TROLLIN’, TROLLIN’, TROLLIN’.

The British aren’t the only ones who adorn their homes with trolls. Spaniards do it, too. And here in Cabanillas del Campo, it has reached epidemic proportions.

Now, before I start receiving venomous letters from organizations like Trolls United for Respect and Dignity, let me make a disclaimer. I am not opposed to trolls, per se. When treated in the British manner—that is, artfully placed in a garden and partially (or preferably, fully) obscured by leafy vegetation—a troll nearly rises to the level of tastefulness.

Lamentably, however, the Spanish are not quite so demure. The residents of my town typically perch trolls atop the wall columns surrounding their homes. That is to say, if you are walking down a Cabanillas del Campo sidewalk and look up, you’ll likely find Dopey, Sneezy or Bashful cheerfully gazing down upon your scalp.

The above photo is a prime example.

This particular troll has an interesting biography. He stands guard over a house up the street from mine. And I must say that his master is an ambitious sort. He wasn’t content to own just any ol’ troll. No…his troll needed accessories.

But that’s not all.

The pictured troll is not an only child. Rather, he is just one soldier in an army of FIVE windmill-bearing trolls—each perched on its own column of a fifteen-meter stretch of wall on the south-west side of my neighbor’s house.

But that’s not all.

Prowling within the confines of my neighbor’s troll-laden walls is the biggest, buffest, twitchiest Mastiff ever to sprout four paws and a tail. In this respect, my neighbor’s trolls are a siren’s song to local burglars.

Imagine the scenario. A burglar is prowling my neighborhood in search of a cushy-looking house from which to snatch a Philips® Plasma-screen TV. He notices five smiling trolls seducing him to come closer—their colorful windmills gently spinning in the warm, Iberian breeze. The burglar can’t believe his luck. A cream-puff lives in this house! A cream-puff who NEEDS to be robbed! The burglar hoists himself over the wall like a well-trained gymnast. Then—the minute his feet touch earth on the other side—his left Achilles tendon is liberated from its foreleg by the hydraulic mandibles of a sight-unseen Mastiff.

Hmmm…perhaps my initial sarcasm was unwarranted. When viewed in this light, Spain’s trend toward trollification doesn’t seem quite so Dopey.