I went to jail, of course, but it was totally worth it. My wife still hasn’t forgiven me, but my kids bring it up fondly as if they were proud of the neighborhood crackpot.

I moved to the neighborhood some three years ago. It was pleasant, it was quiet, and everyone seemed genuine. I experienced my first real winter here and woke up to find my driveway had been shoveled for me by the elderly gentleman down the way. Seems this was his way of saying ‘Welcome to the neighborhood. Buy a shovel.’ The first thaw came with my first dookie surprise from some unknown perpetrator. My lovely neighborhood had become a safe haven for what I could only believe to be an anti-pooper-scooper sleeper cell and I was determined to stop it.

I was immediately on the defensive. For days, I stayed outside on the porch and waited until the sun went down or my wife called me in for dinner. After weeks of slow-hunting, my prey came. He looked to be the type in a mid-life crisis; brand new Pumas, an over-expensive jogging suit, and a lap dog of some sort I couldn’t name. It was white, fluffy, and crapping in my lawn as Mr. Crisis (as I came to know him) stood oblivious and ignorant of the pooping fiasco. I said nothing as he went on, dragging the dog with him. After he had turned the corner, I examined the poo-pile and found it to be close enough to the first. I had snagged the offender.

The next time Mr. Crisis rolled through on his walk, I had prepared. In a jogging suit of my own, I let him turn the corner of the street and then followed at a brisk pace, running up and down the street until I saw him enter a large home with faux pillars. A young girl played in the front yard and he had tied up the dog to a metal post near the porch.

That night, I spent hours in the garage, plotting my payback as I cut a large hole in one of the ratty lawn chairs we had brought with us in the move. The wife would never miss it and I’d just throw it away afterwards.

I waited and waited, feeling the days slug-crawl by, anxious for Sunday to come. I had rationalized that the entire family would be home and maybe not a few other neighbors out and about doing neighborly things. I left the house with the chair, feeling the noon sun beat down upon my back as I carried it awkwardly through the neighborhood. As I turned the corner, I noticed the bright blue of a child’s wading pool in his front yard. His daughter splashed about as he sat, unblinking and unsmiling on the porch while his dog lay beneath a beam, sunsoaking up the light.

I could feel the sweat pool beneath my arms as I stepped onto the front yard. His daughter turned to wave at me and he simply looked at me in wonder. I unfolded the legs of the chair and faced it towards the street. I noticed an unread newspaper in the driveway and walked over to retrieve it. I slid it out of the orange plastic bag, rifling through the pages for the Local section as I made my way back to the chair.

I laid the paper on the armrest of the chair, removing my robe and tossing it close to the street. Oddly, the man had said nothing and the child had gone back to playing with her boats and drowned dolls. The only sound of protest he made came when I unloosened my pants and sat down on the chair, positioning myself perfectly above the fabricated hole. I opened up the paper and began reading about a local business woman who had started a charity that picked up extra waste or materials from the city’s surrounding neighborhoods. I couldn’t help but laugh as I pushed the morning’s first log out through the hole in the chair. It’s still hard to say which I enjoyed more; the satisfying thud of the offending excrement or the sound Mr. Crisis made from behind me.

I almost wish I had faced him now as there will never be another time quite as perfect as that Sunday morning, but the people in the neighborhood know exactly who I am now and they walk their dogs on the other side of the street.

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