American Rules of Suburbia

It’s been a bit of a dry spell for meeting dogs. We met a bunch in Alabama when we were there in mid-April, but for some reason we had not been meeting any after our return. Of course, it has gotten warmer and we haven’t been walking as much.  When I say we, I mean us and the dogs; my pregnant belly is growing and the heat is something I have to be careful of. But more important than my personal comfort, dogs get hot faster than people and any decent dog owner knows better than to walk his or her dog on the sidewalks of south Louisiana after a certain point in the morning and a certain point in the year.

We had occasion to walk over to our friend’s house a couple of streets away recently. There’s a shortcut to her house through a green space on either side of which are chain link-fence-enclosed yards which contain dogs. We’ve seen each of them before but on this particular day they were both out and having a contest, along with TyTy, of who could bark the loudest.  I walked on a ways to give them their space. I could’ve taken a picture at this point of my son and these dogs, but I don’t count a barking contest as an actual meeting, although I’m sure that communication of some kind must be taking place.  We do have one fence dog in the journal, but only because that was a friendly dog who did not bark at us. These two were definitely not fitting criteria for inclusion.

We often see dogs behind fences and they are off limits; I don’t want us walking up people’s driveways invading their space. I grew up in a neighborhood just like this one and I know the rules. The only reason to go up a stranger’s driveway is an emergency. It’s an unspoken Rule of Suburbia in America. If you know the person, it’s ok to go up the driveway to visit or drop off something if they're not home, and if you’re a neighbor, it’s ok to go up the drive to bring the paper or their trash cans, or something like that. But unless something is on fire or someone is bleeding, you do not go up the driveways of people you don’t know.

This is a hard rule for TyTy, who loves all dogs without regard to their location or incarceration. He is also oblivious to other details, like what the owners are doing and whether or not they are ready to talk to a dog-obsessed seven year old boy. As we sit in the classroom at home, we can see everyone that goes by on the sidewalk and sometimes I have to physically restrain him from jumping up and running out in front of the house to meet a dog we see going by. This is a nice neighborhood; we plan on staying a few years at least. I do not want to be known as the local crazy family. It all goes back to the American Suburban Rules. In my neighborhood in Beaverton, Oregon, there was a crazy family. As we let our dogs run around under the power lines behind the houses, the mom of this family would ask me loads of questions about everything from Britney Spears’ popularity to what I put in my trash can. This family had recently emigrated from eastern Europe, where the parents had grown up in a Communist dictatorship. They did not understand the American Rules of Suburbia.

There are other rules too, as illustrated by the people we see on our walks. For example, if you are a university student walking to school through a suburban neighborhood with your backpack and your earbuds in, singing out loud is allowed. Softly. This doesn’t make you crazy. Likewise, if you are a middle-aged lady with earbuds and you walk quickly, swinging your arms, you are not crazy. You are exercising. We see such people with regularity and TyTy ignores them, unless they are accompanied by a dog.

We saw an exercise lady this week and she had two adorable Yorkies who followed her with quickly-moving, blurred feet. They reminded me of caterpillars. When TyTy and the dogs saw each other the attraction was instant and reciprocal. They strained on their leads to cross the street while only my stern voice kept TyTy on the sidewalk. I looked hopefully at the lady as I spoke words of warning to TyTy; she smiled and nodded briefly without even slowing down. With dogs like that, I’m sure she’s used to the adoration of strangers. Her dogs followed and TyTy sadly watched them go.

“Why can’t we stop them?”

“That lady is busy. It would be rude to interrupt her exercise.”

Thus began a short lecture on heart health and the pace you create while exercising along with a brief reminder of being considerate of others. He walked on dejectedly and I silently prayed that we would meet other dogs to make up for this disappointment. It does not always happen that we meet more than one dog at a time and TyTy always sees it as a bonus.

We must have been a sorry sight as we strolled along; TyTy moping, head hanging down, me walking with my big belly and my strange, pregnancy-induced gait. Hopefully people were amused, but I know they were more likely to feel pity. It was getting hot and TyTy was unenthusiastic but I was determined not to turn back. We took a new street to circle around back toward home. Passing a house with an iron gate we suddenly heard baying. And there was the source: a Basset Hound! Before I could say anything, another ambled into view and TyTy laughed with delight. Of course he stayed put, not going up the driveway. But then a third came out and it was almost too much even for me.

“Wow! Three dogs!!”

“Those are Basset Hounds, aren’t they cute? Too bad we can’t meet them.” But I had barely finished speaking when a man joined them in the drive. He greeted us and we asked if we could pet his dogs. He motioned us forward. TyTy was immediately on the ground on our side of the gate while the three dogs jockeyed for position nearest him. Soon they were all covered in each other’s slimy drool and TyTy was giggling like a maniac.

Their owner, who looked for all the world like a redneck Albert Einstein, introduced them. Thibodeaux was the “big guy,” the oldest of the three and the one who had originally greeted us. He had been a very playful puppy, apparently, and had worn out his shoulders permanently at a young age. This gave his front a rounded look; his shoulders drooped and his feet curved outward. The other two, Clotille and Roscoe, were each only a year or so old. In fact, they had just acquired Roscoe the week before, along with the neighbor dog. Einstein’s neighbor was in fact his mother-in-law, and she and his wife had been to a breeder on Mother’s Day looking for a Dachshund. In what I’ve come to recognize as a typical story, the dog they wanted was already sold. Instead they were given the dog’s mother, who had not shown enough motherly love to suit the breeder, and Roscoe, a rescue that the breeder had been caring for.

“Ain’t that funny? They went in there expecting to pony up $300 for a puppy, and instead they come home with two free dogs!”

I expressed my fascination with his story and honestly, this was not feigned. I love hearing the stories people tell us about their dogs, it’s been one of the pleasant surprises I’ve had since embarking on this project. Suddenly the side gate opened and out came the mother in law. Her age looked to be about the same as Einstein’s, and I suddenly wondered about the age of his wife. They began a heated conversation about which dog food to buy as the three Bassets swarmed around her while her new little Dachshund barked at the side gate. Clearly, time to go.

“Thank you again so much, it was nice talking to you! Let’s go, TyTy.”

“Y’all too, maybe we’ll see you out walking sometime. Just remember, don’t come up to the gate if we’re not here, OK?”

Crap. See, I had told Einstein about our homeschooling project so we could take a picture and now he felt compelled to explain one of the most basic Rules of Suburban America. That showed that he saw us as the neighborhood crazies, who have to have these things explained. I brooded on the walk back home. We were in front of the house when I noticed, far down the street, the form of a man walking a dog. Another opportunity to a) meet a dog and b) look like crazies. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

We stood in the driveway waiting and as he neared I recognized him as one of the people we often see through the window of the classroom.  The dog was a sweet little Schnauzer named Dixie Belle. Her owner and I bonded at once because we were both neighborhood crazies. I have this homeschooled child with a strange project and he was originally from London and still has a pronounced accent. I knew what his experience must’ve been like; when I lived in Oregon people always had some kind of comment about my mild Southern accent. They assumed I was different and of course, because of pop culture stereotypes, they also assumed that I was not as smart as they. Even friends would be surprised if I knew something they didn't or showed any other indication of intellectualism. But I knew it would have be the opposite for Dixie Belle's owner; for some reason the average American is reduced to a babbling idiot in the face of an English accent of any kind, even something like this guy’s decidedly un-posh, lower middle class accent. I pride myself that all the years of watching Monty Python long ago cured me of this notion that anyone with an English accent is automatically smarter than the average American. 

The three of us had a great conversation about dogs, kids, and floods; his son who lives with his family upriver somewhere has had to evacuate because of the recent flooding. Eventually Dixie Belle grabbed her leash in her mouth and began tugging on it, to TyTy’s delight. The message? “C’mon Pops, it’s time to keep moving.” We had been talking for quite a while there, just standing in the driveway. Like crazies. I guess Dixie Belle knows the Rules of Suburban America better than I do.