An Especially Heinous Crime
The doormat was askew and hastily folded over as I stepped over the threshold. It looked like someone tripped on one of its corners and hadn’t set it right. I’d walked over the very same doormat an hour earlier and didn’t remember tripping. How strange. I unfolded the doormat, and there it was: a tidy pile of cat shit right in the center of my rug. It could’ve belonged to a small dog, I suppose. I didn’t know, because I wasn’t allowed in Boy Scouts due to anatomical differences. I was politely asked to leave the Girl Scouts at age nine over what I now consider my first public stand against the patriarchy. What I’m saying is, I can’t be certain exactly which creature produced the pile, because I never earned the scatalogical merit badge.
Growing up a latchkey kid who was unwelcome at Scout meetings, I have a deep well of Law and Order: SVU knowledge lodged deep in my brain. Step One: Consider the most likely suspect first. It’s always the husband, unless it isn’t. I don’t have a husband, and if I did, I sincerely hope he wouldn’t be the pooping-in-public type. I knew for a fact it wasn’t Delilah. She remained firmly inside my apartment at all times. Besides, after ten years of cleaning her litter box like clockwork, I knew her baseline. Time to widen the search.
I don’t know all my neighbors, but even so, what kind of maniac sees that their cat shit on a neighbor’s welcome mat, and instead of the two obvious choices (cleaning it up or sheepishly ringing the doorbell to ask for a paper towel), chooses the secret third option: Haphazardly flop the mat over on itself and make a clean getaway? This was not the ding-dong-ditching that occupied the urban legends of my youth. For one thing, the poop wasn’t on fire. It wasn’t in a paper bag. I am not (to my knowledge) engaged in an escalating prank war with a rival band of suburban ne’er-do-wells.
So the question becomes, which of my neighbors hates me, and why? The tiny Japanese woman with the Akita that lives next door is off the hook. Everything about her dog is outsized, and I can’t imagine this would be any different. Maybe Pudding’s owner is at fault. He’s always letting that scrunchy-faced menace roam the halls unsupervised. He has a devil-may-care approach to boundaries, but is he a monster? It could be the American guy across the hall, but I don’t know if he has any pets. I only ever see him pushing his hair off his sweaty forehead while collecting takeout from American chain restaurants. I personally didn’t move 8,000 miles to eat at Chili’s, but like, live your dream, bud.
Among the neighbors, the big floppy guy I sometimes share the elevator with is my prime suspect. Always in a suit but looking disheveled anyway, he’s usually soaked in cologne. He’s almost never wearing a mask, and has perfected the art of the sheepish, “oops, I forgot” look when I give him the stink eye in the elevator. In my defense, the stink eye wouldn’t come off so severe if I weren’t also squinting on account of the cologne.
So I have no suspects. Good to know I also would’ve missed out on the “amateur sleuth” merit badges I imagine are awarded to Scouts of all genders. Damn. Time for a change of tactics. Without a suspect, Benson and Stabler would look for a motive. Money owed, an affair gone wrong. The detectives begin by asking the victim’s family if the deceased had any enemies. I am not deceased, only mildly incensed and a little confused, but oh my god, do I have enemies? Is this a revenge crime? Am I being targeted for watching Star Trek late into the night with the volume up? Maybe someone’s finally realized I am the kind of godless heathen who holds the door close button on the elevator anytime I see a person coming. I swear, I just want to make sure there’s nothing in my teeth and surreptitiously pick a zit on my ride to the parking lot. It’s not you, it’s me, I swear! Unless it’s the Maskless Menace, then it’s definitely you. What have I done to deserve this?
You never think you’re gonna be the victim of this kind of senseless crime. You interact with poop in a prescribed, consistent way, in situations where you know to expect it, like cleaning the litter box or driving to the vet or after your little angel makes off with an entire slice of cheese. Just because I pick up cat poop three times a week consensually doesn’t make this okay. SVU did not prepare me for a scenario in which the perp isn’t found. Is there no justice? I don’t intend to Nancy Drew this any further than to squinch my eyes suspiciously anytime I see a neighbor with a pet I don’t recognize. What, then? Am I supposed to just walk through the world knowing that somewhere on my floor, there is a person who hates me enough to convince their cat to shit on my doorstep? How does one move through the world with that knowledge?
In the aftermath of this especially heinous crime, it’s clear that traditional justice is impossible. Where the justice system fails, vigilantism often takes its place. I would never stoop so low as to direct Delilah to go pooping on other people’s mats, though. For one thing, taking direction is not one of her strengths. But I maintain the right to hold the door-close button guilt-free whenever I want. Eat shit, motherfuckers.
