For the most part, I’ve enjoyed working from home these past few months. 

I do miss the camaraderie and energy of an office, especially the visceral appeal of working with a physically present team.  My wife has valiantly attempted to recreate that atmosphere, primarily by hosting her constant Zoom meetings without headphones.  In an aural sense, she’s brought her own office’s open floor plan into my living room, and I now know more about her co-workers than my own kids.  John, if you were wondering, had a fantastic weekend.

But the warm weather has allowed me to turn my back porch into a virtual office for the summer, and it’s been a pleasant experience overall.

What’s been most surprising, however, is my discovery of this gigantic ecosystem that has lived around my house during weekday hours.  There’s an entire world of creatures, cultures and processes that dominate the daylight hours from Monday-Friday of which I was entirely unaware.  Some examples:

  • The family of deer that have decided to use my yard for a daily snack, including three young fawn that are cute enough to star in their own sitcom
  • The chipmunk that scurries up to my back door each day and stares at me for 15 minutes, hoping to snag a piece of my english muffin
  • The colorful assortment of birds that don’t seem to mind my presence, and like to greet me with a few songs that I swear sound a little like the keyboards in Gary Numan’s “Cars”
  • The UPS delivery worker, secretly dropping treats to all the eager dogs outside on his route
  • And the lawnmowers…the constant scream of lawnmowers, usually maximized right at the moment my conference call begins.  Those I could do without.

All of these have represented daily checkpoints to me, a comforting routine of experiences that gives the day some structure.

But one unlikely visit has become the favorite part of my day.  I truly look forward to it, and stop whatever I’m doing so I can watch the consistent-but-still-surprising action unfold.

It’s the moment each day when a young boy walks onto the middle of my yard, and watches his dog take a shit.

Now, I’ve been a happy dog owner for most of adult life, and I know the protocol.  The dog walk is an unfortunate necessity of the gig, requiring you to take extensive strolls and delight in the moment when your faithful canine blesses you with the gift of his own feces.  Watch a dog gleefully smile as he watches his “master” pick up his poop as a matter of course.  You’ll wonder who owns who.

The typical journey takes place along the sides of our suburban streets.  Our dogs are leashed (usually), walk a fairly straight path, with occasional pauses and distractions along the edges of our lawns.  Shrubs and grass at the front of properties are pretty much fair game as our dogs attend to their excremental needs.  It’s a familiar dance to all of us dog people.

This is different.

Every day, a small procession arrives at my home, usually in the late morning hours.  It contains a bespectacled young boy, probably around 8 or 9 years old, holding his Jack Russell terrier loose on a leash.  His younger brother, maybe 6 or 7 years of age, trails slightly behind, holding nothing but a blue plastic bag.  No matter what time they arrive, both boys are in their pajamas.  Always.

They begin their march at the edges of our lawn, within the aforementioned “defecation zone” that most dog walkers abide.  But within seconds, the border is penetrated, as the boy leads his small dog directly into the center of my lawn.

Both boys and dog seem delighted to escape the hard concrete roads as they meander carelessly across my sunburnt grass.  They start along the outer fringes, near a large tree that sits towards the front of my yard, but quickly move beyond it.  They walk along the shrubs that line my driveway.  They make their way to the plants along the front of my house.  They approach the bottom of my steps, a mere foot or two from my front door.  They walk along the grass that runs parallel to the side of my home, examining the large tree branch that fell in a recent storm.  One day, they made their way almost entirely into my back yard, not a care in the world.

The goal is always the same:  walk my property until their dog is inspired to relieve himself.  This moment, assuming it is complete with a form of hard stool, brings the older boy immense joy.  With a glee normally seen after game-winning touchdowns, he shouts into the air and raises his hands in excitement.  This is the signal for the younger boy to get into the game, poop bag in hand.  He removes the offending object, and all three figures exit stage right, their time in my presence at an end.

I’ve witnessed this process dozens of times from within my home.  And keep in mind, I have no idea who these kids are.

At first, I was shocked.  I could not believe that this trio was using my private property as their own personal dog toilet.  Where are the parents?  Who is teaching them about boundaries, respect and excremental propriety?  Staring out my windows, I became the proverbial old man, screaming “get off my lawn” to these pesky nuisances.

I never actually did that, of course.  There’s an actual Wikipedia page for “You kids get off my lawn!”, and the last thing I want to be known as is “a stereotypical elderly middle-class homeowner confronting boisterous children entering or crossing his or her property”.  So I decided to quietly seethe from behind my walls while watching this process happen.

But over time, my outlook shifted.  The regularity of it became something of an alarm clock for me, something to expect.  I started wondering what time the boys would arrive, whether the boys would be wearing the same pajamas as yesterday, wondering how long it would take for their dog to get the job done.  

My anger suppressed, I eventually came to realize that I didn’t mind the daily defecation.  Here were two young brothers, doing a daily chore, off on a small-scale adventure exploring the wilds of my decidedly not-wild landscaping in the cause of duty (pun intended).  If my lawn was to be the platform for two young brothers to spend quality time together on a summer’s morning, Huckleberry Finn-style, so be it.

I’ve waved at them a few times from inside, but they never respond.  I’m not sure if they either can’t see me or choose to ignore the weird man trying to interrupt “the process”.  I thought about going outside one day to say hello (and to ask why the younger brother seems to get the worst part of their deal), but thought better of it.  I don’t want to get in the way of their adventure together.  And I definitely don’t want to give their dog the runs.

I completely understand that there’s probably a better way to approach this, that maybe I’m doing the wrong thing here.  Perhaps I should be helping to teach these boys about property, where the “welcome” lines should be drawn, etc.  Maybe I should be trying to figure out who their parents are, and let them know what their sons are doing.

But in the end, I’ve made a decision.  I just don’t care.  I admire their spirit and their diligence.  And, in a moment in which we’re all keeping our distance a bit,  I’m thankful for the small (if somewhat disgusting) piece of normality they bring me each day.

To be clear, this is not an open invitation.  Please keep your own dogs within the reasonable boundaries of a proper dog walk.  My lawn is not a dog park.

But for these boys, I’m making an exception.  They can use my lawn whenever they feel like it.

Until the day they show up without a poop bag. I’m not THAT nice.

What do you think? Am I doing the right thing? I love to hear from readers, so feel free to email your thoughts to michael@toolazytowriteabook.com.