In the doghouse.
Update:
My dog-permit prescription scheme (see below) failed miserably today, because the doctor unfortunately turned out to be some sort of a peace-loving quack job who could only tell me that I needed to quit Karate and take up Tai Chi in order to "settle my nerves and focus on the positive." What this had to do with my maternal pining for a dog or my history of clinical depression continues to elude me; furthermore, at least I know that performing some bullshit ballet of fake defensive movements won't do any more good for my soul than practicing throat-smashes on a dummy that looks like Bruce Willis. So pretty much, fuck that guy and his schmancy fucking degree. I pushed my opinion about my need for a dog, but it didn't do any good, and I left empty-handed. As I smiled understandingly, I fleetingly considered knocking out Mr. Pseudo-philosopher via an explosive and unexpected attack to the jugular, and then positioning a pen in his hand and getting the signature that I'd come in for through more creative means than originally expected. But then I thought I might get arrested.
You win again, Focault. You win.
To make a long story short, I ended out crying for hours today, and now I feel as though my head and heart weigh about a thousand pounds. It's genuinely devastating to bond with an animal in need and later be told--by some unsubstantial fucking Nazi rental corporation that doesn't even know you or care to consider your needs, and that just recently changed its stupid pet policy--that you have to drop the whole idea and forget about him. I don't have a forgetful sort of heart, especially when it comes to dogchildren and humanchildren.
I going to get a copy of the rental agreement and find out what the penalties are for having a non-permitted animal here at the apartment. If it's not an arm and a leg or an eviction as well as as mighty fee, I think I might just get the dog anyway and pray that he's as quiet as I've been told. I might end out feeling like I'm smuggling a Jewish person in my apartment, but I think it would still be better than leaving the poor thing impounded. I would love him to pieces--little chewy chihuahua pieces, and he would love me back. We'd ride in my car and roll down the windows and howl to Paul Simon songs. We'd pee on the roots of the neighbor's hydrangeas just to watch the blooms change colors. We'd walk to the market and sprawl on the living room carpet and be the best of friends.
Fucking apartment Nazis.
I'm so sad.
2 comments:
Wow. This story sounds familiar (except for the trying to get a doctor's note. I didn't think to try that).
When we first started looking for a dog, it didn't even occur to us to ask the apartment managers first.
It was a huge complex of older buildings. They were shitty in a lot of ways with shoddy construction and mold problems.
They didn't care about keeping things nice, there were never inspections, or even any interaction with the management unless you contacted them for something.
And dogs everywhere. One family across from us had two huge labs. The main maintenance man (who lived on site) had a dog he took with him on his jobs. We watched a girl move in with her Jack Russel. No problem, we thought.
After searching for a couple weeks, we found Zelda and fell in love with her. But when we went to ask (trying to be honest even though we could have snuck her in easily) if there was an extra pet fee for a dog, we were told no "new" tenants were allowed dogs. Apparently they had changed to a no-dog policy before we moved in.
Oh yes, they said, they'd made exception since then, but not for us.
We were good tenants. We'd lived there a year, always paid the rent on time. Kept the apartment waaaay cleaner than any of the neighbors we had visited. We said we'd have to move out if they wouldn't let us have a dog. They basically said "Ok. Bye."
Way to reward your good tenants, guys. Thanks for nothing.
I feel really lucky, though, because I had my (rather nice) job and therefore had the financial security to give our 30 day notice right then and there.
Apartment Nazis indeed. They're freaking out about the wrong things. That complex was rife with college kids playing loud music, dinging other people's cars in the parking lot, cigarette smokers, pot smokers, people owning multiple cats, and people and families who'd lived in their apartments so long and had so little regard for the place that you couldn't even tell the original color of the carpet under all the accumulated grime.
But no. The thing they needed to watch out for was the dogs.
And I don't even want to go into the "we'll make exceptions for every one except you" BS.
Anyway. Long rant. I feel your pain, man.
Keep fighting the good fight. Some day, you will have a dog to sing to in the car. Don't lose hope from this set back!
I love you.
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