There’s a dog two houses down from ours. His name is Jango.
Jango is awesome, and his owners are awesome, too. Warm, nice people. Not friends, but good neighbors who bring forth some quality chats. No beef whatsoever.
Anyhow, as opposed to general dog ownership in New York, here in our corner of Southern California people seem to let their canines run free. Which is odd, because we’ve had our share of coyote and bobcat sightings. But the dogs run up and down and all around, and it’s fine …
… save for Jango.
A bunch of days ago, my son told me he saw Jango pooping in our backyard. Which is problematic because:
A. I don’t like cleaning up my own dog’s poop—and Norma is a lot smaller than Jango.
B. We have artificial turf, which means pop sorta stains and sticks to it. If you don’t remove the feces quickly, it twists and ties itself into the grass. Not good.
So now I have to have that awkward chat with Jango’s owners.
Which sucks.
