I LEFT POOP on your lawn today.

I pretended to pick it up. I simulated the act of retrieving an invisible poop Baggie from my pocket. I was careful not to look around too much, because to a Boston land-owner, that’s a sign of weakness. And I walked for blocks afterward with my palm cupped, in case you were watching, trying to nail me.

Nice try.

I live in Boston, and I have a dog. My sworn enemies, therefore, are urban land-owners. Just ask them.

Not two weeks ago, I took my personal pack of beagles — the preciously named Zooey and Katje — for a morning walk. We roamed the city streets in search of canine relief. Zooey (the boy) took one of those Leslie Nielsen–style pee breaks. (Remember that scene in The Naked Gun, when an accidentally microphoned Frank Drebin stands at a urinal and drains the weasel for about 10 minutes?) Katje (the girl) played duck-duck-goose on a number of different small lawns, teasing each with her swollen colon. Finally, she went.

Like a good dog owner, I bagged the poo and carried it with me. As we approached home, I could hear the sounds of a garbage truck clattering a few streets away. Perfect. Trash day. Along this street stood plastic barrels brimming with all manner of household filth. I would simply drop my Baggie inside one, and be off.

" Don’t put your shit in there! " cried a cranky voice from above. " I don’t want your shit in there! " I looked up. A middle-aged man was jogging down from his front door, shaking his fist.

All kinds of philosophical arguments formed in my noggin. Existential stuff about the tenuous nature of " land ownership. " Can anyone truly own tiny swatches of a cooling-off rock that’s haphazardly revolving around a fairly undistinguished star? Isn’t it the ultimate in hubris to stand atop one’s .08-acre yard and proclaim oneself the master of all the eye can see (at least until just beyond that row of begonias)?

And besides: the trash guy was three minutes away from dumping the barrel! Was this fellow worried that the plastic Baggie wouldn’t adequately protect his discarded Depends from my doggies’ doo?

All these thoughts led me to a sublime response: " Okay, " I sniveled, as I removed the bag and skulked away. And as the frighteningly skinny, neurotic little panty-twister got into his 1982 Country Squire wagon, I contemplated the possibility that this is why the Roman Empire fell. The landed aristocracy had too much power. Eventually the urban poor had no choice but to rise up. (I wonder if they all had dogs, too.)

As you can see, I try to be good. I never leave the apartment without something to scoop with. The idea of going on extra-long walks gives me the howling fantods, because I’m perpetually afraid of that last, extra pit stop, the one just after I’ve thrown away my last Baggie. But it’s no use. I am forever infuriating land-owners, and forever scheming to escape their ire.

I’m not the only one. A single trip to the dog park elicits a dozen stories from doggy mommies and daddies who clamor to tell their tales. " Once I just couldn’t reach it, " says John, owner of a Jack Russell terrier. " It was way under this big bush, and I would’ve had to crawl under there on my hands and knees. So I left it. About a block later, this Asian guy is sprinting in my direction. I pick my dog up off the sidewalk to let him run past. But he stops. He’s holding a paper towel, and inside it I can see little brown pellets. He’s yelling at me, but I can’t figure out what he wants me to do. I just kept walking. And the guy is running behind me, shouting ‘No! No!’  "

Erin recalls the anxiety of walking her diarrhea-stricken golden retriever: " Just as the floodgates opened, this lady shrieked at me. I had to pretend like I didn’t hear. I was just praying the dog would hurry up, so we could get out of there before she called the police or something. "

My friend Karen reports walking her shepherd mix by a house that had a sign nailed to a tree that said, please clean up your dog’s product. we didn’t ask for it, and we don’t want it. Another friend used to live next to a parking lot with three consecutive signs: PLEASE respect your neighbors. PLEASE curb your dog. violators WILL be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

I can just imagine it.

" What’re you in for, Slim? "

" Double homicide. How about you? "

" Turd abandonment. "

Objectively speaking, we dog owners understand the issue. You haven’t really felt rage in your life until you’ve arrived home, gone to the refrigerator, run upstairs to greet the kids, come back down and flopped onto the couch, and only then realized you had fecal matter on your shoe the entire time.

Now, I’m sure there are people in Boston who own both land and dogs, and to those poor, conflicted souls I extend my sympathy, for their lives are, by all evidence, filled with self-loathing. Everyone else, it appears, falls into one of two diametrically opposed camps: those who give poop and those who receive it. To my fellow dog owners, I submit that more courtesy and thoughtfulness can only ease tensions.

Meanwhile, to you land-owning hand-wringers who roll your eyes and holler at me just because my puppies have intestinal needs, please remember that not everyone has adult-human-size bowels. And if you think all your dog-owning neighbors are conspiring to cover your lawn with a high density of dog dung, you need to get real.

We’ve actually got our eyes on your garden.

Issue Date: August 16 - 23, 2001