Nothing beats the joys of suburban life. Where else can one experience the sublime privilege of paying a mortgage just to become an unpaid zookeeper, conflict mediator, and amateur OSHA inspector? Neighbors – those delightful humans who gift us with their domestic symphonies of screaming matches at 2 AM, avant-garde landscaping built from tires stacked like modern art, and innovative security forces manned by unleashed canines with Napoleon complexes.
Homeownership comes with an unexpected education in neighborly diplomacy but these new homeowners got involuntary training in the Canine Peacekeeping Corp. as their morning now started with a soundtrack of high-decibel yapping, with the dogs rehearsing a heavy metal cover of Who Let the Dogs Out?. The sidewalk becomes a daily ordeal. Is that growl a warning? A greeting? A critique of their choice of compost?
Enter the Chihuahua Cartel. The neighbors’ two pint-sized ambassadors operate like furry anarchists, treating property lines as abstract art and flower beds as their personal demolition derby. These tiny, trembling despots – weighing less than a laptop but armed with the audacity of war criminals have turned an entire block into their personal fiefdom.
