By Rob Holbert Managing Editor

Mayor Sam “Love” Jones’ “Love Thy Neighbor” campaign couldn’t have come along soon enough for me. Sure, the name conjures images of neighborhood “key parties” and lots of “going next door to borrow a cup of sugar.” But that’s not why I’m excited.

Frankly, my neighborhood is being torn apart by a silent war, and I suspect this condition exists city-wide. And if we don’t get some neighborly love going soon, I’m afraid the top’s going to come off this seething cauldron.

I dwell in the tony Oakleigh section of town, otherwise known as “Springhill for people who like drafty houses.” Lately I’ve noticed a rise in the level of “poopular” hostility in the neighborhood. And I don’t think I’m alone. In other words, it seems there is a growing rift between people who refuse to have their lawns soiled by their neighbors’ dogs and those who seem hell-bent to let their dogs go wherever they wish.

I’ll admit to being something of a non-combatant until recently. I’m not what anyone would consider a “handy guy” or someone who “gardens” or “mows his lawn” or “has any respect for the neighborhood.” So I’m not always obsessing about my perfectly manicured lawn. We also own two small dogs who poop up our backyard pretty well, and who have no compunction about doing their business around the neighborhood on those rare occasions when they get to go on a walk.

That said, we also don’t allow our mutts to traipse up in people’s yards and go right there on the prized Mexican heather. We confine their pooping to the no-man’s land between the sidewalk and street. And often, we make some sort of show of pretending to pick up the poop in an imaginary plastic bag so the neighbors will think we’re not total cretins.

So you see, I’m not a zealot. But things changed last week.

Over the past couple of months, I’ve noticed a disturbing increase in the amount of dog dung in parts of the yard not accessible to my dogs. It’s not like I go around counting such things, but it has become noticeable. Then one morning last week, I was taking the kids out to the eunuch-mobile I call “The Moonbuggy.” In one hand I held my daughter Ursula. In the other, I carried a laptop computer, my gym bag and two backpacks for the kids. My 3-year-old son Ulysses trailed behind me.

When we rounded the corner of the porch, there he was – a pooper, or at least a would-be pooper. The man was yakking on his cell phone, holding one of those useless leashes that reels out like 900 feet of line, letting Rover wander over into the next county while the owner pretends he’s being responsible. His nasty Lab mix was snuffling around near my house, waaaaaaaay outside the “ooops, he got away from me” area.

When the guy saw me, he faint-heartedly reprimanded the dog and reeled him in. I glared, and he walked away. I figured I’d busted him before Rover could drop his load, so we walked to the car, and I struggled to get Ursula and the bags in. Ulysses walked through the monkey grass to the car and I picked him up to put him in his seat. Luckily I’m anal and usually clap his feet together to knock of the dirt. And there it was! Ulysses’ little boots were completely loaded with fresh dog poop!

To say I was irritated at having to leave Ursula in the car to take Ulysses back inside to find a new pair of shoes would be an understatement. I’d also be lying if I said I didn’t drive around the block once looking for the pooper.

I suppose I should have been more in tune to this thing all along, especially considering my genetic predisposition for stepping in dog crap. I can manage to step in dog mess almost anywhere. I’ve often thought if I had been in Neil Armstrong’s place, I would have delivered the famous line “One small step for man, one giant step for mankind” then stepped right into a steaming pile of dog poop.

And now it appears my boy has inherited this horrible trait, so I must be vigilant.

Over the past week, I’ve found myself frequently running to the windows in the morning, trying to catch the pooper in the act. I have many potential confrontations worked up in my mind, including following him to his house and heaving a bag of my own dogs’ droppings onto his porch. (Perhaps that’s too much insight into my warped mind. Sorry.)

But I’ve also begun to notice I’m not the only one. As I run through the neighborhood, I see them. There are the steely-eyed “poopees” who guard their property, post signs and glare at any dog that wanders by. Some have become so deranged with anger that they’ve actually erected wooden images of pooping dogs in their yards, with the word “No!” painted on the dog’s side. These poor souls are so blinded with rage, they’ve forgotten dogs can’t read. Passing dogs probably look at their wooden kinfolk taking a nice leisurely dump on the lawn and think “If that guy’s doing it, why can’t I?”

And there are the slippery “poopers” (by proxy) who glide down the sidewalks, eyes darting, looking for the opportunity to let their pooch defile a virgin yard. I sometimes think the poor victims must be losing their minds, while the perps may be using dog dookie as some sort of passive-aggressive way of keeping theirs. It may be the only thing that keeps them from going to work and popping a cap in the boss and that terrible haint in accounting.

Sure, things may look hunky-dory on the surface, but the neighborhood’s coming apart at the seams. Maybe the mayor’s onto something that may save us – love thy neighbor, and keep thy dog off my lawn, Chester.

Rob Holbert is Lagniappe managing editor. Contact him at rholbert@lagniappemobile.com.

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