I hate that dog.

• • • — — — • • •

As I looked at the frosty view afforded to me by way of being on my town home's roof, I realized a few things.
1.  I had forgotten a knife, which was pretty stupid.
2.  It was cold, and now that I think about it, that was about to become a HUGE problem.
3.  If I didn't watch it, I was going to fall on this roof.  
4.  Not a creature was stirring. 
I had mixed feelings on that last one.  Unless people were just hanging tight (and people tended to NOT do that), then it didn't look like there were going to be a lot of survivors.  Unless there's some survivor memo that I don't know about, and I doubted that.  Because I wrote the memo on surviving a zombie apocalypse.  

I crossed the roof and got to the other side by one of my neighbors' deck.  As I got there, I also realized that I could jump down, but getting back up would be tricky.  So I slowly made my way back to my deck, a little defeated, I might add.  I then realized that to get to the deck of the neighbor that's right next to me all I had to do was hop up on the railing and go around the barrier.  I took the liberty of looking around the barrier first, lest I hop into a nasty surprise.  Nothing on the deck.  I tried to look into the patio door, but glare stopped me from discerning anything of value.  So I hopped up on the rail and swung around to his rail.  Like any townhouse, there's dividers, but if you're standing on the railing of the deck you can just swing around to the top of the other deck.  I did, and then I hopped down.  I'm sure it was just a thump, but I felt like the noise I made as I landed may as well been as loud as a cannon.  So I just stood there waiting for whatever.  Nothing happened.  I took a few measured steps towards the patio door.  Still nothing.  I got a little closer and cupped my hands next to my head so I could see in.

So here's the thing about my nearest neighbors; I hate them.  I hate them so much.  They're the kind of neighbors that I would wish a zombie apocalypse on.  And I'm talking the bad end of one.  So this guy owns the house.  I'd say he's about 27.  He 60 year old father lives there.  His ghetto cousin and her two kids live there.  The father has got hoochies coming in and out, I can't keep track.  It's just ridiculous.  And if they just did their drugs and left me alone, that would be great, but I can't ignore them when they're constantly yelling and fighting.  People are going in and out at all hours of the night.  The TV is so loud I didn't know they made a volume that loud.  But nothing is as bad as their two yippy dogs.  They have two dust-mop dogs that bark at everything.  And since these people are the biggest losers in the world, they just leave their dogs out to bark at everything.  On the deck, tied to the stoop, whatever.  The neighborhood has filed numerous complaints about them, but that's a slow process.  I vowed to do something about that if I had a chance, but as I looked, I realized I was probably late on that.  There wasn't a ton of blood, but more than should be in a house.  And bloody footprints in a living room is never a great sign.  I saw some ripped and blood matted fur and skin, but nothing that you could really make out as a dog.  Rather than temp fate, I slowly backed up.  Then I saw movement and something coming up the stairs.  They must have heard me after all.  I've seen too many movies to just stand and wait like a chump, so I spun on my heel and two quick strides took me to the rail.  I hopped up, used my right hand to grab the edge of the barrier, and jumped back over to my deck.