The doghouse. [ 2004-03-31, 7:38 a.m. ]

Yesterday evening S. and I were out planting our herb garden and ended up in a long, over-the-fence beer and chat session with our neighbors. One of them grew up in the house they still live in and was able to give us a lot of information on the history of the neighborhood and the family (let's call them "the R.'s) who originally built our house in the 1940's.

~~~

A disturbing story came out of the conversation concerning our little guesthouse (it's about 50 feet behind the house down a concrete walkway). I always figured it was originally a workshop of some kind for Mr. R.. What our neighbor told us is that it was called the "doghouse" by by Mr. and Mrs. R. because it was the living space for Mr. R.'s retarded younger brother. He could come into the house for meals or to watch tv or use the bathroom, but he mostly stayed out there, alone. There are two small windows in the house and a cement floor and a shelf and that's about it. Not exactly posh living accomodations. And the fact that Mr. and Mrs. R. laughingly referred to it as the "doghouse" makes me hate them more than a little bit. (Of course they're long dead, but still.)

~~~

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