The first time they met Mr. Pants, they happened upon me spraying him in the face with a spray bottle as he laughed maniacally. I imagine they thought that was weird. The second time was in the "garden" when the dude strolled over to the pet cemetary and replaced the ears on the deer that Mr. Pants had, uncharacteristically, left on the ground. See Mr. Pants doesn't leave things undone and you bet your ass he watched that guy mess with his plans for those ears. Mr. Pants looked to Daddy for answers. His face full of confusion. Why in the heck was this dude messing with his patterns? Who the heck did he think he was? So Mr. Pants sauntered over side-eyed with his left arm extended out and placed the ears back to the ground and then picked them back up and replaced them on the deers head. That was HIS job. That was the order of things. Silly silly neighbor.
There are times I feel bad for the neighbors.
The other day as Mr. Pants emotionally played his harmonica next to the open living room window, it occured to me. They can probably hear that in their cottage. But see, if I stop his flow of musical genius (at least it is to me), they will also be able to hear the avalanche of crazy that would inevitably follow such a slight. I mean, I KNOW they've heard the thunder come down and like me, I'm a positive they do not like it. It will vibrate an ear drum. Mr. Pants has game when it comes to losing it. And it's too damn hot to close the windows anyway. So I'm doing them a favor by allowing him to play. Plus I totally didn't mind it when they blared Freeway of Love the other day. Not one bit. I even sang along. So as he played his mouth harp with majesty, stopping only to wail some incoherant lyrics to his original tune, I listened. His pride in his song filling him up. His need to be loud, satisfied. The vibrations on his lips, calming. Then he hopped down off the chair he'd been perched on and sauntered over to the microwave to give it some open and close action. I watched as he opened and closed the microwave door about 100 times. No need to stop him because eh, it's old and it just doesn't matter. Plus it's the toaster oven that needs protecting. I figure that since the toaster oven is off limits, the microwave can handle it. Once all of this is done, he is ready for a nap. He lets me know by getting his cotton pillow case and heading toward his bed. No tears, no resistance. He climbs up into bed and I kiss him on the head, brush his bangs to the side and say "Goodnight Mr. Pants. I love you". He responds with "ogda ogda" and we are golden.