Dog Gone Names

"Harold's calling," Mr. Wonderful said holding the phone toward me.

"We never talk on the phone. Why is he calling?" I said unloading the dishwasher. 

"I don't know.
"Is everything okay with him? And Norma?"
"I don't know."
"It would be horrible if they had a problem--"
"Why don't you just ask him?"

When Mr. Wonderful and I first moved into The House we'd exchanged emails with our 86 year-old neighbor and his wife. A week later we exchanged phone numbers. When Harold asked for my Skype address, I put my foot down. Yet despite having several modes of communication, all of us just preferred to walk next door and ask each other a question. It was old fashioned but I liked it.

But now Harold was calling us. Calling me. For what? To arrange lunch? A movie date? A poker night?  

"Talk to him," Mr. Wonderful said passing me the phone. But before I could say "hello", Norma was knocking on our side door. What was going on with our neighbors? Did they have a quarrel? A fistfight? A mud wrestling match?

"The dog's loose," Norma said her panicky blue eyes the color of a stormy sea. 

"You got a dog? Congratulations," I said. She waved me quiet.

"It's the neighbors' dog. It's loose."

"Jerry's dog?"

"The other neighbors' dog."

This seemed rather fishy to me. Norma and Harold were older than our neighborhood. In fact they were here when the railroad came through, the Pony Express rode in and Columbus discovered America . Why didn't they know which neighbor's dog it was? 

"Harold's on the phone," I said showing her the phone.

"Hang up. You need to get the dog, it's running around in the street." 

I did as the lady ordered and trotted outside to see Jerry in his front yard of roses waving his arms toward Charles and Stephen's house. Across the street I saw Harold herding a black and white dog toward the house very unsuccessfully. 

"Hi Harold."

"This dog belongs to the neighbors," he said. "And they're not home."

"It's Gordo. Hi, Gordo!" The dog looked up at me with an open mouth that resembled a smile. "Gordo means "fat" in Spanish." 

Harold looked at the black and white fur ball and nodded. "He is fat. But what are their names?"

"Gordo's owners?" I furred my brow. "Charles and Stephen, of course."

While Harold nodded his head, I dialed Charles on my phone, told them about Gordo's escape then helped the little sausage return to the fold. Since they were about to enter a movie screening, Charles gave profuse thanks for saving their dog and their evening out.

With Gordo safe and the neighborhood back to normal I thought about Harold not knowing our neighbors' names. Harold's brain was as sharp as a buzz saw, so his lack of knowing their names was not an Alzheimer's blip, stoke blip or uh… whatever else they call memory loss thingys. Nope, it must mean something else. 

Charles and Stephen bought their house two years before us. And in our yard we had spoken to Charles and Stephen with Harold and Norma several times. Then it hit me. Perhaps the four of them had never had been properly introduced, the good old fashioned way, with names and handshakes. That seemed wrong in our neighborhood.

The next day I saw Charles and Stephen walking back from the store at the same time that Harold and Norma were taking down the flag for the day. I seized my chance.

"Harold, Norma, have you ever met Charles and Stephen?"
"No."
"They're Gordo's owners."

Harold and Norman stopped in their yard where Charles and Stephen met them with thanks, handshakes and smiles.

Yes, it was old fashioned but I sure liked it. 

Balance of Green

“Hello!  We’re here!” A cheery, feminine voice called out from the driveway.

“Are we expecting anyone?” Mr. Wonderful said as we stood in dirt up to our knees in the back yard. 

“No,” I said pausing with the shovel.

“Then what are that woman and man doing in our kitchen?”

Indeed.  A blond woman and a graying man had entered the house and were standing in our kitchen.  Rarely have I reacted—or sprinted—so fast.

“Can I help you?”  I said rushing into the house hoisting the garden shovel, prepared to use it as a weapon.

“We’re the neighbors.  Next door.  On the other side of the fence,” the blond woman said smiling. 

“We’re Mary and Mike,” the graying-haired man said.

“Here’s a cake I bought.  I hope you like pistachios.” 

“Ohhh!  So nice to meet you,” I said smiling at them.  “And thank you.” 

Mr. Wonderful had circled around and through the house and now appeared behind them with his arms raised holding a hacksaw.

“No, Honey!” I cried out.  “These are the neighbors.  They brought us cake!”  Mr. Wonderful lowered the hacksaw and shook their hands. 

And what delightful neighbors!  They were a 50-something couple—Mary and Mike—who had two careers and three kids, and all of them lived next door. 

“We’ve been watching you young people do work on this house.  It needed a lot of work,” Mary said. 

“A whole lot of work,” Michael added.

“Thanks…?” I said setting the cake on the table.  “Actually most of the work we’ve done so far has been painting.”

“You’ve inspired us.  We’re going to paint our daughter’s room,” Mary said digging in her purse.   

“Is there any color you would recommend to paint a girl’s room?” Michael asked.

“I don’t know your daughter,” I said.  “But my only advice is don’t paint any room green.  When we moved in we had a green room that was so ugly it took three coats of paint to cover it up.  Let me say it was an enormous effort but the world is now rid of an ugly space.”

“Here’s what I want to paint her room,” Mary said fishing a paint card out of her purse. 

It was green.  Puke green.  As ugly as the green we’d first had on our walls.  

“What do you think?” Mike asked.

“If it makes her happy, that’s all... that matters,” I said.

“You’re right.  She's going to love it,” Mary said as she and Mike admired the green card smiling.  I exchanged a look with Mr. Wonderful. 

“Good save,” he mouthed to me.

Color is such a personal preference.  

That afternoon I developed a theory: in the world, there must be a balance of color.  If one green is removed, another green is added.  It keeps the sides of work-done and work-to-be-done equal.  All while keeping paint stores in business. 

The green room is dead!  Long live the green room!