It took me two blocks out of my way, but I couldn’t resist going by the next morning. I stayed on the opposite side of the street and peeked. My signs were gone.

I wasn’t totally surprised about that; in fact, I’d considered making duplicates along with the first set. If all the signs had been removed I might have stopped then, maybe even assumed that I’d gotten some point across. But only mine were gone. The original sorry three still stood.

Not for long, I vowed as I headed for the bus. And then I remembered Burma Shave. Perfect! I needed to come up with a rhyme and break it into four signs and plant them in order, in place of hers.

The best I came up with at first was NO POOP/NO PEE/DON’T LET YOUR DOG/RUN FREE, and I just couldn’t love it. But I worked on the idea, and around mid-afternoon I had it:

THEIR SHIT IS GROSS
AND
STINKS A LOT

 THEIR PEE
WILL KILL
THE GRASS

 IF YOU ALLOW
YOUR DOG
TO SQUAT

 I’LL AIM
TO KICK
YOUR ASS

I knew it was good. I could barely wait to get home and make the signs. And this time I made doubles. This time I pulled hers, leaving mine well-spaced in the four-by-twelve foot plot. I even built my signs to be bi-directional, mating 1 and 4 and 2 and 3 so readers got it no matter which way they were going. I did myself proud.

Charlotte had restored her own idea of order by the time I walked by the next morning, and I resisted another visit that (Wednesday) night. I figured she might be watching for me, so I waited till Thursday to respond. And I guess that wasn’t wait enough.

It was a moonless night and I arrived around 11, so I was covered by darkness. I had removed her signs and was pushing my first into the ground when a light as bright as halogen was suddenly on me. It was like one of those motion-detector bulbs people hang on the eave of their garage, except Charlotte was standing in her front window holding it, aiming it my way.

I had a childlike impulse to abandon all and just run, but I didn’t have the childlike speed. Charlotte was through her door before I took a step, yelling “What the fuck are you doing?” with a shrill tone. (I know she isn’t brave. It was probably only after she pegged me as another woman that she decided to confront me, and even then I heard nerves in her tone.)

I actually stammered. I said “I, uh, well, er,” or something slick like that, and she yelled in stronger voice, “You need to leave. Now! Get out of my yard!”

“Look,” I tried. “I was just responding to your signs . . .” and she barked “Leave!!”

I went. Maybe I should have continued to try to discuss, but it was late and I was ashamed. Oh, I still thought her signs were neurotic and mine were great, but the objective picture didn’t flatter me. The person in the house, with the bright light and indignation, played way better than the one doing the midnight mischief.