Dealing with Dumb Ass Dog Owners has been an almost lifelong task for me, so I have plenty of stories I could share. My favorite one, though, comes from my teenage years when my family and I were living on Long Island, NY.
For several years, my parents, brother, and I put up with the neighbors across the street sending their dog out their front door and across the street to do his business on our lawn. Sometimes he (the dog’s name was Beau) would leave it on the ribbon of grass between the curb and sidewalk (which was technically county property, not ours, but we were still responsible for keeping it cut). Most times, he crossed the sidewalk and actually left it on our lawn. There were times when my Dad would be sorely tempted to shoot at the dog with my brother’s BB gun; but Mom would say “No, it’s not the dog’s fault that his owners are idiots. Just get the pooper scooper and scoop it up and drop it on their lawn, where it belongs.”
Several times over those years, my friends, my brother’s friends, one of us, or even a stranger walking through that grass to get from the street to the sidewalk would step in Beau’s poop. And at some point it would eventually end up inside our front door. Why Mom put up with it for so long without saying anything to “the Duchess” (as we called the wife/mother of the family because she was a stuck-up snob – who had nothing to be stuck-up about by the way), I will never know. Maybe she just didn’t feel like starting a neighborhood feud. One day, after about five or six years of saying/doing nothing more than scooping up Beau’s poop and dropping it on his lawn, Mom reached the end of her patience.
The Duchess had sent Beau out their front door with the command to go poop. What the Duchess didn’t know was that Mom happened to have been standing at the picture window — why I don’t remember any more — and saw the dog coming across the street. Instead of going outside to chase the dog back home, she stood there and watched as the dog pooped in our grass (not the ribbon between the sidewalk and curb, but our grass). As the Duchess yelled out the door in her high-pitched, whiney voice, “Beau! Get back here! Beaaaauuuu!!”, Mom told me to go get the pooper scooper and leave it on the front porch. As I watched her face, I could see the wheels turning inside that sometimes-devious head of hers, and smiled knowing the time for revenge was close at hand.
Five minutes later, the Duchess was yelling at the top of her lungs again — as usual — Mom and I could hear it all the way across the street. The son, who was about fours years younger than me, was late for something or other so the Duchess was screaming at him to get his shit together and get out in the car. (I often wondered if that woman knew how to speak in a normal, low tone!) As soon as Duchess and brat pulled out of the driveway and drove up the street, Mom went outside, grabbed the pooper scooper, scooped up Beau’s poop, carried it across the street, and deposited it on the front stoop, about a half step from the door frame.
About an hour later, Mom and I were watching TV when suddenly we heard the evidence that we had finally exacted our revenge. The Duchess was yelling at the kid: “Goddamnit, David, you stepped in dog shit and now it’s all over the goddamned living room carpet!! Get your ass outside and clean off your shoe and then get in here and help me cleanup this mess!” Yes, she really did yell at her kids like that, cuss words and all. No wonder the kids were brats with a mother like that. Anyway, the dog was never sent across the street again to do his business on our lawn. And, about three years later, they moved out of the house to a high-rise apartment somewhere in Queens. Mom, Dad, and I simply said “good riddance”, along with pity for the husband, who was really a nice, soft-spoken, gentleman. How he ended up with the Duchess — and why he stayed married to her — was always a mystery to all of us.
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