As neighbors go, I haven’t always been the most sociable–not in the Mr. Rogers, “I always wanted to have a neighbor just like you” kind of way. I don’t volunteer to organize block parties, update email and phone lists, any of the stuff that keeps people connected. I’m more one of those “If nominated, I will very reluctantly serve” kind of people. I don’t even remember the names of many of the people I’ve met at the annual block parties. (The one thing I do manage to do every year is to bring name tags, primarily so that I’m not embarrassed by not recalling the name of someone I’ve seen, at least once a year, for eight years now.)


But ever since I adopted my rescue Lab/Rotti mix, Macintosh, and started walking the streets twice a day, my outlook on neighbors has begun to change. We live in the charming but highly congested seaside village of Hermosa Beach in Southern California, where McMansions are packed cheek to jowl against small, aging beach cottages.


So as I’ve been walking down the street every day, I’ve gotten a much better feel for the neighbors. I know the retired SWAT officer who trains Rottweilers, and the family that never seems to be home because they’re always at their place up in Big Bear. I met another family when I found their gigantic white rabbit hopping around a garden. I gave it some carrots and water and kept it in our bathroom until I found out whose it was. (I loved my husband’s reaction after I called his cell phone to report that we had a large white rabbit locked in our bathroom. I’d just been diagnosed with hydrocephalus, a leaky brain fluid condition. He later confessed that he suspected I was hallucinating the rabbit, which I called Harvey, but whose actual name was Clover.}


For over a year I watched a double-wide McMansion being built on a corner that guaranteed it an ocean peek. (Around here, an ocean “peek” means you have a nice house. For an ocean “view”, we’re talking multiple millions). Finally the house was finished and landscaped. Last week I saw a Master-of-the-Universe type guy standing on the sidewalk outside the house, savoring his peek du mer. Mac was dragging behind me on his leash (he’s more of a supreme dawdler on walks.) Unfortunately when I wasn’t looking, Mac decided to hydrate the UMaster’s newly planted portofino plants. UMaster gave me a look of supreme disdain and said, “Please don’t allow your dog to do that.” Upon which I turned to Mac and said, “Please don’t water the gentleman’s shrubbery.” And on we went.


But most people are nice. I found out how nice they are, on Halloween. Mac and I are major magnets for off-leash dogs. On Sunday, he and I came upon a couple of guys with dogs, one of them a young Boxer off leash. Mac had a hard time in County lockup and doesn’t react well to off leash approaches, so I did my Dog Whisperer thing and put myself between the dogs to block. Turns out the Boxer had been following the men around for some time. We debated what to do. They found a leash from a lady who had leaned out her window to see what all the commotion was about. I decided the Boxer looked familiar–maybe it had escaped from a house near mine. We got the dog on the leash, and then we all trooped over to my neighbor’s house (I didn’t know the guy’s name, only that he has a Boxer.) We arrived at the guy’s house at the same time as Animal Control (which I’d called in a rash moment before instantly regretting it). So here we all descend on this guy’s house on Halloween–three dogs, two men, me, and the cops in a paddy wagon flashing blue lights. One of my guys pounds on my neighbor’s door.


“I hear a dog barking inside,” he says. Uh oh. Our Boxer must not belong to this house, then.


Then a pleasant but confused looking guy answers the door, along with his Boxer. He takes us all in. Meanwhile, I’m having a conversation with Animal Control. If they take him, the dog will go to “County,” which is tantamount to a death sentence. I’m panicking because I’ll face my own death sentence from DH if I bring one more animal home.


My neighbor–whose name is John, I now know–studies us for another moment, then says, “I could keep him for a while. I was thinking about getting a companion for Rocky, anyway.”


“You could name him Apollo, to go with Rocky the Boxer,” I suggested in a grateful tone.


We all left quickly after that. I got John’s contact number, and promised to put him in touch with my rescue group lady.


I was just blown away by the way this neighbor reacted so humanely after this pack of humans, dogs, and cops converged upon him like a Dogtown SWAT team.


Last night, I checked my email and found out that the wandering Boxer’s owners found him at John’s house and picked him up. Apollo’s real name is “Shake,” by the way.


Oh, and John is one neighbor whose name I won’t forget if I see him at the next block party.