My Neighbors Got My Dog High

I hate the majority of my neighbors. In particular, I hate the ones that live below us.

The first month after they moved in, they hammered into the walls every night around 10. About every 20 minutes they go outside on their deck and smoke cigarettes. The smoke floats straight up and fills out entire loft apartment. On all those beautiful Michigan fall days, we can't have our windows open.
The only way they know how to close doors is to slam them shut. At all hours of the night. I'm fairly sure they are nocturnal, because they're silent all day and then begin slamming doors around 11 p.m.

And the kicker, they got my dog high.

We left to go to the movies on a Friday night. When we returned home hours later and opened our front door, we walked straight into a wall of marijuana smoke. All of the smoke from their weed wafted up their fireplace and out of ours. Ross (the dog) usually comes running to us, tail wagging. I found him stretched out on the couch, smiling.

Smiling.

With all the amounts of peanut butter and sausage I have fed this dog, I have never seen him smile like this. He rolls over on the couch, still stretched out. After 30 minutes of stretching and smiling, Ross finally gets off the couch. He walks over to his dish, eats all of his food, and put himself to bed.

Those assholes got my dog high.

I now take great joy in sweeping all of the leaves, acorns, sticks, and other droppings off of our deck and onto theirs.