The Turd Vigilante of Suburbia

Let me set the scene.

I live near a dog park. That means dogs and the people who walk them are a regular part of my neighborhood's rhythm. I'm not a crazy person; I know that dogs poop. It happens. Shit happens, literally. I'm not going to make a big stink (pun intended) over a dog doing its business on my lawn once or twice.

But this lady. This woman. She tested every ounce of my patience.

The Spark

She walks two dobermans past my house practically every day. I'm usually a pretty reasonable guy. Totally understand that a person might not always have a poop bag on hand. Whatever. It comes with the territory. But this lady was something else.

It all started one summer afternoon. I was sitting in my yard with my two-year-old daughter. This woman stops at our yard not because her dogs are pooping, but because she is letting them sniff all over. She's got those extendable leashes, just letting them roam. I'm sitting there holding my kid, thinking, "What is she doing? Get your dogs off my lawn."

I didn't say anything. I just stared. I even made a comment about "look at the doggy" to my kid. But inside, I was fuming.

Then one of her dogs finally assumes the position. Lays down a fat one right in the good sunny spot. A real doozy. And this woman, this Scarface-looking yoga pants-wearing jerk, just yanks the leash and marches on her merry way. No bag. No apology. No fuck to give.

I couldn't believe it.

The First Confrontation

I decided to let it slide. Maybe she'd get it on the way back. I know naive.

A few days later, I see her again. Her dogs are sniffing around the same spot. The sun-dried sins of her last visit still there. So I go outside. I ask her if she would please clean up after her dog. I explain that I have small kids and we use the yard. She just... ignores me. Doesn't say a word.

I asked if she needed a bag. She finally responds: "They're dogs. They poop. It's biodegradable. I'm not going to wrap it in plastic."

We went back and forth. I was trying to be assertive but professional. She called me a creep and walked away.

The Obsession Begins

This bothered me way more than it should have. I started watching for her. I got a Ring camera. Sure enough, she stops at my yard like 75% of the time to let her dogs sniff. I tried confronting her again. This time, she started yelling and cussing at me. I yelled back. It was ugly.

I couldn't believe how upset she made me. So I did something I'm not proud of I followed her. I saw where she lived. I know. It's bad. I don't care.

The Revenge

I decided to stop confronting her. Instead, I started collecting. The turds. I waited about a month, collecting the evidence of her crimes. Then, one night, I took them all and threw them in the back of her pickup truck.

I felt so alive. The vengeance. The justice. I wanted more.

So a couple weeks later, I dressed in black like some suburban ninja and snuck to the dog park. I emptied the entire dog shit trash can. I don't know what I was thinking. I took my prize bags and bags of rancid dog waste and started hucking them at her house from the darkness. Like an idiot. Then, I put the rest in her mailbox and fled like a coward.

I didn't stop there. I realized my revenge wasn't good enough. Bagged poop is gross, sure, but it's not truly diabolical.

The Descent

So I started pooping into dog bags. Then I'd hurl them into her yard from a distance. Inverted the bag so just the turd would fly out. I did it like five more times. Once, I threw it at her car.

I decided I'm basically a terrorist at this point. I needed to stop.

The Confession

I'm not proud of what I did. Actually, I don't know if that's true. It's a weird feeling of shame, mixed with "fuck that bitch," mixed with vigilante poop justice, mixed with more shame. I had to tell someone.

I bet she knows it's me. It feels obvious, right? I'm low-key worried about it. Is that illegal? Fuck. Oh well. I'm in too deep now.

Was I wrong? Yes. Absolutely. I crossed so many lines. But part of me still feels like she deserved it. I've stopped now. I'm confessing and moving on. But I'll never forget the feeling of being the turd vigilante of suburbia.