Our Neighbor Destroyed My Son’s Puppy’s House – Karma Was Faster than Me

We had no idea that my son’s decision to save a shivering dog would lead to a silent conflict with our neighbor who may be considered the most picky.

But there are occasions when the cosmos intervenes sooner than we anticipate, and it does so with better timing than we could ever hope to achieve.

I am not the type of person who places a lot of importance on the concept of quick karma. On the whole, I’m the kind of lady who prefers to wait it out and let life figure it out.

However, the events that took place in the fall of this past year completely rocked that idea to its very foundation.

It is something that I continue to contemplate whenever I gaze into the eyes of my son or whenever I observe our dog curled up in his small blue cottage beneath the maple tree.

On the other hand, if you had told me back then that a grumpy neighbor, a muddy dog, and a 10-year-old boy with a notebook could turn our entire world upside down, I would have laughed. A modest one-story rental on the outskirts of town is where we make our home.

However, it is not particularly noteworthy. The water heater lets out a gurgling sound at three in the morning, giving the impression that it is haunted, and the floors create a creaking sound, as if someone is always tiptoeing the halls. Jerry, our landlord, is a strict enforcer of laws, and he has a large red notice right on the lease that reads, “No Pets Allowed — Strictly Enforced.”

It would be reasonable to assume that he was managing a government facility rather than renting out a house that had a sagging porch and shutters that were chipped.

Dan, my spouse, and I both have full-time jobs of our own. While he is in charge of a hardware store, I am someone who works in accounting for a small medical clinic.

When Mason returns home from school during the week, he arrives approximately twenty minutes before either of us. Because of this, we entrust him with a spare key and keep in touch with him via video conference until one of us pulls into the driveway.

The fact that he does not try to steal junk food or play with power tools demonstrates that he is a decent kid. While we are waiting for us to be home, he simply cuddles up with his sketchpad or watches cartoons.

As soon as I went through the door on a Thursday afternoon in the beginning of October, I had an immediate feeling that something was not quite right. The rucksack that Mason was carrying was strewn about in the middle of the corridor, as if he had dropped it while running. Then I became aware of his presence.

The voice of the man, who was anxious but excited, could be heard coming from the back porch. “Mom! You have to see this!” After hearing the sound, I arrived at the screen door and froze there. Mason was standing there with his cheeks flushed pink and his hoodie tucked into his arms as if he were holding something in his arms that was holy.

I was aware that difficulties were on the horizon.

While he was ripping down the fabric, he remarked, “I found him behind the school dumpsters.” “He was crying, Mom. Shaking all over.”

I’d never seen a puppy so miserable, so little, and so trembling as the one that was inside. It had small ribs that looked like little ridges under its skin, floppy ears that were curled low, and brown fur that was covered with mud. His eyes glanced up at me with a wide and uncertain expression, and then his tail began to faintly wag.

“Oh, honey,” I say with a sigh. “You know we can’t keep him.”

In a hurry, Mason responded, “I know,” and then he sniffled. “But he’s just a baby. He’s cold, Mom. He was all alone.”

Dan had just exited his vehicle and entered the building behind me. Mason gave me that look, which is the one that says, “Well, we’re already doomed, aren’t we?” He gave me that look after taking a look at the puppy and then at Mason’s eyes, which were pleading with him.

From a crouching position next to Mason, I extended my hand to pet the puppy. At first, he jerked his head back, and then he leaned into my hand.

I repeated, “We can’t keep him,” but this time I was more compassionate. “But we can help him. He can stay outside for now. Just for a few days until we find his family.”

As if it were a Christmas tree, Mason was lit up! It would appear as though he had just won the lottery!

After giving the puppy a wash and feeding him chicken from dinner that evening, my son wrapped the puppy in an old towel and then fed him by hand. Before it was time for Mason to go to bed, the young boy had already fallen asleep curled up in Mason’s lap, his little chest rising and falling like a fragile drumbeat. He had given him the name Buddy.

When I was thinking about this, I recall thinking, “This is going to be harder than I thought.”

When Mason woke up the following morning, he had a mission.

Mason drew the curtains and showed me his layout, which was written on notebook paper. It was a full-fledged “luxury puppy home” that included windows, a chimney, and something that was called “emergency cookie storage.” It was he who told us, “He is deserving of living on a cloud.”

When Dan saw it, he immediately began to laugh out loud. “Kid’s got vision.”

Consequently, we constructed it jointly over the course of that weekend. Our materials included bits from the shed, leftover wood from Dan’s shop, and an old baby blanket that belonged to Mason. In accordance with Mason’s directions, we painted it a sky blue color with white trim. Despite the fact that it took the entire day, I am certain that Buddy smiled as he entered that house and laid down with a long sigh inside.

Is that Mason? It wasn’t until Monday that he even stopped smiling!

It was then that Mrs. Henderson encountered the issue.

The type of neighbor that complains about the sound of grass growing is one that you are familiar with if you have ever had one.

Next door, she lived by herself in a house that was almost too immaculate for her own good. It was simply for the sake of bringing in the garbage cans that she wore pearl earrings, and her yard was immaculate, and her rose bushes were fashioned correctly.

A persistent grimace appeared on her face, as if she had inhaled something sour twenty years ago and never recovered from the experience.

Mrs. Henderson would check her mail while wearing pearls, and she would spend her time tending to her rose plants as if they were her children on a regular basis.

The moment she laid eyes on Buddy for the first time, she grimaced so intensely that I feared her face may break. It appeared as though she was staring at a wild raccoon as she stood still at her fence.

She yelled out, “Excuse me,” with a clipped and angry tone in her voice. “Is that… thing yours?”

Mason felt an overwhelming sense of pride. “He’s my friend! His name’s Buddy!”

The lips of Mrs. Henderson became thinner. “Well, your friend kept me awake last night. Those squeals and yips — absolutely intolerable! Some of us like the quiet.”

Trying to maintain my politeness, I made my way over. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Henderson. He’s only temporary. We built him a house so he wouldn’t be cold.”

She glanced at the small blue building as if it had caused her considerable distress on a personal level. “How lovely. Maybe next you’ll build him a drum set so he can practice all night. Or perhaps a recording studio to practice his barking.”

After that, she turned around and disappeared behind the roses she was holding.

With a mumble, Dan said, “If karma is real, those roses are destined to die.”

On the other hand, karma did not seek out the roses.

The cost of something that was considerably closer to Mason’s heart was incurred.

Mason was nowhere to be found on the porch when I arrived home from work early a few days later. I was surprised to find him there. Once more, his backpack was thrown by the steps, and I heard him sniffling close to the hedge.

“Mom,” he said, pointing to his mother. “Buddy’s house…”

Oh, it was obliterated! The roof was smashed in, and his blanket was drenched in muck. Splintered wood was spread all over the place.

With Mason’s insistence, the “emergency cookie storage” was taken out and buried under a pile of broken boards. Mason had insisted on having it. But this is the worst part?

Buddy had taken off!

I became numb. “What happened?”

Mason wailed, “I don’t know,” the answer. “I came home, and it was like this.”

While we were racing up and down the yard, we even searched the fence line of the neighbor’s property. We called his name over and over again. I had been going through this for forty torturous minutes when I heard a faint whine coming from beneath the hedge. I was about to fall apart.

The tail of Buddy was tucked in tightly, and he was curled up and shivering. His eyes were wide with fright. He was terrified, or even more so, by someone. I picked him up and wrapped him in a towel once I had done so. While I was standing, I became aware of something that caused my stomach to turn.

Near Mrs. Henderson’s side of the fence, there were several pieces of painted wood that were sky blue with white trim. These pieces of wood were laying around. In that location, the dirt appeared to have been recently disturbed, as if panels had been dragged over it.

Dan had arrived quite a few minutes before to our discovery of Buddy, and he had been assisting us in our search. He also came over and viewed it for himself.

He had his jaw clinched. “She did this.”

Despite the fact that Mason was still crying gently, I wanted to force my way over there right then. His voice was shaking as he expressed his question to his mother, “Mom. Why would someone hurt Buddy?”

His head was kissed by me. “Some people don’t understand kindness. But that doesn’t mean we stop being kind.”

I made the decision to direct my efforts elsewhere after realizing that I had little influence over our neighbor.

That night, we proceeded to rebuild Buddy’s house. We used stronger nails and paint that was resistant to the elements this time. Moreover, Mason included a sign written in bold marker:

“THIS HOUSE BELONGS TO BUDDY. HE’S A GOOD BOY. DON’T BE MEAN.”

I penned a letter intended for Mrs. Henderson. With the explanation that Buddy will be re-homed in the near future, it was handled in a calm and respectful manner, and we deeply appreciated her patience. I secretly placed it in her mailbox and prayed that it would be delivered.

In no way did she respond.

Karma, however, came on her door two days later and struck with more force than I could ever hope to achieve.

It rained heavily on Friday evening, the kind of rain that caused the gutters to overflow and produced puddles that were so deep that you could be able to lose your boot in them.

Due to the fact that I was unable to leave the office until late due to a malfunctioning copier and a physician who was unable to figure out how to print his insurance documents, Dan managed to have dinner and arrive home before I did.

When I came into the driveway at approximately seven o’clock in the evening, I noticed flashing lights bouncing off of the wet pavement without delay. There was a police cruiser and an ambulance parked in front of Mrs. Henderson’s house, which had the porch light on and the door was wide open. Both vehicles were parked in front of the house.

In the beginning, I was under the impression that she had called the police on us because of Buddy.

At the entrance, Dan was waiting for me with his eyes wide open and his face turned pale.

In his words, “Dear, you won’t believe this,” he began. “Buddy saved her life.”

I blinked my eyes. “What?”

“She slipped and fell,” Dan remarked. “She fell.” “In the garden, while watering her roses after dark. She hit her head on a stone edge and collapsed. Mason heard Buddy barking like crazy, and when he ran outside, he found her lying in the mud. She was barely conscious.”

Since Buddy must have heard the fall, he immediately began barking like a mad dog. The barks were so loud and frantic that Mason had no choice but to go outside and investigate. Upon observing Mrs. Henderson lying in that position, our kid immediately yelled out for Dan.

I had not yet left my place of employment; Dan had just returned home and had just phoned 911, and Mason was holding Buddy back because the dog refused to leave the side of our neighbor. According to the paramedics, if she had been left out in the cold for another hour, she might not have survived!

As I made my way out to the yard, I saw Mason sitting on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, with Buddy snuggled up against him. Although he appeared to be calm, his hair was wet and his cheeks were rosy from the cold.

He added, “She’s okay,” as he watched the ambulance drive away from the scene. “Buddy barked so loud I thought something was wrong. He wouldn’t stop until I went out there.”

I gave him a close embrace. “You did well, baby. You and Buddy both.”

A smile appeared on his face for the very first time since the doghouse had been destroyed.

The return of Mrs. Henderson to her house occurred three days later. While she was walking, she slowed down, and a bandage could be seen peeking out from under her hairline. The small paper bag that she was holding, however, was what drew my attention to her.

During the time that she was in the yard, Mason was throwing a ball for Buddy. She stopped at the fence.

She beckoned out, “Boy,” while clearing her throat. “I owe you and your… dog… an apology.”

The cautious Mason turned around. “You mean Buddy?”

She paused, her gaze becoming more gentle as she said, “Yes, him.” “Turns out he’s a better neighbor than I’ve been.”

He looked up at me, uncertain of what to do. He received a slight nod from me.

Following the opening of the bag, Mrs. Henderson presented a tiny Tupperware container to the recipient. “Cookies,” she uttered once. “For the hero dog. And for the boy who saved me.”

Mason spoke the words, “Thank you,” in a tone that was barely audible above. The air was sniffed enthusiastically by Buddy.

There was a brief pause in her behavior. Her eyes were locked on her roses while she spoke to me. “I’ve been alone for a very long time,” she murmured. “My husband passed five years ago. I guess I forgot what it felt like to have someone care whether you were okay.”

The two of us were silent to one another. Just full, not weird at all.

Over the course of the weekend, she returned.

On this occasion, she delivered a package that was wrapped. Mason received it from her, and she instructed him to open it outside where Buddy’s house was located. His mouth dropped open as he ripped back the brown wrapper.

It was a plaque made of wood that had been hand-varnished and had roses etched all the way around itself. The words are as follows:

“Buddy’s House — Where Kindness Lives.”

I had no control over it. I shed tears!

As well, Mrs. Henderson wiped her tears with a tissue. “You saved me,” she murmured, her voice shaking slightly. “Both of you. I needed to say thank you.”

And she did, not only on that particular day, but also on each and every day that followed. She started sitting on a lawn chair outdoors, conversing with Mason, and throwing treats to Buddy as if he were an old family friend. She did this as if Buddy were a good buddy. Even on occasion, she would laugh, and not just in a nice manner; she would laugh seriously.

Nevertheless, the most unexpected event occurred the following week.

It was during my lunch break on a day when I had requested to work from home in case our neighbor required assistance that I received a call from my phone. That person was our landlord.

I went outside, my heart already beating quite fast. It was my firm belief that he had discovered Buddy, and that we were on the verge of being evicted.

He stated, “Mrs. Henderson called me,” throughout the conversation. “Told me about your dog.”

My body braced itself.

“She said that he saved her life,” he continued. “Said you and your family have been good neighbors. She even offered to pay your next month’s rent as a thank-you.”

I blinked my eyes. “She what?”

According to him, “She was very persuasive,” he laughed. “And look, rules are rules, but exceptions exist for heroes. You can keep the dog inside full-time. Consider it a Christmas gift. Merry Christmas.”

I hurriedly went outside as soon as I finished my call in order to tell my kid the wonderful news!

Mason was once again playing in the yard, and Buddy was rushing after a ball that made a squeaky sound. I had just about sufficient time to get the words out before Mason let out a screech that was so loud that Buddy began barking and twirling about as if he understood every word!

Mason yelled out, “Inside?” “Buddy can sleep in my room?”

When I said, “All yours, baby,” I meant it. “You two earned it.”

On that particular evening, we relocated Buddy’s bed into Mason’s room. His head was propped up on a pillow as he dozed off beneath a heap of stuffed animals, and his tail twitched in his fantasies.

It’s been the past few months.

The blue house that Buddy built is still standing in the backyard, and it is more sturdy than it has ever been. Mason has now strung it with fairy lights that he purchased from the dollar shop. There is a little flowerpot next to the plaque that is filled with red petunias, which was a gift from Mrs. Henderson. The plaque shines brightly in the sunlight.

She continues to attend. On sometimes, simply for a conversation. There are other instances in which she will bring Buddy a snack or sit down with a crossword puzzle while Buddy is sprawled out across her feet. The frequency with which she laughs has increased, and whenever I hear it, I am brought back to that terrible day—the day when she attempted to destroy something that had been constructed with love.

However, karma did not act to penalize her in any way.

She was able to learn from it.

Wrapped in fur, with ears that flopped over, a tail that never stopped wagging, and a heart that made it possible for her to be forgiven, even when she did not deserve it.

Last night, while Mason and Buddy were huddled up together watching cartoons, Mason murmured something to Buddy.