I have always believed that nothing brings a neighborhood together quite like a good old-fashioned scandal. And in our cozy, diverse, and mostly serene Southern California community, we now find ourselves embroiled in one of the most scandalous tales since someone suggested avocado toast wasn’t that good.
You see, things were peaceful—almost too peaceful—until the new neighbors moved in. At first glance, they seemed like your typical Southern Californians, blending in with their Tesla (with suspiciously low mileage), golden retriever (named “Patriot,” mind you), and a fondness for Starbucks.
But there was something that set them apart. Right there, smack dab in the middle of their perfectly manicured lawn, sat a Donald Trump campaign sign. Not just one, but two. And to say that it didn’t sit well with the community would be like saying Kanye West is a tad controversial.
Naturally, eyebrows were raised, and murmurs started circulating at the weekly HOA meetings. “Who puts up Trump signs here?” people whispered behind gluten-free muffins. It wasn’t long before the rumors started swirling.
Then, one fateful morning, it happened: Mrs. Hazelton’s pet rat, Sir Nibbles III, went missing. Sir Nibbles wasn’t just a regular rat. He was a beloved member of the family, trained to do tricks and nibble on vegan cheese crackers. His disappearance sent shockwaves through the community. And as if that wasn’t enough, the Joneses’ opossum, an unnaturally large creature named Dexter, vanished the following week.
It didn’t take long for fingers to start pointing—specifically, toward the Trump-sign-toting newcomers.
“They’re eating the pets of the people that live here!” shouted Karen Steinbaum, whose extensive experience in baseless accusations includes getting Whole Foods to remove “unethically sourced quinoa.” She stood in the cul-de-sac, clutching her Chihuahua, Mr. Pickles, protectively, as if he might be the next entree.
At first, no one wanted to believe such an outrageous claim. These were, after all, polite people who waved at neighbors and kept their recycling bins in order. But Karen was adamant.
“I saw them,” she hissed to anyone who would listen. “They were roasting something in their backyard. Something suspicious. Something furry.”
The rumors spread faster than a brush fire in Malibu. By that evening, everyone was convinced that the Trump supporters had been quietly abducting and devouring neighborhood pets like some modern-day Hansel and Gretel gone rogue.
Bob Jenkins, our resident conspiracy theorist, jumped in enthusiastically. “It’s all connected!” he declared. “You know what they say: first, they take your pets, then they take your freedoms. This is just the beginning of the Trumpist apocalypse!”
Even Mildred Watkins, who had long been considered the voice of reason in our community (thanks to her soothing Pilates classes and impressive wine collection), joined the hysteria. “I always knew something was off about them,” she said, sipping a Chardonnay and nodding sagely. “They had that look.”
“What look?” someone asked.
“You know,” Mildred replied. “That pet-eating look.”
The following weekend, a full-scale investigation was launched. The neighborhood watch, usually tasked with ensuring that no one let their garbage cans overflow, turned its attention to our potential culinary deviants. They set up surveillance: Mrs. Thompson volunteered her roof as the lookout spot, where she perched with binoculars and a notebook like a middle-aged Sherlock Holmes. Reports of “strange smells” and “unusual roasting noises” began to flood in.
By the end of the week, tensions had escalated. Neighborhood dogs barked incessantly. Cats darted from one side of the street to the other like they knew their nine lives were on the line. Children clutched their stuffed animals a little tighter at night, fearing they might wake up to find Mr. Snuggles in the neighbors’ stew.
Finally, a concerned citizens’ committee was formed. Karen was appointed chairperson, naturally, because she had experience leading several anti-gluten protests at the local bakery. The committee decided that a polite but firm confrontation was necessary.
So, on a balmy Saturday afternoon, a delegation of concerned (read: terrified) neighbors marched to the Trump household, led by Karen, who carried Mr. Pickles like a shield. Mildred brought a charcuterie board, because, as she reasoned, “Even if they are eating our pets, we should at least be civil about it.”
The door creaked open, and there stood the Trump sign owners—smiling, friendly, and completely unaware of the storm brewing outside their front door.
Karen wasted no time. “We know what you’ve been doing,” she said, her voice trembling with righteous fury. “We know about the rats and the opossums. And we will not stand for it.”
The Trump family looked at each other, confused.
“Excuse me?” the husband asked, genuinely bewildered.
“Don’t play dumb,” Karen snapped. “We know you’ve been abducting and…and eating our pets!”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Finally, the wife spoke up, her face breaking into a fit of giggles.
“Wait, you think we’re… what? Eating rats and opossums?” She started laughing so hard she had to lean against the doorframe for support.
Karen looked scandalized. “This is not funny. Sir Nibbles is missing, and so is Dexter. We’ve seen the strange smells, the roasting—”
The husband interrupted, trying to hold back his own laughter. “That ‘roasting’ smell is from our smoker. We’re barbecuing ribs. Beef ribs. Not… pets.”
More silence.
“Wait, what about the rat? And the opossum?” Karen asked, still clutching Mr. Pickles in a death grip.
“Oh, that?” the wife replied. “We saw a rat and an opossum running around in our backyard last week. We called pest control. I guess they took care of it. Didn’t realize they were pets.”
And just like that, the Great Pet-Eating Scandal of 2024 came to a grinding halt. The neighborhood watch disbanded, Mildred took her charcuterie board home, and Karen left with her head held high, muttering something about getting to the bottom of the “quinoa conspiracy” next.
As for the Trump-supporting newcomers, they graciously invited the entire neighborhood to their next barbecue. And while most people came, nobody dared bring their pets.
Just in case.
TONY CASTRO, the former award-winning Los Angeles columnist and author of “Chicano Power” (E.P. Dutton, 1974), is a national political writer with LAMonthly.org. “Chicano Power” will be republished in a 50th anniversary edition in late 2024. He can be reached at tony@tonycastro.com. Website: https//tonycastro.com
