Diplomacy

I approach decisions the way an ophidiophobe approaches a snake; not with caution and thrift, but with complete, blind terror, which could also be why I’m also bad at stress.  My carpe diem lifestyle in my early 20′s did not result in a lot of great decisions, so by the time I got married I was ready to give all decision-making a rest, hand it to Marti and let life happen.

When I did start making decisions again, I started to think in practical terms, such as choosing a practical career, making efforts to move closer to family and in general becoming more “normal” and less “Missy.”  I think there is real worth in learning to make, and accept, practical choices.  The goal, however, is not to lose who I am, but to find balance, that essential Socratic value.  “Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit,” said Aristotle.

Photo courtesy of www.ratemyscreensaver.com

Nevertheless, we keep old friends to remind us who we once were (among other reasons), and after spending the last seven or so years trying to be (and occasionally succeeding at being) practical, an old friend of mine reminded me that I liked to travel.  And that I could travel with my family.  And that it wouldn’t be that bad.  In fact, he told me a story about a French child he met in Africa, who was camping with his family.  The little boy said he liked camping, but couldn’t sleep for the snoring.  Your parents? my friend inquired.  No, said the little boy.  It was the snoring of the hippos.  You can be practical all you want, my friend said to me.  But do you want your children to miss the snoring of the hippos?

I couldn’t argue with that.

So, I set about applying for the foreign service, with Marti’s blessing.  I started studying for the foreign service exam, that terrible, four-hour test on world history, U.S. government and macroeconomics.  And I thought, can I really be a diplomat?

I’m not exactly known for diplomacy, despite my family role as peacekeeper.  I earned the nickname “Pissy Missy” in college, and I earned it fair and square.  I have left a trail of amazing, wonderful friendships across the world — and broken ones.  Ty in high school, Mullane in college, Junko in Japan…all people I’d loved, and fought with, and eventually parted ways with, sometimes with a lot of shouting, sometimes with great sadness.

I almost surprised myself when I decided to go ahead and apply for the foreign service, and I was certainly surprised by the fierce joy I felt after it was done.  I’ve been haunting the library, reading world history and political tomes that I usually ignore in favor of mysteries and fantasy.  I find myself ennervated by the happenings of real-world events and the people who experienced them, wishing that I, too, could initiate peace talks with the mullahs.

Then there are my neighbors.

It started with just one, we’ll call him W (no pun intended).  W. has chihuahuas.  Two, to be precise, and more evil dogs I have yet to meet.  If they were full size, they would be put down in a moment, but because they are half the size of most of the alley cats here, their aggression, snapping and ill-mannered behavior is ignored.

One day Saffron got out — the kids opened the back gate, and I didn’t realize Saffron had slipped out until later — and went over to sniff and bark at the bite-sized morsels across the street.  W. stormed over in a rage.  “That beast attacked my dogs!” he shouted.  “Are they hurt?” I asked.  “Well, no.  I mean, I was there to save them.  But that dog could have killed them!”  I didn’t mention the fact that dropping a bag of groceries on one of those dogs could kill them, nor the fact that I’d contemplated it as they nipped my ankles one day.  I apologized profusely, saying I would be more careful.

Two days later, another neighbor, enraged, knocked on my door.  “Your dog was terrorizing my girlfriend’s dog!” he shouted.  I looked behind me.  Saffron was there, wagging her tail and growling lightly at the large man.  “I’m sorry?” I asked, incredulous.  “She was out!” he steamed.  “My girlfriend’s little dog could have been killed!”  “Are you sure this was my dog?” I asked.  “Of course I’m sure!” he shouted.  “I know what kind of dog he is.  He nearly killed my neighbor’s little dogs the other day!”  Not correcting for gender (Saffron is a she), I tried not to roll my eyes.  “I hardly think it was my dog,” I huffed.  I walked over to the back gate and showed him our new padlock. But, wanting to be conciliatory, I added, “But if it was, I’m very sorry.” “Sorry!” says the man.  “You had better control that beast!  She should be leashed!”  I looked over to see the poodle in question wandering around, leashless, in his driveway.  I looked very pointedly at the dog wandering around leashless in his driveway.  He caught my look and, with a final warning, stormed back across the street and picked up the poodle, muttering all the way.

Meet neighbor #3: M.  M. owns two poodles (what is it with this street and little dogs?) that she walks every afternoon.  M. is very blonde — as blonde as a bottle can make hair — and I’ve never seen her without a track suit, giant sunglasses and a golf cap.  I’m not sure I’d recognize her without the ensemble.  She’s probably fiftiesh or older, but it’s hard to say — the type to eat 800 calories or less a day and still sunbathe despite the risk, if you know what I mean — the classic winter visitor.  She was walking past me one day while I was out working in the yard, with Saffron at my feet.  Saffron, seeing two cream-colored hors d’oevres walk by on leashes, jumped up and ran over to enthusiastically sniff the dogs.  The woman totally and completely freaked out.  She was screaming at me, standing in the middle of the street and yelling.  I ran as quickly as I could to grab Saffron, who was trying to sniff the now-terrifyingly yappy poodles from about 10 feet, while the woman continued to upbraid me.  I got Saffron into the yard but she continued to scream epithets at the top of her voice, standing in the middle of the street.  I finally yelled at her to move on, please, and that I was sorry but it was completely accidental.  She continued to yell.  I finally ignored her and went inside, and she marched off in a huff, poodles dancing from the excitement.

This became a kind of weekly ritual with us.  She would walk by, stop to see where my dog was, and yell at me.  I traded words with her several times as she went on about my “terrible mutt that terrorized the neighborhood.”  I heard this from my other neighbors, too; every time a brown dog did something, Saffron got the blame.  Once animal control came to my door, asking if I had a “vicious pitbull” that I let terrorize the neighborhood.  I pointed to Saffron, and said, “Well, this is my dog, but she’s not a pitbull — Australian Shepherd and Lab, actually.”  The man looked at the dog, sighed, told me to make sure she stayed in the yard and left.  It wasn’t hard to guess who might have called animal control — one of the three neighbors, certainly.  Soon I bristled just to see them walk by.

Then last weekend, I went outside to get the mail when I heard the sound of a dog collar with its tag, and I thought, “Did Saffron get out?” with a touch of panic.  I am, after all, a responsible person and I truly do not want my dog to be out of the yard for a moment. I stepped out into the street to look and saw M. marching her poodles down the street.  She saw me and gasped, but I just turned my back on her and walked back to my porch, wanting to avoid my weekly confrontation.

W. came out with his dogs to greet M., and they proceeded to stand and talk for some time.  I sat on my porch, straining to hear.  They’re talking about me, I thought as I sat there.  I thought several other unkind things as well, generally with dog-related expletives.

I also thought about the problem of fighting with one’s neighbors.  It was true that Saffron did find ways to get out of the yard, despite our vigilance, and sometimes I couldn’t even figure out how she’d escaped.  She’s a bigger dog with a dark muzzle, and, being frightened of strange dogs myself, I knew how scary a big, barking dog could be.  So how could I mend things with my neighbors?  I was certainly at fault, my dog truly escaping the yard from time to time, but their meddlesome shouting and hyperbole-laced insults were angering and abrasive.  I thought to myself, how can I be a diplomat when I can’t figure out a way to make peace with my own neighbors?  So I thought.  And I thought.  And I sat there, thinking M. would move on, but after 10 minutes, she hadn’t.  And suddenly, I knew what I should do.

It took several more minutes to drum up courage, but then I went inside.  I found Saffron’s leash and, ignoring my stained clothes and wild hair, I undid the back gate and walked her outside, straight to where W. and M. were conferring.  I was shaking, but, ignoring their shocked glances, I walked over and said to them, “W. and M., I would like you to meet Saffron.”  I knelt down and, as their dogs surged around Saffron and I to sniff or, in the Chihuahuas’ case, to nip and bark frantically, I explained how I had rescued Saffron from the pound.  How my renter had also rescued a dog, and how we’d struggled to acclimate both dogs to good homes.  How Sam could leap 5-foot fences, and how Saffron had been abused.  I explained that we were trying very hard to train Saffron, but that she did get out from time to time.  I asked them to be sure to tell me if it happened again, and I explained that she was very fearful of strangers, which was why she barked and cowered.  Saffron, as if to corroborate my story, shook and cowered under the sniffing and yipping of the four little dogs.  Her abject terror was obvious.

To my surprise, M., who has called me more names than I could count, oooh’d and aaah’d at my story.  She gasped at Saffron’s tale (ha!), saying how wonderful it was that she had been rescued.  She said she was “only concerned for the poor animal’s welfare” as she could hurt herself if she got out.  I didn’t believe that for a moment, but I smiled, and Saffron gave one of her poodles a hesistant lick (tastes like chicken) and the woman nearly collapsed from the sweetness and gentleness of it.  The poodles surged toward me and I petted them and cooed over them, and Saffron thumped her tail and went along with nary a bark or growl.  It was more than shocking, how quickly M. came around, and she agreed to let me know if Saffron misbehaved.  That part I did not doubt at all.

W. was another story.  He gave me a skeptical look, and grimly turned away.  It was then that I knew: I wasn’t fighting with three neighbors.  There was just one causing me trouble, and that was the one embellishing the stories in his favor.  However, without really knowing it, I had struck him and his stories a blow.  The fact that I had offered a peace branch, publicly, to both him and M. greatly reduced his chances of further influencing the neighbors.  In publicly apologizing to the both of them, he could hardly complain of my negligence or unfeeling.  So, in the end, I made peace with one neighbor and, even though I didn’t turn the other one, I rendered his stories, at least the current ones, mostly harmless.  Afterward, still shaking slightly, I went back home for the most peaceful weekend I’ve had in a long time, idyllically ending on Sunday with me, standing with my neighbors, watching Ben and the neighbors’ children and grandchildren play football in the street as the sun went down.

Which, I do believe, just might mean I’m a diplomat, after all.