Hillbilly Wars - Gone to the Dogs

When I first met my hillbilly neighbors, they seemed normal. Keep in mind, normal is relative. Most people would find my version of normal a tad alarming. Mr. Hillbilly neighbor has er, orthodontic problems to be polite. But scary teeth aren't strange as my father hasn't sat in a dentist chair in over 30 years and I don't think he knows what a toothbrush is. Mrs. Hillbilly neighbor likes to parade around in a tube top and cut off jeans. I believe she likes to pretend she is the Canadian version of Daisy Duke. If you can ignore the sagging, the bagging and the wildly frizzy, blonde-from-a-box hair, and squint just right, perhaps there is a resemblance.

But after spending my life with people my husband insists should be banjo-picking at all times, a little halitosis and a delusional personality won't scare me off. (Sort of reminds me of family.) In hindsight, perhaps it should have. Then I met the Hillbilly dog. Now, if ever a there was a dog born with two sticks shy of a full stack, this dog would be it. But it's a dog, and it's not my dog, so what's not to love, right dear internet?

In retrospect, the hillbilly wars all began with the hillbilly dog. Perhaps there would be love between us rednecks and them hillbillies if not for their dog. (And perhaps my hair will return to it's natural blonde state and I will grow five inches by tomorrow. Doubtful.) It all began when we brought home our angelboy from the hospital. As any baby will do, he filled his britches. Over and over again. We bundled up his soiled diapers and placed them in the garbage, where twice a week, my hubs would cart our waste to the local landfill station.

After three or four weeks of diaper duty, we noticed the hillbilly dog was getting into our garbage. He figured out how to pop open the garbage shed's door and rifle through our litter. Not a big deal, just a pain in our ass, so being the good neighbors we are, we didn't complain, we just fixed the door. A few days later, the hillbillies phoned us and asked if we had a baby. When we said yes they demanded we come over to their yard and clean up the diapers the doggie dragged home and deposited on their front lawn. Apparently, said dog had a poop fetish. (Funny, after weeks of picking up garbage that was scattered by the that damned dog, we never noticed the diapers were missing.) Sadly, we had to turn down their offer to come to their house and clean up the mess their dog made with our diapers.

Needless to say, the neighbors were annoyed by our charitable donations and my once friendly, orthodontically challenged and delusional neighbors turned into a pair of frosty hillbillies. The proverbial shit started to fly. And five years later, our relationship has gone to the dogs. Perhaps I need another baby so that I may make peace offerings.

**There is more on the Hillbilly dog, involving dead chickens and a pool, but in an effort to avoid an epic post, it will have to wait for another installment of the Hillbilly Wars.**