For a long time it was a mystery.
My Man and I scratched our heads, looked at each other, and rhetorically – for we certainly didn’t expect the other to have the answer – asked, ‘Who? Who? Who would do that?’
Truthfully we shouldn’t have been so surprised. We’ve been around the block. We know the world is full of ass holes, or arse holes, depending upon in what part of the world you are.
For a long time I thought it was the curmudgeonly old man who hobbled down the pavement with a cane in one hand and a leash in the other. The leash was attached to a floppy-eared Cocker Spaniel.
That Curmudgeon would have a list of excuses to exonerate his poor behaviour:
First, and foremost, he was a curmudgeon; and curmudgeons by their nature are prone to a streak of unfavourable manners.
Secondly, he was a member of an altogether different generation; a generation, I reckoned, that hadn’t grown up during the age of pooper scoopers.
Finally, and most importantly, I was sure the curmudgeon wasn’t physically up to the task of bending down, not even to pick up his dog’s shit.
My Man wasn’t convinced by my detective work. He felt I was casting spurious blame. It wasn’t the first time My Man disagreed with an assessment I put forth; and it wasn’t the first time that My Man would be right to disagree with my assessment.
My Man had a plan. He proposed to work from home*, more specifically from the front room of our flat where he could monitor (spy on) the passers-by, canine and human alike.
His plan worked. Not 3 days into "working from home" and he caught the culprit empty handed, meaning she carried neither plastic bag nor any device with which she could collect her best friend's excrement.
So who was it? The slothful fuck of a woman who let(s) her dog crap in our yard? The ass-faced neighbour/high-end retro furniture shop owner, of course.
My Man caught her, caught her eye, and, trying to be a gentleman smiled when he asked, "You are going to pick up after your dog, aren't you?"
Ass-faced high-end retro furnitrue shop owner looked bashfully embarrassed when she replied, "Oh, of course I am."
You know what? The shit stayed there all week until The Mista stooped to pick it up.
We're still plotting as to how to curtail ass-face's unacceptable conduct. Suggestions?
*I do not believe My Man shared his plan with The Man**.
**The Man = corporate headquarters.