When the Forsters moved in next door, I hoped we’d get along. Their family—husband, wife, and 10-year-old son—was typical. Initially, everything was well. A courteous wave and nod. But everything changed quickly.
Danny, the dad, was bad. He acted like he owned the neighborhood, making us blessed to reside near him. The former owners of his house were nice, and we silently agreed on the shared yard. There was no barrier between our properties—just a wide, natural lawn. That was OK till Danny arrived.
My wife and I tried. We welcomed them, invited them to the community BBQ, and gave them a small present. Every conversation with Danny was like talking to a stone wall. He seldom noticed us, and when he did, it was with a condescending smirk, considering us inferior.
Suzie, my dog, caused the first issue. She dug a little hole near their lawn as a loving old golden retriever. Danny acted like she had broken his foundation, even though it wasn’t evident.
He shouted, “You need to control your dog,” at my doorstep the next morning.
I frowned. I didn’t understand it was a problem. Fill the void today.”
“You better,” he murmured, turning away before I could respond.
I ignored it until it intensified.
Danny’s car was partially on my grass one morning. He had his front tires in my grass—not just an inch or two.
The end.
I went to his door and knocked. He replied without hinting at surprise.
“Hi, Danny. “You’re taking up my space,” I remarked evenly. “This yard is always shared.”
Was that explained to your dog?
Still chatting about Suzie?
“It’s about respect, John,” he snarled before slamming the door in my face.
I’m done. My fence was built to prevent additional silly arguments, not to be nasty. If he kept acting like way, I wouldn’t give him any more space to push me around.
Danny threw a fit when building began. On the first day, he marched crossed-armed.
“You really think you can build a wall like that?”
I said, “I checked the property lines,” without looking up. “It’s my land.”
He scoffed. “This is absurd.”
“Then don’t look at it,” I hammered another post into the earth.
That ended our talk. I concluded my task in tranquility the following days, safeguarding my yard. No longer communal space. No more nonsense.
I thought so.
I awoke to heavy machinery one morning. A bulldozer was in my yard when I peered out my window.
I believed I was dreaming. No, it was knocking down my fence post by post and dumping debris on my grass. And Danny? He stood with his arms crossed, watching like a king over his land.
I raged outside. “What the hell are you doing?”
He grinned. “Your display is offensive. I’m fixing.”
“My property!” I snapped. “Not just—”
Sure, I can. Just a fence, John. Relax.”
I was stunned. I took pictures of his bulldozer, my shattered fence, and Danny standing like he owned the land on my phone.
“You’re going to pay for this,” I said.
Rolling his eyes. “Yeah? I wish you luck.”
Challenge accepted.
I collected every receipt, permit, and legal paperwork confirming the fence was on my land. A small claims court claim followed.
Word spread swiftly. I wasn’t the only one who disliked Danny—my neighbors saw what happened. I was supported by half the neighborhood at my court date.
Danny was defenseless. No permissions, no cause to demolish my fence. The judge ruled in my favor quickly. He was forced to pay damages and cleanup.
Naturally, he refused. The court injunction left him no choice. His smugness vanished when he handed over the money.
After that, no one wanted him in the neighborhood. After making his bed, he had to sleep alone.
One year later, a moving truck entered his driveway. He left at month’s end.
Would you have acted similarly? Leave a remark and like and share!
