I have become a bitter old man who lets himself run wild with pathetic attempts at vigilantism and it’s all because my neighbors have a dog.
To be more accurate, my neighbors have a beautiful dog.
It’s gigantic and floppy and cute and downright adorable in every way that a gigantic animal living in a tiny apartment can be, except for one teeny-tiny thing.
It poops. It poops a whole big lot.
Seriously, this dog is dropping bombs all over the place.
In fact, I’ve previously blogged about an encounter with one of this dog’s fecal follies.
Unfortunately, I’m incredibly Midwestern so every time I see the dog owners, I just make awkward polite chit-chat and move along instead of screaming “LISTEN UP, JERKFACES, YOU CAN’T LEAVE HEAPING MOUNDS OF DOG TURDS EVERYWHERE!!!” as I’d prefer to do.
Instead, I randomly decided today—while in the midst of a bout of incredible productivity at work—to look up the Cambridge municipal code for dog waste removal.
Naturally, I learned that they’re supposed to pick up those steaming piles of poo and dispose of them.
As such, I did what any cranky 94-year-old man would do, I wrote a poorly-worded, responsibility-deflecting, passive-aggressive letter about dog poop with a poorly-veiled threat about calling the “authorities” at the end.
Thankfully, Grace stopped me from posting it on their door.
It took her all of two seconds to let me know that it was a poor idea and I couldn’t disagree. I mean, seriously, read that letter again.
What the hell was I even thinking?! I sound like an entire fleet of douche canoes.
What have I become?!
This feels like that moment when every quasi-mad, yet well-intentioned scientist injects himself with the magic serum and unwittingly turns himself into a super-villain.
Only—you know—way the hell lamer.