You never know how you might someday be led to stop taking the "little things" for granted and fully appreciate them instead. Right now, Hubby and I continue to appreciate not having the police called on us every three-four days.

I wrote about our recent move several times in my Arkansas Democrat-Gazette newspaper column, Let's Talk. But except for an initial post on Facebook, I didn't share the story about Mrs. C, whose apartment was directly below our new one. Our mid-month move took place Nov. 15, 2014. From Dec. 6 to Jan. 1, Mrs. C. called police on us about 10 times — that we know of, and that's nearly how many times the police showed up at our door.

According to what we were told, she began complaining about us — not just to police but also to city officials, along with our property manager — before we ever saw her or knew anything about her. One of her three gripes was the noise we made. We made noise, but they were regular "moving in" and "moving around" noises made by upstairs neighbors in an older building with squeaky hardwood floors. On Dec. 6, two officers came to the door. At that time we were only told that "we wanted to make you aware that you have a neighbor who calls us when there's noise." We had been hammering earlier, but were not making any noise at the time those officers came. They acknowledged that they'd stood and listened outside and that it was quiet. We assumed they'd knocked on other doors, telling our neighbors the same thing.

The second visit, from a single female officer, came late the afternoon of Monday, Dec. 8. The officer was very apologetic but said she had to come up and talk to us. Mrs. C had accused us not only of making noise late at night (which we did during the process of unpacking and placing furniture), but of being dope smokers whom she suspected were trying to break into her truck. We told the officers who we were; we also gave the officer our contact information. Again the officer (who has read my column) apologized, and went downstairs to tell Ms. C that we were harmless.

We determined who Mrs. C was and on Dec. 13, when I saw her returning to the building from somewhere, I went outside to talk with her. She started right in with her accusations about the noise and also said that ever since we'd moved in, she'd been suffering from some caustic chemical smell coming through her air vents.  I told her who we were, that we meant her no harm; that yes, we were still getting settled but would try to do better regarding the noise. I told her the only chemicals we'd used were nail polish and remover as well as some occasional spritzes of bathroom cleaner, but she didn't seem to think it was that. At any rate I calmed her down enough to where she apologized for calling police and we even shook on it. She said she had health issues and had a hard time each December because that's when she lost her husband. She even said SHE read my column. I told her I would be putting up more wall art later, and she was OK with that.

My relief was short-lived. Two days later, she was angry at us again because of noise we made trying to fix our bed frame, which our movers had put together incorrectly. When we went outside, we encountered Mrs. C, waiting on police ... whom she'd called on us once again. She accused me of being "unfaithful" per my promises. That upset my husband, who exchanged a few words with her.  We ended up waiting outside for the police too, but they didn't come ... that day.

I also notified the property manager, with whom I'd already discussed Mrs. C ... and whom Mrs. C called multiple times a day to complain about us and other residents. The PM said she was going to  give Mrs. C the option of moving to another unit. Meanwhile, we began going out of our way to be as quiet as possible. I was literally tiptoeing, putting on heeled shoes and boots right before leaving the apartment and removing them when I returned. During my conversation with Mrs. C, she'd complained about hearing a "dragging" sound. We thought that sound might originate from our use of our rolling office chair, so we placed our Greek flokati rug under it.

However —  at 11 p.m. on Dec. 17 — there was another knock on the door as we watched TV in bed. It was the police ... again. They were apologetic … again. Mrs. C was still accusing us of causing the caustic smell in her apartment.

I wrote a long email that morning to the property manager AND her boss, who called a meeting with Mrs. C the next day. She agreed to move, but at that time, didn't say when. Meanwhile she was told she'd be evicted if she continued to complain. Well, the cops kept coming, and she became increasingly angry at them for not dragging us off in handcuffs. We even told the police chief — whom my husband had previously interviewed for a freelance story — about the situation. He replied that, unfortunately, the police have to come when called. The police and the prosecuting attorney's office told us this was a civil matter and that outside of complaining to our PM, the only recourse we had was to sic a lawyer on Mrs. C.

The PM was ready to start eviction proceedings, but Mrs. C. found a place to move. Even during her moving process, she continued to call the cops on us. (Luckily, there were no more 11 p.m. visits, but  the cops always seemed to catch me at one sartorial disadvantage or another.) One pair of cops told us she had threatened to go to their supervisor on them for not doing anything to us. This was a "smell complaint" night, not a "noise complaint" or "attempted vehicle break-in complaint" night, so the men checked around our place and told us they'd call their sergeant out to try to settle the matter. We assume they did; when we left for an event a bit later, we saw two police cars.

It got to where we could tell the seasoned officers from the newer ones. The rookies would always say they could tell that Mrs. C suffered from some type of mental instability, but they were hoping that coming and talking to us could "calm her down." The seasoned cops, who included the ones who'd lamented about having to call their sergeant, displayed a bit of exasperation at the record of all the calls that had been made to our address. One of the seasoned officers, who visited toward the end of our ordeal, told Dre he regularly patrolled the area. The officers even began complimenting us on our apartment decor.

The officer summoned on New Year's Day didn't bother to come up to see us. A friend and neighbor, who lived in our last building and moved at the same time, came back from walking a dog she was sitting ... and saw Mrs. C screaming at him. He apparently was one of the cops who'd come before; we think he may have been the one who told us he regularly patrols the area. That day, Mrs. C. switched to her attempted-truck break-in accusation, claiming she SAW us making the effort. The officer wasn't buying it; he tried to tell her she needed to leave us alone. She went ballistic on him. The friend's canine charge became so agitated, it was all the friend could do to keep the dog from charging Mrs. C.

We were battle-weary, but had begun to gradually cheer up because Mrs. C had begun to stay gone a few hours each day. We figured she was doing the moving process back-and-forth between her old and new apartments. And on the morning of January 5, we saw her U-Haul. That had to be one of the happiest days of our lives. Had we been in the money, we might have thrown a party ... one with a loud performance of Riverdance, or Michael Flatley's Lord of the Dance, as the featured entertainment.

Thus went the end of an interesting 2014. The story of our move — a result of downtown gentrification, of which we became casualties —  is a whole other blog post.

Having never had the police called on us in our lives prior to this, we never thought that being able to move freely around our apartment — without feeling jittery or jumpy — would feel this good. However, we continue to shake our heads over the apparent fact that anyone who's mentally challenged or spiteful enough can basically use the police as a tool of terrorism against a neighbor. Before it was over with, we felt sorry for the police. And they aren't the only city employees who have been used in this manner. A Facebook friend, who lives in a house, said her across-the-street neighbor called city code enforcement officers on her 10 times over trivial matters. "She is well known by the city because of it, and even though she gets on THEIR nerves, they have to respond," says the friend, who eventually found relief after she joined the neighborhood association and became, as she puts it, "president of the Welcome Wagon Committee."

As I did during the ordeal, I pray that Mrs. C is delivered of whatever demons were driving her. I definitely pray for her new neighbors.  And although I know it's dangerous to treat anyone like the Boy Who Cried Wolf, I'd like to see the city come up with some type of policy — better yet, a fine — to deal with people who repeatedly file complaints that prove to be unfounded or frivolous.