The man’s radio is so loud you can hear it across the alley. I could have tracked him with a military band and he wouldn’t have noticed. A nice easy play for me, to get back in practice.

On the last day I pick up his dog shit behind him. There’s a lot of it. For such a tiny yapper, this dog shits as much as a grown man. I place his deposits in thin pink paper, which I seal at the edges with a lovely velveteen ribbon purchased in a store in another neighbourhood.

I enclose my fragile package in two layers of bubble-wrap then fasten the whole thing with a lot of tape to make it impossible to take anything out without cutting right into the bubble-wrap. There’s no way to open this package and see what’s inside without slicing through the pink paper.

Our kitchen reeks. I say that I stepped in dog shit and had to wash my shoes. Gus notes that there was shit on his bike last week, too. He’s a week off, but I let it slide. I guess bending over would be too much pain and suffering for mister my-dog-shits-all-over-the-place-and-I-don’t-care, but my tracking efforts have been enough to overcome all my scruples. The guy doesn’t bother to pick anything up, or even to guide his animal off the beaten path to do its filthy business. When they take their daily walk, they leave little gifts in the middle of playgrounds and along the paths through the park. This guy clearly doesn’t have one iota of respect for the society that has seen fit to subsidize his housing. Every day the dog soils places where hundreds of people — children mostly — walk and play. If only he’d spared Gus’s bike.

I wrap up my little package like a precious gift. It’s pretty heavy, which will help sustain the illusion. I throw in a couple biodegradable dog-shit bags, to point my old friend in the right direction. Once the mail carrier goes by, I’ll place it in his mailbox with a little note.

To the resident of #416, with thanks!

From the neighbourhood.

I stick around to watch from a distance, blending into the surroundings. My victim usually gets back from his stroll at 11 a.m., around forty minutes after the mail arrives. There’s always the risk that someone will steal a package, but this one ends up in its rightful owner’s hands. The dog is sniffing around, visibly excited. They go inside. Mission accomplished.

Now the man knows he’s being watched. A juvenile effort, admittedly, but enough to shake me out of my torpor. I realize that living with other people is getting in the way of my hobby. Now I’m ready to get back into it in earnest.