Golden retriever. Red leash. Same time every morning. And never a bag in sight.

At first, we gave her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she didn’t see it. Maybe she forgot. But then it became a routine. The dog would squat in the same patch of grass by our hydrangeas, she’d glance around (never at the house), and just keep walking. No scoop, no shame.

My husband stepped in it on a Saturday. My kindergartner touched it while picking a dandelion. That was the last straw.

So I made a sign. Not rude—just bold. Yellow background, cartoon dog, big text: “Please clean up after your pup. This isn’t a toilet.” Stuck it in the grass with a little solar light so she couldn’t claim she “missed it.”

The next morning, the poop was gone—but so was the sign.

I checked the Ring footage. Sure enough, there she is at 7:14 a.m., bending down like she’s going to pick something up… then yanking my sign out of the ground and tossing it in her stroller basket like it’s trash.

At 8:03 a.m., she rings our doorbell with the sign in one hand and her phone recording in the other. “This is harassment,” she says, flatly. “You’re singling me out. I’m filing a complaint with the HOA.”

Before I can even respond, her toddler—barefoot in the stroller—grabs the sign, licks it, and starts screaming. She spins the camera on him and says, “Look what you’ve done. You’ve traumatized my son.”

I blinked. “Your dog poops on our lawn every morning. I just asked you to pick it up.”

She scoffed, flipped her hair, and walked off mid-sentence, still filming. Her kid was wailing, and she muttered something about “unhinged neighbors” as she turned the corner.

That was a Tuesday.

By Thursday, a formal letter from the HOA was in our mailbox, stating we had received a “community complaint regarding hostile signage” and warning us to refrain from putting up “unsanctioned notices.”

My husband laughed at first, but I was livid. Not just because of the letter, but because that Thursday morning—yep, 7:13 a.m.—she was back. Same dog, same spot, same result. This time, she smiled right at the Ring cam.

So we got creative.

My friend Camilla had an idea. She lives two blocks over and dealt with something similar. She suggested something called “doggy deterrent spray.” It smells citrusy to us, but apparently dogs hate it. We sprayed a border around the lawn—nothing toxic or harmful, just annoying for dogs.

It worked. For one day.

Then, she just let the dog go on the sidewalk in front of our driveway instead. Still no bag. Still no shame.

So I took it to the HOA meeting.

I wasn’t a regular, but I showed up with printed screenshots from the Ring, including her stealing the sign, and two days’ worth of timestamps with no cleanup. I expected at least some concern.

Instead, I was told, “We don’t police pet owners,” and “It’s better to handle these issues neighbor-to-neighbor.”

I pointed out that I tried to handle it neighbor-to-neighbor—and got called a harasser for my trouble. That’s when one board member leaned over and whispered, “You’re not the first person to complain about her.”

That got my attention.

After the meeting, a woman named Fran—probably mid-sixties with a floral tote and fierce energy—came up to me in the parking lot. “Her name’s Lisa. Lives over on Daffodil Lane. She’s pulled this stunt before. Pretends to be the victim so no one holds her accountable.”

I nodded. “So, what did you do?”

Fran smiled. “We got creative.”

The next morning, there were five yellow signs across five lawns on my street. All with the same cartoon dog. All politely worded. All staked into the grass.

Lisa still came by. But this time, she looked flustered. Like she didn’t know which house to scowl at. Her dog hesitated, sniffed, circled, and ended up pooping in the middle of the road. Right in front of a passing Amazon truck.

Still no bag.

That afternoon, my husband and I walked our daughter to the park. On the way back, we passed Lisa’s house. Her front garden was filled with plastic flamingos, fake flowers, and a yard sign that said, “Live, Laugh, Love.”

My husband whispered, “Bet she’s the kind of person who writes passive-aggressive Facebook posts about ‘toxic people.’”

Later that week, something strange happened. The poop stopped.

Not just at our house—but up and down the street. Lisa still walked her dog, but she started carrying a little green roll of bags. We didn’t know what changed until the following Saturday, when Camilla texted me a link.

It was a neighborhood Facebook group. Someone had anonymously uploaded the Ring footage of Lisa stealing the sign. The comments were brutal.

“Omg this is the lady who lets her dog pee on my mailbox!”

“She once screamed at my kid for riding a scooter near her driveway.”

“Not the flamingo lady! I KNEW she was fake.”

By Monday, Lisa had deleted her Facebook account.

The silence was… glorious.

I almost felt bad for her. Almost.

Then, she struck back.

Tuesday morning, I found eggs splattered on our driveway. Not just a few—a dozen, at least. One even hit our mailbox. My daughter thought it was funny until she realized she couldn’t draw chalk on the pavement with dried yolk everywhere.

Ring footage confirmed it. It wasn’t Lisa—but her husband. Middle-aged guy, thinning hair, drove up at 5:12 a.m. and chucked them out the passenger window.

I called the police—not to press charges, but to file a report. I figured if it escalated, I’d want something on record.

Lisa must’ve figured it out, because the next day, a handwritten apology note was taped to our door.

It read:

“I’m sorry for the trouble. I didn’t mean for things to get so out of hand. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Please know I’ll make sure the dog is cleaned up after going forward. —Lisa”

There was no mention of the sign. Or the egging. Or the HOA complaint. Just vague remorse.

But here’s the kicker.

That weekend, I was at the park with my daughter when I saw Lisa sitting on a bench. Alone. No dog, no kid, no stroller. She looked… small. Not physically, but just tired. Wrung out.

And I don’t know what possessed me, but I walked over.

She stiffened when she saw me.

I said, “Look, I appreciate the note. I do. But this could’ve been a simple conversation from the start.”

She sighed. “Yeah. I know. I’m just… it’s been rough lately.”

Turns out, her husband had lost his job a few months ago. They were trying to sell the house but had no offers. Her kid had been sick off and on, and she was the one holding everything together.

Still didn’t excuse the behavior—but it gave context.

I told her, gently, “You know… you can ask for help before everything explodes.”

She blinked like she didn’t expect kindness. “Yeah. You’re right.”

We left it at that. Not friends, not enemies—just neighbors with an uneasy truce.

But something changed after that.

Lisa started waving when she passed. She even gave my daughter a juice box on Halloween. And a week later, a small package showed up on our porch—inside was a dog-shaped garden sign that read: “Poop happens. Please scoop it.” No note, just the gift.

A funny thing happens when you stop trying to “win” and start trying to understand.

We still joke about the whole mess. My husband calls it “The Great Lawn War.” But truthfully, it taught me something.

Sometimes people act out because they feel powerless. That doesn’t mean you let them walk all over you—but it also doesn’t mean you need to match their worst behavior. Boundaries matter, but so does grace.

These days, Lisa still walks her dog. Still red leash, still 7 a.m. But she picks up after him. Every single time.

And every time she does, I smile from the window.

What would you have done if someone kept letting their dog treat your yard like a toilet? Ever dealt with a neighbor like this? Share your story—and don’t forget to like and pass it on!