There are a lot of things in my neighborhood not to like. However, I’m insanely glad I don’t live in this neighborhood:

Rats and feces and stench. OH MY.

Like the tip of the spear, I go to the yard where the odor is
emanating from. The yard is dark because of the thick layer of tress
over head. The smell of feces is pungent in the air. As I walk forward
I imagine this is what Bubonic Plague smells like.

Behind the home there are pens and dog houses and six Beagles.  There are feces in the cage and dog food scattered about.

But quite honestly, the pens and the backyard don’t look that dirty to me.

The smell is another story. It is encompassing, like mustard gas. It
is pervasive and prevalent and pernicious. It seems to blister the
epidermal layer of all who dare encroach on this invisible denizen’s
lair.

I see a number of rats laying dead. There’s one in the weeds. There
is a dead rat on its back near a shed; its white belly is exposed. I
can see the rodent’s little rat fangs sticking through his little rat
lips.

Oh, man. I cannot even imagine.  I can live with the poor soil and unprestigious address, I think.  As long as there aren’t rats.