As I've remarked multiple times before, we live on the third floor. Up there, in the stratosphere, there are 3 other apartments with us. All 4 doors open onto the breezeway. I'm sure you all know what kind of relationships can result from sharing your space with others. In the best of scenarios, there is polite detachment. You occasionally smile and say hello and always pass by their door hoping the best for them.
On the other hand, there is the possibility for the development of a true arch enemy, good vs. evil battleground between rented doors.
Below is an overhead picture of the breezeway.
On either side of the open area is a set of stairs. The lower goes to the parking lot. The upper to Roscoe's little patch of grass/pissing ground.
Apartment 1 houses a very nice couple. I think they recently got married and they have a cat and they must have decent taste because I once ran into them at Crate & Barrel looking for furniture. Nice people.
Apartment 2 used to have a crazy old Italian guy named Bernard. He'd sit in his apartment all summer without hardly any clothes on and the door wide open. He worked at a golfing store and once helped us move a new entertainment center into our apartment. Kind of crazy, but just some harmless fum.
We live in apartment 3 and have the best door mat in the whole complex. (it's a gnome sitting under a mushroom...adorable and funny).
Apartment 4 houses our enemies. They are bad. Last Christmas we moved our old dying tree out of our apartment and let it sit in the breezeway for an hour and they called the office on us. They are lame and never smile and report every "infraction" they can.
Apartment 4 must go.
And Roscoe must sense my animosity every time I got by their door.
(Now's when I tell of the sweet, sweet justice that happened the other day.)
Roscoe's not that great on the leash yet. He's stubborn and will just sit his rear down on the cement and refuse to move if you want him to. My solution is to drop the leash and go on ahead without him. This is my way of showing him that he is not in control, I am. Eventually, he follows me down the stairs and out to his pee grass.
One time last week he pulled this trick. I let him go and walked down the stairs until he was out of my sight. I waited. and I waited. And then I realized that something wasn't going right. Furious, I tromped back up the flight of stairs and was met with my pooch dropping a steaming hot turd right on my enemies plastic green, fake grass door mat.
Vengeance is sweet.