My Fucking Landlady

Yesterday morning I'm lying in bed and my landlady, Riva, bangs on the door, gets me out of bed and starts giving me the third degree about -- of all things -- dog shit on the front lawn. I'm barely awake and this nutty shrew is grilling me about each individual turd she found that might or might not have come out of my dog. I shit you not.

Heidi goes on the front lawn sometimes, but I always clean it up if I see it, and I generally do, since I don't allow her out unsupervised. At first she claimed it was three turds, and I suppose Heidi may have been responsible for one or two, but there are other dogs in the neighborhood, and another in the building too.

Today I get a friendly building newsletter featuring the dog turd incident. (She owns one crummy little building with six units and she thinks she's Donald Trump with the newsletter and all). Apparently now the story is that the lawn was "covered" with dog shit, which she cleaned up personally. If this happens again the dogs will be evicted from the building. What the fuck ever. Personally, the only way she's going to evict my dog is to evict me, and, believe me, I will make that as expensive and unpleasant as I can for her. I should send her a copy of "Pacific Heights" so she understands the possibilities.