About a two months ago I planted a bush on the side of my house near the property line. This space was once a flowerbed, and is only about ten steps away from the street. I had grown tired of caring for the sickly plants that were there, and I figured if nothing else a bush would give me some illusion of privacy when I sat out in my yard on nice evenings.
Why am I writing about shrubbery? Am I going to turn this into a gardening blog? Well, no. Is this really just a complicated Monty Python Joke? Not really. Am I going to use a lot of puns involving pubic hair? Absolutely, but that is not the primary reason for the story. The primary reason for typing this is because my neighbors are fucking with me.
See, five weeks ago while watering my plants I noticed that several branches on the new bush appeared to be dying. Upon closer examination, I found that the branches had been cleanly cut, and only appeared upright because they were just tangled in the other branches.
At first I was just wondering if I had pruned poorly, or if my wife had accidentally pruned healthy bits off the bush. But then a week later, two more branches were cut and left next to the bush. This time one of them was cut, and the other was broken in a way that stripped the bark back all the way to the root. I knew at this point someone was fucking with me.
I began to get a little paranoid, and started to check on the plant three or four times a day. I was watering obsessively as an excuse to go and look at it in hopes of catching a neighbor walking around with a pruning shears. I had nightmares where I walked outside to find all of my neighbors turning into roses and peonies and then having sex with orchids.
…Wait, strike that last sentence. That dream was just because I fell asleep watching The Wall..
Anyway, the last straw was three weeks ago. I came home from work and found that there was only one branch upright in the bush. Just one branch. The message in this had gone beyond “fuck with me” and right into “Fuck you, we hate you” territory. My bush had been trimmed into the hedge equivalent of a landing strip and they didn’t even have the decency to shave the taint. At that point I was certain that someone in my neighborhood was rubbing one out at the thought of making me upset.
Needless to say it was working.
When I got into the house I immediately started digging through old totes looking for webcams. I pulled together enough parts to build a computer to set up in my garage. Then I stayed up all night setting up the computer and mounting these old webcams on the side of my house with stupidly-long USB extension cables.
I dubbed my creation the bush-cam, and now I was able to check on my bush at all hours of the day just by looking at a website.
It was at this point that the damage to the bush stopped. This makes it worse for me… I had actually put a lot of emotional attachment to getting proof that someone was fucking with me, even though I didn’t have any idea what I was going to do with that proof once I had it.
Confronting someone seemed like a bad idea, there would be no possible positive outcome. Suing someone seemed like it was too expensive. Matching them at their own game just seemed like something that would escalate or get me arrested. Chances are I would probably just post it on the internet and whine about how unfair life was. (By the way, have I mentioned that life is unfair? Yes? Oh, good).
So I figure that the lack of activity means that either my nocturnal activities must have been witnessed or whoever was fucking with me had been satisfied with the final ‘fuck you’. In either case, this evening I shut down the bush cam with nothing to show for it except grainy pictures of rabbits fucking.
To think, just a few years ago grainy pictures of rabbits fucking would have been enough.