I thought moving into the suburbs meant peace. A modest house, clean yard, quiet streets—it felt like the reward after years of saving. The HOA brochure promised community, harmony, shared standards. What it didn’t warn me about was the kind of power that turns neighbors into adversaries and rules into weapons.
Her name was Linda, the HOA president. From the outside, she looked efficient—clipboard in hand, smile sharpened by authority. At first, her attention seemed harmless: reminders about trash day, comments about lawn height. I ignored the subtle discomfort. Mistake number one.
It escalated fast. Linda started showing up unannounced, stepping onto my property, photographing my backyard, measuring my lawn, even removing my “No Trespassing” signs. When I confronted her, she smiled like her HOA title gave her immunity.
Police? A civil issue. Documentation? Check. Still, nothing stopped her. Notices for imaginary violations appeared on my car. Emails flooded in. I stopped feeling safe in my own home.
Politeness, I realized, had been interpreted as permission.
So I studied the law—not HOA rules, but state property statutes. Trespassing regulations. Livestock protections. That’s when I found it: electric livestock fencing was legal if installed safely with proper signage.
I didn’t have livestock… yet. The next morning, I bought a chicken.
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