Black Bears and Bad Dogs

“Will it bite?”

The folks had stopped their International Scout along the road out of curiosity. They’d spotted the bear in a field, where it had just been released by wildlife manager Mary McConnell. The bear had been drugged in order to transport her to this habitat and she was still a bit groggy.

“Will it bite?” asked one of the International Scout folks.

“If you corner her,” McConnell replied. She paused, and added, “A mouse will bite if you corner it. Of course, the bear has a bigger bite.”

This little scene is from John McPhee’s “A Textbook Place for Bears” and it makes me want to hug Mary McConnell. “Will it bite?” is the most frequent question I hear when I’m accompanying an animal of any kind. It’s exasperating. Could there be a more foolish question? I will bite you if I think it’s the only way to get you to leave me alone!

Any animal (humans included) with teeth may bite. Even animals without teeth (like geese) may clamp down on you hard enough to hurt. Does that make the animal “bad”?

Yes, if we’re to believe Kevin Renfro, a local personal-injury lawyer.

I’ve nothing against personal-injury lawyers—we all have to make a living. However, I do have a problem when said p-i lawyer goes on television while holding his two adorable dachshunds (they’re GOOD, he says) and tries to reel in new customers: “If you’ve been bitten by a BAD dog, you may need help getting your fair compensation from the insurance company…”

A bite is not a character flaw, Mr. Renfro. A bite is a SIGN—an indication of a health problem, a misinterpretation of circumstances, a territorial act of protection. A bite doesn’t make an animal bad. I would hope that you (and those lawyers who specialize in dog-bite litigation) have some basic knowledge of canine behavior so you’re not perpetuating myths and disseminating misinformation on television and in courts.

Every bite tells a story, Mr. Renfro, and without “hearing” (i.e., understanding) the dog’s point of view, you’re missing the most important element of the tale. If you don’t feel the need to delve deeper into canine behavior for your work, I urge you to do it for those cutie-pie dachshunds of yours. “Good” dogs shouldn’t have to settle for “bad” guardians.

[Photo of bear by Lil Polley; photo of Mr. Renfro from his TV ad.]

Sturm und Drang

The holidays seem like ancient history this morning. Our household is focused on the future—three days from now, to be exact.

December 30 is our next court date. The lawyers were hoping to have our case settled before this. But rather than negotiating lawyer-to-lawyer, they handed over the responsibility to their clients, namely me and Mr. Slimy.

After several unsuccessful phone conversations with Mr. Slimy, I told him I thought it best for us to negotiate in writing. I requested that he write up what it was he wanted from us and have all of his partners sign and date it. I didn't want him coming back again to say that his partners wanted something other than what we'd just agreed to. He said that was "impossible" for his partners were all over the country. [Hmmm. How do multinational companies do it, do you suppose?] Besides, he continued, he had full authority to make decisions for the corporation. I could look it up with the State of Illinois. [Right. So why has every previous conversation ended with "I'll have to run this by my partners"?] But after making a few more contradictory or implausible remarks, he agreed.

The very next evening, an envelope was slipped under our door. In it was a poorly written letter stating that we had all agreed that my husband and I would pay August rent plus $1,400 in lawyer's fees.

WTF?

My husband and I had reluctantly said on December 8 we would pay the $1,400 just to end the madness. Ever since that day, we have repeatedly said we refused to pay BOTH the rent and the fees. And now it felt like we'd just stepped back in time, no closer to a resolution than we'd been nearly three weeks before.

I countered Mr. Slimy's proposal with one of my own, one that didn't involve any upfront payout. I offered to leave our lease 8 months early. He stood to profit $4,550–$6,400, depending on how much he increased the rent and whether he rented our parking space separately. This was more than enough to cover his legal fees. I was going to put my proposal in the infamous rent box, the very spot where our August rent check had "disappeared" and called his answering service to let him know that.

The woman asked me if I wanted to talk to Mr. Slimy. I said no, I just wanted her to give him my message. She told me to "Hold on," and then suddenly Mr. Slimy, who could never be found at that number before, was on the phone. He asked me to tell him my answer to his proposal. I said the whole point of negotiating in writing was to avoid these phone conversations during which we seemed unable to communicate clearly. I said I could e-mail it to him to expedite the process. He eagerly gave me his e-mail address, which just happened to include the number of his street address—another place I was unable to reach him back in August when I was so desperate to resolve the problem.

Eleven minutes after e-mailing my letter, Mr. Slimy wrote back. He wanted to make sure we were on the same page. His summary of the new agreement was that…
1. We would leave 8 months early.
2. We would pay the $1,400 he wanted.
3. We would pay all our future rent.
4. We would not pay the August rent.

Same page? We weren't even in the same book.

I wrote notes about the many conversations that had taken place and sent them along with the proposals to my lawyer. I asked him to please talk to Mr. Slimy's lawyer and explain what a deal we were offering.

Of course, the holidays fell at an inopportune time for our case and we've not heard from our lawyer.

So I'm going to write a detailed explanation today for the judge about why this eviction case is even in his courtroom, enlightening him as to the facts and history that the lawyers have so far omitted. Lull postings may be a little light until Wednesday.

My wish for the New Year? A roof over our heads that we can afford. No, more than that: to not be taken advantage of by unscrupulous people. Or better: to defeat the unscrupulous people who try to take advantage of my husband and/or me. (The last few years have produced a long list of these individuals.) Or: to learn how to recognize unscrupulous people before they have a chance to undermine us; to acquire more skepticism and rely less on trust.

[Art courtesy of Edvard Munch.]

"And Justice for All…"

Here's the Lady Justice that speaks to me right now. A little bedraggled, yes? She's the 2001 work of Rodrigio Duran.

Our "vicious" (as my father refers to him) landlord is now trying to charge us for the items we have stored in the basement—that we've always had in the basement as have other tenants stored their property in the basement. He wants to set up a "fee schedule" today or he's clearing everything out.

For every remark the landlord has made to me on the phone or in writing, he has made a contrary remark as well. He slides around Truth like it's an Olympic event and he's headed for the Gold, baby.

Santa? Do you see what's happening here? I'm pretty sure I know what list Mr. Slimy is on, but I'm wondering if he's been on it since childhood or if this slippery behavior is something new. Did something dreadful happen to him for which I should show him my compassion?

How often does Goodness win over Smarminess? What are my odds right now?

Judging a Book by Its Cover

We just returned from court where the most significant thing that happened took place in the hallway.

The landlord's lawyer accused us of scamming the pro bono agency because, well, just look at the way we look. It's obvious we're wealthy.

I gave him "the eye."

But our lawyer leaned down (he's basketball-eligible tall) to his opponent and said, "You're mistakenly equating wealth with class. These people have class." (I loved him for that!)

Later, as we said our goodbyes to our lawyer, my husband said, "Well, we have to catch our limo now."

Right-ee-o!

Who's Laughing Now?

esterday morning, on my way to an appointment, I stood at a slushy intersection waiting for the light to change. After the light turned yellow, a driver whizzed through, spraying water toward me. As I jumped back, I started laughing. Then I realized I was laughing and thought, What a great response to a_ _holes and their a_ _holish behavior! If laughter is the best medicine (as Reader's Digest has long touted), then I may soon be the healthiest person I know!

The night before, I'd had the same reaction to a voicemail message left by my landlord. He was trying to "reach out to me" by offering to:
1. Let us stay through the end of our lease as long as we paid our rent on time [as if we haven't paid on time!] and
2. Stop the lawsuit if we paid his court costs.

This "reaching out" has been unfolding since the week before Thanksgiving and I thought the lawyers would handle it. But my lawyer, as usual, hasn't communicated much with me. Long story short (I know, dear Lull readers, I've been promising you details of the case for months now but frankly, I can't bear to write more about it), late yesterday afternoon, after many e-mails, phone conversations, and heated discussions, I caved.

We're paying the court costs because:
1. I'm the only one crazy enough to make this a matter of principle.
2. Our lawyer doesn't appear to be our advocate, nor does he seem interested in fighting the case, meaning the likelihood of him winning is a stretch.
3. We can no long coexist with the intense stress this has put on us.

When I left home to go to college, my grandmother's parting warning—which I did not understand at the time—was this:

"Be careful, Lill. Some people aren't as nice as you think they are."

Boy Howdy was she ever right! It took a few decades for it to sink in, but I get it now. I get it loud and clear.

Finding Joy in a Jumble of Steel Cylinders

Christmas is coming.

I know this because holiday tunes have aired since before Halloween; the day after Halloween, neighbors were hanging lights and decorating trees; and yesterday the baby I saw in the back seat of a BMW was wearing a Santa hat.

When I trekked to the lawyer’s office the other day, the train dropped me off on State Street—that Great Street, as the song holds—midst shoppers and tourists and panhandlers and workers playing out their day against a backdrop of shimmering, beckoning store windows.

Christmas was in the air. And every bit of positivity I’ve tried to sustain through The Lull vanished. A serious case of woe hit me, just as it has in past Decembers.

Christmas is a time of obligatory giving, which is a great deal of pressure to be under for someone who thrills in giving the perfect gift to each person on her list. Worse, the brilliant ideas I have stretch far beyond my financial means. Never is the chasm between the haves and the have-nots so obvious in a big city as at Christmastime.

But then a sculpture caught my eye.

I detoured to the lobby of the Inland Steel building, where an abstract crisscross of golden steel cylinders hung suspended from the ceiling. It was an enormous three-dimensional asterisk-like star held in place by silver strings of steel anchored to the ceiling and to the pool rising from the floor beneath it. Carefully placed lighting illuminated the sculpture, reflecting light in the water and off the ebony polished marble walls. It was the mastermind of industrial designer and sculptor Richard Lippold.

I continued watching light play off it for some time, and my mood started to lift. Small wonder. Its title? Radiant One.

Once I left and crossed the street to continue my trip to the lawyer’s office, I spotted a Chagall mosaic adorning a public plaza.


Two great works of art in the same city on the same block!

I felt like I was the only one seeing them. They lifted my spirits, blurred my perception of the uglier side of Chicago and Christmas, and moved me forward into the day.

They’re no substitute for giving the perfect gift to a favorite someone, but they were the perfect gift for me in that moment—art as Rescue Remedy.

Will Justice Be Served?

We’re headed back to court this morning.

I’ve no idea what to expect. Never heard from my lawyer, don’t know if he heard from the landlord’s lawyer.

Will today end the dispute? Or will this preposterous case continue?

I think everyone in my household, and probably anyone who’s listened to our plight, is ready for it to end—one way or another.

Uh-oh. The clock struck 7 and I’m on a tight schedule. Gotta run. I’ll come back as soon as I can get online again (couldn’t yesterday).

This old bumper sticker wisdom comes to mind as I think about my evil landlord:

MEAN PEOPLE SUCK

I Hate Waiting

Waiting has always made me antsy. I realize that being jobless—living in a Lull—is nothing but waiting.

However, when I’m waiting for something I KNOW is supposed to happen—a ride somewhere, a letter in the mail—it’s pins-and-needles time for me.

That’s how I’ve felt since we went to eviction court on 26 October. Our lawyer made a motion to dismiss the case on the grounds that we’ve always paid our rent in full and on time, and all our efforts to replace the “lost” August rent check were ignored by the landlord and the people working for him.

The judge ordered that the landlord had 14 days to respond to the motion, which by my calculation expired at 12:01 am Tuesday. I had hoped to hear from our lawyer on Monday but didn’t count on it.

On Tuesday I left him a voicemail.

Now it’s Thursday and my anxiety is visible: foot-shaking, inability to sit still, impaired motor coordination. I’m going to call the lawyer and then his colleagues, if necessary, as soon as I’ve finished this post.

I’ll leave you with this chuckle:

“Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend.
Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.”
—Groucho Marx

[The peapod shown is a handcrafted emery pincushion created by Dottyral.]

Catching Up on Old News

I know, I know. I haven't been writing because I've been knee-deep in cancelled checks, IRS forms, and various ephemera saved over the course of 20+ years in preparation for my court date yesterday. I've also been talking to lawyers, chewing my fingernails, and learning that fighting evil is no job for the faint-of-heart. I'll detail the recent events later.

For now, I'd like to share what gave me a much-needed chuckle in the midst of my ongoing attempts to jump through every hoop my landlord's lawyer throws my way. Duke—a former "savage stray on the edge of death" as his blog

describes him— made a PSA that aired last month in Malaysia for the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (you may have seen it already—I'm a month behind apparently). It's an important message that needs to be communicated in every country. Sorry I couldn't get the video embedded here.

If, on the other hand, you could use a good cry, there's some old footage on YouTube of a canine rescuing another 4-legged from a highway. Compassion certainly wasn't in the drivers' seats of the vehicles that drove by that day. Shameful humans. We can be a contemptible lot, can't we?

Just How Just Is Our Justice System?

id you think I wasn't coming back? That I got past the 100 mark and then slacked off?

Sorry to make you wonder.

It's just that it's countdown time now to our upcoming court date and we've been unable to talk to our lawyer and his assistants. "Unable" only because, I think, they're all so overworked that they don't know whether they've returned calls or not (though the latter is likely frequently the case), they don't know who's doing what on the case, and we're an odd case and maybe have them stumped. I don't know why they're so uncommunicative. But how can anyone get mad at people who are volunteering their time? People who help those less fortunate—who fight slimebags because it's the right thing to do?

On the other hand, my little family has a lot to lose in this one case and it has us feeling over-the-top anxious and sick.

We were in our neighbor's apartment yesterday when her phone rang. She let the antiquated answering machine pick up. (Yeah, just like in the movies—because it's such a sea change to make the switch to voicemail.) The voice said, "This is _______ _________." It was our landlord and nemesis. His very name made my heart race. Funny how our bodies act on their own without any cerebral persuasion. I took a couple of deep breaths and practiced a mindfulness exercise.

I got past the moment and my blood pressure relaxed. However, being in court with the monster and his mouthpiece won't be easy. I'm trying to prepare for it.

But honestly, I feel like my husband and I are two lone wooden pins at the end of a bowling lane and someone is about to lob a heavier-than-regulation bowling ball at us. Where will we fall? Will anyone help us up? Will we ever get to play the game again with people who follow the rules? (That visage at the right is a clear bowling ball. Can you imagine a tournament with nothing but skulls making strikes?)

Who knows? Everything that's happened in my life this year brings to mind this quote of hope:

"It’s hard to tell our bad luck from our good luck sometimes; hard to tell for many years to come."

—Merle Shain

Perhaps, regardless of how Monday ends, my husband and I will look back at this from our future lives and see it as an extraordinary turn of good fortune. We just can't see that far ahead right now.

What Would Lincoln Think?

t last I was granted a conversation with a lawyer today about my eviction case.

Not the lawyer assigned to my case, naturally; that would be too much to hope for. But someone who at least has appeared in court before.

I asked her what our chances are of winning the case should we pass on the lame offer made by the landlord's attorney.

"50-50," she said.

50-50? That's it? Yet another WTF moment in this alternate universe of black robes, obfuscatory language, and incomprehensible formalities.

As my husband notes, Why not just flip a coin? Why go through the court system at all?

Furthermore, why do we bother having any housing laws in Chicago if landlords don't have to adhere to them?

As if our former governor wasn't evidence enough, today's conversation with counsel certainly points out that it pays to be crooked in the Windy City.

The Lowdown on the Lowlife Who Is My Landlord

h, when will justice prevail?

It's 62 degrees in my apartment as I'm writing, a temperature clearly in violation of the Landlord-Tenant Rights Ordinance of this city.

It's occurred to me this morning that perhaps one reason my landlord bought each of his buildings under a different company name is so he can wiggle out from under the lame mandate of the Ordinance, which pertains only to owners of a certain number of units. On the other hand, my landlord doesn't appear to feel bound by either the legal system or social mores, so it probably never crossed his mind. The string of names he uses for purchasing buildings and the other string he uses for managing buildings are more likely employed to circumvent some tax issue.

I got a call on Monday afternoon from one of the paralegals in the pro bono agency that's handling our eviction case. She gave me a list of demands from the landlord's attorney:

1. Pay rent for September and October immediately in the form of a cashier's check.

"What about August?" I asked. The paralegal didn't know. In fact, she said the landlord's attorney had made a mistake on the Order and listed September twice; she assumed he meant September and October, but she'd look into it. Well, Jeepers! All I've been trying to do is pay my rent for the past two months and no one takes my money.

2. All of my cancelled checks from the duration of my tenancy.

I've lived here for 11 years. Even my bank doesn't cough up checks from beyond 7 years. Each check costs $6 to retrieve from the bank. But to be able to request the check, I first have to know the check number, which could be ascertained from my statements—unless, of course, I don't have the statement, in which case I have to pay for that too. This demand alone could cost me about $1,000.

3. All of my check registers from June 1 to the present.

Why is this necessary if I'm presenting the cancelled checks? Not to mention the fact that they already subpoenaed my bank account and had this information in hand before Monday.

4. All of my statements from June 1 through the present.

Actually, now that I'm reviewing my notes, I'm not sure about this one. My notes read "June, July, August, September." I didn't bother detailing this because the paralegal said she'd e-mail the list to me and as soon as I'd reviewed it, I was to call our lawyer.

Of course, I never got an e-mail.

However, yesterday afternoon, I received another call from someone at the pro bono agency who started to tell me what I thought were the same things I'd heard the day before. So I interrupted her to say as much.

She knew nothing about the previous call, told me when asked that the affidavit we'd signed was useless at this point and she didn't know who would have initiated such a move (the lawyer did, I told her!), said a few other things that were in direct opposition to what the other paralegal had said, and then said a few things that raised my blood pressure until she confessed that she didn't know anything about our case really.

But here's the real reason she called: The attorneys had bumped into one another in court yesterday and the landlord's mouthpiece told my mouthpiece that the landlord would "let" us stay until Spring as long as we paid rent.

WTF?

There are so many things wrong with this "offer" I hardly know where to begin.

1. We have never NOT paid our rent.

2. We have not broken the lease.

3. Our lease ends on 30 April 2011.

4. "Letting" us stay until Spring doesn't GIVE us anything. We still lose a year's time on the lease while the landlord gains increased rent from that period.

5. By taking this "deal"—which remains open to us only for a 7-day period—we still get screwed and we still look like we were in the wrong. The landlord walks away with a future income increase and his reputation intact.

(Pause for deep breathing...)

On the other hand, I could take this offer as a sign that finally the landlord's mouthpiece realizes that his smarmy client isn't on the right side of the law. He needs to wrap up this case before we have a chance to present our documentation to a judge and jury. At least, that's the bright side and one I'm sticking to until I get a chance to meet with my mouthpiece. No more paralegals filled with misinformation.

Grrr. I'm off to the bank for cashier's checks.

Feeling Put-Upon by a Pettifogger

{Don't you love the word pettifogger? I came across this quote from preacher Henry Ward Beecher—did he ever utter anything that wasn't quotable?: "The most miserable pettifogging in the world is that of a man in the court of his own conscience."}

Yesterday morning, I wrote again to the person I thought would be my new lawyer in my eviction case (but from whom I've not heard a peep) and told him that my bank account hadn't been subpoenaed by the landlord's frontmen. I knew this because I'd called my bank's legal department to ask about the subpoena process and was told that by Illinois law the bank had to inform me via mail that it had been tapped for my records. I'd received no such notification.

Until last night, when I retrieved our mail. Turns out, even as I was talking to a bank representative, someone else was working on getting my records. Boy, Life is one Big Seesaw, isn't it?

Here's the kicker: The landlord's henchmen want records going back only until May of this year.

That's such a short time; it hardly shows a pattern of payment. Heck, they didn't have to go through all the subpoena rigmarole! I could have handed those records to them.

And here's the other kicker: They left my husband's bank account alone. (Of course, I could be proved wrong about this on Monday. That Seesaw Effect could kick in again.) Granted, the rent checks have always come from me. But my husband's name is on the lease as prominently as mine is.

Why the discrimination? What are they looking for? Can't help feeling like this is personal.