On an early April evening as we celebrated my brother David's birthday, I posed a question to everyone around the table. "What would you do?" I asked, after describing the situation.

"I would put up a sign saying, 'Clean up your own poop!'" my mom recommended.

"I would set up a poop bag station in the yard," Ami chimed in.

The next day, Little L was hiding outside in the bushes, bringing back great memories of when I played spy as a girl.

Over and over again, she rehearsed running out to the sidewalk and saying, "Hey! You have to pick up your dog's poop! It's against the law if you don't!"

I was extremely relieved that our neighbor never came outside during this stint; as much as we teach her to stand up for what's right, I didn't exactly want her confronting our neighbor head on. Minnesota Nice, right?

To be clear, this neighbor is a nice guy. This is part of the conversation with Little L. Sometimes even nice people leave their poop on your yard.

He always looks for Meatball in the window when he walks by and waves at her.

So I started looking for him, and when I would see him, I would stand in the window and wave too. Magically, my presence seemed to be solving the issue. I was playing defense.

Then a week or so later, Little L was getting picked up by her friend's mom, Paula, and I brought Meatball out on the front stoop to say hi to Paula while we waited for Little L to pack a bag full of costume pieces like mermaid flip flops and skirts.

And here came the neighbor. With his dog. He stopped to wave at Meatball, smiling at her in the same way he always does through the window.

And then his dog pooped. Right on our yard.

He saw it. And more importantly, he saw me see it.

He made for his pocket, patted it. "Oh, gosh," he said. "I forgot my bags."

I almost said, "That's okay, I'll pick it up for you."

But then, I didn't. Little L was watching from inside the screen door by this point. After she rehearsed telling someone eight times her age what's right, the least I could do was follow through on her behalf, hopefully in a somewhat more socially acceptable manner.

I ripped a green poop bag off of Meatball's leash.

"Here you go," I said, and got up to pass it to him, while Paula, oblivious to the fact that this was the same situation I'd been telling her about just hours before, continued petting Meatball, who leaned against her legs.

Our neighbor leaned down and scooped up his (dog's) poop. "Now I don't suppose you want this?" he joked.

"No thanks," I said, aware again that my daughter had emerged from the house and was taking the whole thing in. I was only 30 percent worried she would start berating him about the violation of city ordinances he'd committed, though I was 100 percent sure she hoped I would.

He took his bag of poop and walked off down the street.

And though we continue to wave at him and his dog from the window, they haven't pooped on our yard since.