Walter’s front lawn ran open to the footpath, divided from it only by a low brick edging that no dog had ever treated as a boundary. The trouble had started eighteen months ago, when three new families moved into Clover Lane within a few months of each other. All three had dogs. The Petersons had a golden retriever named Biscuit who was cheerful and enormous and seemed to produce waste in quantities that defied biology. The Nguyens had two small terriers that yapped without pause and had a habit of digging. And the Garcias had a bulldog named Tank who moved slowly but left evidence of his visits like a calling card.
Walter had not always disliked dogs. He had owned one himself — a beagle named Pepper — years ago. But Pepper had been walked on a leash, cleaned up after with a bag, and never allowed on other people’s property. These dogs were walked without bags, let off their leashes on the footpath, and their owners stood scrolling their phones while the animals wandered freely across Walter’s lawn. He had watched this happen. He had seen it with his own two eyes, from behind his curtain, many times.