… but, unfortunately, I’m Catholic

I’ve been obsessing over, drafting, and editing a blog entry for weeks. It was supposed to be my next upload. But since it combines politics, religion, and my cynical, snarky outlook, it’s been in the polishing stage for quite a while now. After an incident this weekend, though, this piece jumped out of my head, slap-dashed onto the page, and rudely cut to the head of the blog line. So much for thoughtful reflection…

Helen and I love where we live… a townhouse on a cul-de-sac. Back home in the blue-collar, single-family-home neighborhood in Syracuse where I grew up, it’s called a dead end. The best part about our current neighborhood mid-way between Jacksonville and St. Augustine is that, in many ways, it reminds me of my way-back-when home.

I’m one of a couple of “old guys” on the block. It’s mostly young families with elementary school-aged kids here. The kids leave their bikes, skateboards, wagons, and other stuff all over the place, even on our tiny patch of front lawn and in our driveway. They yell for each other, laugh loudly, and generally make all sorts of noise.

You’d think an old guy like me would hate that. But I actually leave our windows open so I can enjoy the racket. To me, it’s a tonic. It’s life. It’s renewal. Kids playing outside means they’re not parking any lard butts in front of TVs, computer screens, or video game consoles. This isn’t an insulated, post-modern suburb. It’s like stepping back into the 1960s. For the most part, neighbors know each other and look out for each other. Just like when I was a kid.

How would you like to see a group like this at your front door?
No, they weren't looking to run me out of the neighborhood.
Thank God for good neighbors.

Here’s an example from this past summer. The bell rang and when I opened the front door, there was Matt, the self-employed contractor from down the street, with an entire posse of dads and kids behind him. Matt was holding a shovel and some of the men had long, wooden sticks. One even had a pitchfork. I started to remind them I was Dr. Casella, not Dr. Frankenstein, but Matt quickly cut me off.

“Can you close your garage door?” Matt asked urgently. “There’s a cottonmouth snake in your flowerbed and we need to kill it. If the door’s open, it’ll get inside.”

Uh, you bet, neighbor. Garage door closed. Snake killed. Kids thrilled.

That’s why I was so surprised this weekend when one of my neighbors approached me as I was pulling out of my driveway. I was on an errand for Claudia, my stepdaughter, and was looking forward to a pleasant hour-long drive with the top down, listening to the Beatles, and enjoying a smooth, Cuban knock-off.

Snake on a stick: Our good neighbor Matt finally won the battle
with the poisonous reptile.

The homeowners association has rules for dogs; they must be on leashes and owners must pick up after them. Helen and I obey these regulations, of course – although we sometimes take Lexie’s leash off so she can chase a tennis ball.

I don’t know of any HOA rules for cats. Our cat, Nucky, stays mostly indoors, but likes to play in the woods behind the house. Sometimes he’ll cruise the neighborhood a bit. The kids love him because he lets them pick him up, pet him, and carry him around. Typical cat – he loves the attention even though he’ll never acknowledge it.

“That your cat?” the neighbor asked, pointing to Nucky.

“My wife’s, yeah,” I answered. “Why?”

“You can’t let it out unsupervised,” the neighbor started lecturing. “It’s okay if you let it out supervised, but not unsupervised. Only supervised.”

I tried to process what this guy was saying, but then he really got my attention.

“My wife walked outside the other morning and your cat…”

My mind raced. Oh no! Did he chase her? Scratch her? Could this docile furball have bitten her?

“…was sitting on my wife’s car.”

Huh? The gears in my head started grinding. Was this guy actually complaining because his wife saw a cat on her car?

Okay, okay, I get it. Some people are protective of their cars. If that was the case, though, wouldn’t she park the car in the garage and not outside in the driveway? Maybe he’s just one of those “boundary” people. You know – ‘You stay on your side of the fence and I’ll stay on mine.’ I’ve never really understood that attitude. It’s opposite of my upbringing and opposite of the atmosphere in the neighborhood.

Back home as a kid, as much as my mother dislikes dogs, she never said anything to Mike Rudy when his dog Muggsy spent the rare night sleeping on our porch chair. She hated brushing off the little bit of dog hair Muggsy left behind, but Mr. Rudy was a great guy and a better neighbor, and Mom would never let that jeopardize that friendship.

My neighbor, though, pressed on. “You can’t let that cat be outside unsupervised,” he repeated. “He can only be outside if he’s supervised.”

Since I was already running late, I just said nodded and said, “Yeah, okay,” and started driving. But by the time I got to the end of the block, my Italian was up. It’s a lot like someone getting his “Irish up,” except it’s usually louder, lasts a lot longer, includes a lot of arm-waving, and uses its own special sign language. Obviously, the drive was not the relaxing trip I had anticipated. As I treated the end of my cigar like a chew toy, I couldn’t get the words “supervised” and “unsupervised” out of my head. ‘Hey, I got your “supervised” right here in this this spiked chair!’

I was hoping God would take a quick coffee break so he wouldn’t know that, even though I’ve never struck anyone in my life, I fantasized slapping the snot out of the guy. Then I thought, ‘But, unfortunately, I’m Catholic.’ I knew that, even though I really enjoyed – relished! – thinking of ways to get back at this guy, they were thoughts I needed to forget. As I cooled down, I realized the real issue was not the cat, and it wasn’t my not-so-neighborly neighbor. It was me, and how I reacted to his not-so-neighborliness.

No, I wasn’t about to turn the car around to go hug him. Or even apologize for the cat. Instead, after I was done with my mental venting, I blew it off with an, “Oh well.”

Being Catholic doesn’t mean being perfect. It doesn’t mean never getting angry when people say or do stupid things. It means we’re human. We are not perfect. For me, it means the next time I go to confession… uh, sorry, I mean reconciliation… I’ll confess that I got hacked off at the neighbor. And then I’ll forget it.

Oh, I’ll get mad again. And again. Just less and less often, I hope. Because I can’t expect perfection. No halo is going to fit me as long as I’m alive in this world. It’s part of being human. So I’ll continue to be a good neighbor, because I’m not going to be the guy who poisons the neighborhood. But, unless there’s an HOA rule against it, I’ll probably let the cat out now and again. Unsupervised. Just not at night.

Was I wrong about the cat? About my reluctant repentance? What do you think?