Friday, April 28, 2006

Dogging me

My apartment building in Indy is...quirky. It's a terrific early nineteenth-century building full of original studios, and I like to imagine the first floor window fronts as a buzzing 1920s diner, just like it really was back in the day. Some 80 years later, though, the building and the neighborhood have changed. In addition to the, um, quirky folks who live in the building (including me!), we've some regular characters outside the building, too. Most of them are just traveling through, but the shade on the northwest corner of the building makes a cool spot to linger in the summer.

One warm day, my windows wide open, I heard the usual noises: traffic, the occasional yelp, city sounds. But then the yelling got stronger and louder -- more voices and more anger in those voices. When it sounded like there were physical blows accompanying those yells, I figured I had better call the police even though I couldn't see what was going on through the leaves of the tree outside my window. It sounded like somebody was getting beat up down there.

As the officer asked how many people I heard, where they were, and how long they'd been there, he also asked what they were yelling. "Um, there's one that just keeps yelling, 'Tell them, tell them you're my dog.'" The officer paused for a minute, perhaps not knowing how to respond. I was pretty sure I knew what he was thinking. While I do speak jive, I was having a hard time articulating this phrase in the same threatening way that the guys downstairs were yelling it. The way I said the words made it sound like a greeting. "Hello! My dog! Tell them you're my dog. Jolly chap, my dog! Why, hello Madame. Thou art my dog, too!"

Eventually a police car drove by the building's corner and whatever was happening down there stopped happening.

I should say, too, that this was a rare occurrence at my place. Lest my loved ones worry, I don't make regular calls to the police or anything. The quirky folks inside the building and our friends outside...we're all dogs. I mean, dawgs.



At 8:30 PM, Blogger Stelle In Italia said...

i know it's not quite right, but i love this story! I can just imagine you on the phone, "Hello my dear dog...why don't you tell the others that you are my dog, too?"

oh, just in case you want to see an online jive translator (like pirate lingo), this one is pretty fun:

At 9:06 PM, Blogger traveller one said...

That's hilarious! I have a little book here called "How To Train Your Man in 21 Days; Lessons From Professional Dog Trainer"!

At 9:50 AM, Blogger Cynthia Rae said...

This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

At 9:52 AM, Blogger Cynthia Rae said...

Now I gotta know what building you are living. Downtown Indy was my stomping grounds back in the ambulance days. I think I could write a book about the "jive" I have learned.

Good thing you called Popo. No one likes to see their dawg get the smack down. Just try to keep all on the down low! You don't want the fuzz to be coming up in here all the time.

Shout out to my peeps! I mean, WORD.

Your peep,

At 1:00 AM, Blogger Stelle In Italia said...

Sin-D, my dog! You're so down with DOWNtown. We -- me, your peeps, and popo friends -- miss you, but we're managing to keep the fuzz in it's place. (Did I just write that? Weird!)


At 2:01 AM, Blogger Stelle In Italia said...




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