New neighbors

The other night I was locking the garage door when I heard the new neighbors call my name.

They said, "Hey, Laurie! Do you drink a lot of wine?"

I stopped, feeling vaguely guilty. Have they been going through my recycling? Seen me stumbling? Why do they ask?

The little dark-grey house next door has gone through many hands in the 13 years we've lived here. It's a small, sweet house, just one story, with lovely built-ins and two tiny bedrooms. Couples fall instantly in love with it and usually last two or three years before moving on to something bigger.

When we moved here, two veterinary students lived next door. They had eerily quiet dogs who spent most of their time in kennels on the enclosed front porch. Boscoe was a puppy back then, and he used to run up to the fence whenever those dogs were in the yard, and wag his tail. Once we put him in the yard with them to see if they'd play, and the eerily quiet dogs attacked.

Doug had to rush next door and literally toss Boscoe back over the fence to save him.

The next owners were vets, too. They were great; they used to watch Boscoe and Toby whenever we went out of town.

They sold to a young yuppie couple who used to have wild screaming matches; once, when we were eating breakfast on the back porch, we heard a loud slap, and then a roar of anger. Don't ever hit me again, you fucking bitch! the husband yelled, and Doug slowly raised the newspaper until he was completely hidden behind it.

We were glad when they left. Not only did they have wild fights, but they had a dog that used to bark at us nonstop whenever we were outside. It would see us through the window, and bark and bark and bark.

After them came a young couple with a toddler; they were very nice and extremely mellow. They had an odd, likeable cat named Yoko who used to follow them down the street like a dog when they took their daughter for a walk.

And now there is a new couple, another young married couple with a cat, and here they are, asking me if I drink a lot of wine.

I walked over to the fence cautiously. Why do you ask?

They laughed.

We need you to settle a bet. We're trying this new beer, and we disagree on whether it's more like wine, or more like beer.

The husband disappeared into the house and came out with a jug of dark beer. He poured me a couple of fingers, and I tasted it.

It is like wine, I said, and his wife clapped her hands in victory.

The husband took another sip. It's beer, he said. But it's definitely fruity, with a hint of cinnamon and apple.

Or something. I can't remember what he said; I just remember being quite impressed that he could taste all those separate things in the beer, and as soon as he identified them I realized that I could taste them, too.

You must know a lot about beer, I said.

And that's when they told me that they brew it themselves. Not that jug--that they had bought just out of curiosity. But they have brewed beer in their basements for years, and they plan to start up again soon.

Once we get all set up, we'll invite you over, he said. We'll give you a bottle.

Ah. After all this time, and all these people. Finally. The perfect neighbors.