Walter had tried being polite about it. He had knocked on the Petersons’ door and mentioned, with a smile, that the lawn was reseeded and perhaps Biscuit could be guided around it. Mrs. Peterson had smiled back, said “of course, of course,” and the next morning Biscuit was back in the same spot. He had left a friendly note in the Nguyens’ letter box. He had had a brief, pleasant conversation with Mr. Garcia, who had clapped him on the shoulder and promised to “keep an eye on Tank.” Tank’s eye, it turned out, was very much on Walter’s lawn.
He had also tried a small wooden sign that read “Please clean up after your pets — thank you!” with a smiley face drawn in marker. Someone’s dog had knocked it over within a week, and it had never been stood back up. He had tried a decorative border of river stones, which Biscuit had moved with his nose. He had tried planting thorny rosebushes along the verge, which the terriers had simply gone around. None of it had worked. The lawn had suffered. And Walter had quietly, steadily, run out of patience.