Taffy barked herself hoarse. He decided to try the polite route again. That afternoon, he caught a rider slowing down near the gate. Clarence raised a hand. “This is private property,” he said, not unkindly.
The cyclist blinked and pulled out one earbud. “Oh—sorry. Just going around the construction. Won’t happen again.” But the very next morning, Clarence saw him again—same bright windbreaker, same tight turn through the middle of his grass.