This was over ten years ago, when I lived in an apartment complex. It was one of those big complexes that had 300+ units, and everyone pretty much kept to themselves. I never knew any of my neighbors beyond waving while getting the mail or running into the same people at the pool.

We didn’t have that many dogs in the complex because the apartment management company made it too expensive to have them. It was max two pets (cats/dogs), and you had to pay a deposit for each, which was a few dollars short of the monthly rent. On top of that, they charged a monthly rent fee and an application fee that you never saw again. It was highway robbery, but beyond that, it was a nice place to live compared to others in the area.

There was a lady, a bit older than me, who had a beautiful greyhound that seemed to have split personality issues. Some weeks, the dog acted like the grass was going to kill him, would jump at the sound of a bird, as if there was a T. rex in the tree that was about to eat him, and other weeks, he was super friendly and would run over to whomever he saw on the walk to get pets.

One day, I’m trying to get a package out of the mailbox that’s too big to fit, so I’m standing there, struggling for a few minutes, when the lady and an overly friendly version of the dog are also getting their mail. Being the shy person that I am, I have never said anything to the lady and would always direct myself to the dog. I made a comment, something like, “Ooh, feeling friendly today? Not scared of everything today? Why are you not like this all the time?”

The lady laughs and asks if I can keep a secret. Of course, I said yes, and she said, “This is Doug the 8th.” She fosters greyhounds when they are done racing, but the apartment complex wanted a new application fee for each “new” animal, so she purposefully fosters greyhounds that look just like the first one, so that no one was the wiser. It would typically take a few weeks for the dog to get used to being on grass, seeing cars zip by, and being on carpet, TV, etc., before it settled down and was ready for adoption.

I loved hearing how she found a loophole in the pointless application fee, and how I thought her dog had a split personality and never noticed it was a different dog. She thought this was funny, and so happy that her plan was working out. She and I would chat when I saw her out walking “Doug”. When I moved out a year or so later, she was up to Doug the 13th.

When Florida banned dog racing in 2020, I smiled when I thought of her and wondered what number she was up to.

I live in a block of flats in South London where most of the neighbours know each other. I’ve been explaining this to my friend who has just moved in as a flatmate. 

There’s a knock on the door about 9 PM.

Flatmate: “Who’s knocking at this hour?!”

Me: “Oh! That’s Mariusz. He’s the Polish bloke from 302. He’ll be here to pick up Strudel.”

Strudel is my Corgi.

Flatmate: “Why is he here for Strudel?”

Me: “Mariusz likes evening walks, and he likes dogs, so he likes taking Strudel for a walk around the estate. Open the door and introduce yourself.”

My flatmate opens the door and is presented with an absolute hulk of a man. I should have warned him that Mariusz is 6’3″, broad, and looks like he was carved out of cliff rocks by the Baltic Sea.

Mariusz: “Ah, you are new friend I was informed of. Nice to meet you.”

Mariusz then calls into the flat, as Strudel runs to greet him out of habit and routine.

Mariusz: “[My Name], I take dog for large s*** now.”

Both dog and giant disappear down the corridor, with my flatmate staring at me, looking for an explanation.

Me: “…Oh yes, and he also has a way with words…”

A few years ago, we woke on a snowy March morning. I gazed out into the back garden and noticed there was no snow on the tops of the garden walls. I looked closer and realised THERE WERE NO TOPS ON MY GARDEN WALLS! Someone had snuck in during the night and stolen the York stone slabs that formed the tops of my garden walls.

Enraged, and still in my dressing gown and slippers, I went into the snowy garden and out into the alleyway that runs behind our house. Footprints in the snow, little snow dumps for the topping stones, and little droplets of blood from where the dip-s*** had cut himself lifting the rather cumbersome slabs.

First things first, I thought, phone the police and get it reported. The local station is around the corner from my house, and I was told that one of the boys in blue would be with me shortly. I figured I would walk to the end of the alleyway to meet them. In doing so, I inadvertently stumbled upon a trail of blood drips in the snow, leading from my garden, working their way down the alleyway, over the road, and up to the front door of a neighbouring house.

Sure enough, the local bobby appears, also with a mug of tea in hand, and we start discussing the trail of blood. Then a tatty transit van pulls up, slaps on the hazards, and parks up in the middle of the road. The driver gets out, turns to the copper, and says:

Driver: “Is it alright if I park up here? I’m just helping a mate move some stone.”

The policeman and I share a look and a “oh really?” and start to make our way up the blood-dripped path to the front door of his mate and my neighbour’s house. Now, it is worth mentioning that the house belongs to a good friend of mine who rents it out.

The tenant opens the door as we are walking up the path, and lo and behold, stacked up in neat rows behind him are massive piles of York slabs (far more than were taken from my wall), but amongst them were ones I knew were mine from the odd size and shape.

Policeman: “Is that your stone, sir?”

Neighbour: “Yes, mate, I have just pulled it up out of my cellar; I’m off to sell it.”

Policeman: “All of it?”

Neighbour: “Yup”

Policeman: “What about those bits. They are oddly shaped and look suspiciously like the ones taken from your neighbour’s wall last night.”

Neighbour: “Yup, definitely all mine.”

At this point, I decide to give my friend, the owner of the property, a call on speaker phone.

Me: “[Friend], it’s [My Name]. I’m standing outside your house with the police at the moment; some of my Yorkshire slabs went AWOL in the night. Have you given your tenant permission to rip up your cellar floor and sell the stone?”

Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t. So, over the next few hours, the dip-s*** stone thief was made to put back all of the stone he had pilfered from his landlord’s cellar and my wall, before being taken off to the cells whilst his landlord started eviction proceedings. 

All whilst I was in my slippers and dressing gown, drinking coffee.

My neighbor always brags about having a master’s degree and harps on about how I don’t have a degree at all, being a stay-at-home mom.

 One day, she sends me a text:

Neighbor: “I have a question, and I know you’ll know the answer. Do rabbits lay eggs?”

Me: “Why do you ask?”

Neighbor: “Because the Easter bunny has eggs, and someone said they don’t lay eggs, and that doesn’t sound right to me. Do they, or don’t they?”

Naturally, I tell her yes. Yes, they do.

Mum: “I just met the neighbours. They seem nice. They have two boys and a dog.”

Me: “What are their names?”

Mum: “I forgot their names, actually, except the dog!”

Me: “Ha. So typical of you. What’s the dog called?”

Mum: “Hamlet.”

Me: “Is he a Great Dane?”

Mum: “…no? Why?”

Me: “Never mind.”

Dad: *Penny dropping.* “Ha!”

Mum: “What is it? What am I not getting? Is it a dad joke?”

Dad: “More like a dead dad joke.”