Leash Your Children

It appears that if I lay down on my side on the loveseat in the sunroom,  the area between my shoulders and knees becomes a designated little dachshund space.  No matter where he may in the house, he comes trotting out to claim it.  The small brown dog, usually asleep on the pillow in the adjoining bedroom and with a fully unobstructed view so it's not like she doesn't know where I am, inevitably follows and curls up above my head. The black dog is the last to arrive, taking her place in the big chair with the window view but not before she runs a thorough threat assessment, determining that the street is quiet and the house safe.  Even so, she will sleep lightly, always seconds from full intruder alert, say my next door neighbor coming or going, suspicious squirrel activity or (saints protect us) the dreaded, unauthorized car door slam - by far, the most serious offense except for fireworks.

Come the 4th of July, the nasty little urchins two doors down ramp up their neighborhood offensive.  It isn't enough to dart into the street after a stray volleyball and then stand defiantly in the path of oncoming traffic.
It isn't enough to throw their manhandled, trashy toys at passing motorists or scream abuse at neighbors.  It isn't enough to hide in the bushes and jump out at unsuspecting dogs and their walkers.  Come the 4th of July, they like to set off firecrackers up and down the street - trespassing and violating as they go, frightening the dogs, disturbing the peace and leaving a trail of debris everywhere except on their own property.  They are vile little creatures, backyard bred and raised like savages, should've been drowned at birth and both parents sterilized.  More than one driver on his/her weary way home has considered not slowing down when passing their house - I myself have often yearned for just one clear, vehicular hit and run shot at their abandoned bicycles, left so carelessly and disrespectfully in the street and begging to be run over.

It's not that I dislike children - there are exceptions to every rule - but I object to those being raised as trash, by trash, with the promise of more trash to come.  When they came to my house trying to sell their tacky, half melted chocolate bars with their greedy, grubby little hands, I made no effort to restrain the black dog.  She made her position regarding peddler children abundantly clear and they haven't been back since.

Small wonder if will be if one of these Independence Days she doesn't break free and celebrate her own freedom with a bite or two out of their ragged little street urchin asses.