibal who told him that the most delicious part of a human is the palm of their hands, and my hands are my best feature, so I’m pretty sure my dog and I are going to be the first to go. In case you don’t hear from me for a while, send the police for my handless body and the petrified carcass of my beloved fur baby.
It’s more than just the whistling and rude French fry behavior, though. He stands outside of people’s homes and yells for their dogs. Our neighbor, this mean older man who seems to think he owns the whole street (the only neighbor I hate nearly as much as The Whistler,) has a poodle named Lucky. I am not crazy about these poodles because they wear tacky t-shirts and are ungroomed and therefore resemble dirty washrags, but none of that is their fault. I’m sure they’re lovely creatures once you get to know them.
Last week, I was standing by a tree with Wagandstuff as he relieved himself and watched as the Whistler approached the house that Lucky lives in. He leaned up against the fence and, in that singsongy voice that everyone uses when talking to dogs, began to call, “Luuuuuuuckyyyy. Luuuuuucky.”
Of course Lucky and her brother both ran to the window and started howling. The Whistler laughed at the chaos he had created and continued to taunt the dogs, occasionally showing off his outstanding whistling skills. It was the dog’s name, then the whistle, then the dog’s name, then the whistle and the entire time there were two poodles barking their faces off and scratching at the windows.
Well, I couldn’t be helped. After witnessing this for months and not being in any kind of mood to be subjected to this level of unnecessary and unpleasant noise, I snapped my head around, brow all crunk, (I was channeling Miss. Vivica A. Fox in Two Can Play That Game,) and said, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
He acted like he didn’t hear me and you know, maybe he didn’t, but I know he caught the angry look on my face that lingered in his direction after the words left my mouth. I know he saw my angry face, and I hope it haunts him when he’s trying to sleep at night the same way that the strains of his whistling and dog-crying haunts me while I’m trying to finish off my night’s sleep first thing in the mornings. If I wind up having my hands ripped off by this guy, it will have been worth it to communicate my complete and utter distaste for everything about him with that one look.
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