Pull out the soapbox, honey, Sandy’s got a brand new gripe.

Well, two, if the soapbox will stand the strain.

Let it be known right here, right now, that town dogs are not outside dogs. Nor should they be. Especially at 3 a.m. in the cold.

Somewhere within a bark of my bedroom, people have dogs. At least two dogs. For some inexplicable reason, these dogs have taken to the outside at all hours. I know this because I’m awake at all hours, and even if I weren’t, I would be when these dogs start barking.

I’d say they were driving me nuts, but some say that’s just a short putt.

When these dogs, which sound like one big dog and one small dog, first felt the backyard banishment, the big dog would go bark, bark, woof, bark, bark about every 15 seconds. Occasionally the smaller would chime in with a yip, yip, yip.

Surely the homeowner would remember she’d put the dogs out. But maybe she’s deaf. For half an hour or more the dogs barked and woofed and yipped until I was at insane’s door. That’s a spot no one wants to stand.

At insane’s door, you actually contemplate walking down the street and throwing eggs at windows or banging on the door to confront whomever opens it. When sanity takes over, you know that’s not a good thing, no matter how much the barking annoys you. That’s when you offer a prayer of thanksgiving that you don’t live in the house next door.

People, just because you have a fenced-in yard and can put the dogs out, doesn’t mean you should. It’s simple. If you don’t want them inside, find them a new home. But don’t force them to bark until they’re hoarse just asking to be let in.

A few nights back, the big dog barked so much, it had only a pathetic ruf left to give. No worry, though. The pipsqueak dog took over with some mighty convincing yip, yip, yips.

Oh, how I hate to complain about dogs. The dogs aren’t at fault here. They go where they’re put and stay there.

I have another gripe, but this one is more my own misgivings than actual ignorance on the part of others. It does show, however, how words can hurt, even when they’re meant to be caring.

Recently, I had some bad news. Many people offered condolences, which does a lot to help the emotional rage against this news. But in trying to find something to say, a few would say, “well, at least you …”

There’s no at least here. At least means nothing. At least means whatever comes after is just giving up.

So, even if it’s my own misconception of these kindly thoughts, I can’t change the feeling. And I’m sorry if I make you feel bad by complaining.

It’s that damnable soapbox and those barking dogs. If you get in a testy mood, almost anything makes you mad, and if anything makes you mad, you’re no better than those barking dogs.

What a thought.

So long friends, until the next time when we’re together.

Sandy Mickelson, retired lifestyle editor of The Messenger, may be reached at mcsalt@frontiernet.net.