Karma bandit

Yes, that's St. Peter's behind him, and a sign from the city that reminds people to pick up their dogs' waste.

I'd noticed him before, of course: the guy who brings his pit bulls down our street and checks around to see who's watching. If I'm behind some foliage, the dogs poop at will. If he spots me, he makes a big show of stalking over to a waste can, rummaging for paper or a plastic bag, picking up some of the mess and dropping it loose into a can.

This time Linda, who runs the guest house just up the street, had spotted him and asked him to do two things: bag the waste and drop it in his own can. And I could hear his top-of-the-lungs profanities three houses away, so I grabbed my camera and went to her aid.

By the time I got there, so had the priest and sexton from St. Peter's, all asking him in normal tones to pipe down. So he got louder, dared us to take a swing at him and called the police, saying we were threatening him and restraining him unlawfully.

Our white-haired vicar meekly pointed out that he beat us in height by several inches, had a distinct advantage in age and had two hefty and surly dogs to boot, which inspired a bit more invective in the minutes until the two cruisers pulled up. The lead cop, a woman, spoke briefly with us and asked us to leave, which of course we did.

Not five minutes later, he and the pit bulls retreated down the street, apologized to me briefly over his shoulder in quite a lovely tone, said the cops had told him to bag and tie his waste and carry it home, and that I wouldn't see him again. And I haven't.