In this police report, authored by Officer Nathan Patterson, a man looks out of an east-facing window of his house and sees "a Hispanic male, in his early 20s, allowing a brown and white pit bull dog to defecate on [his] side [of the] lawn." The lawn owner pounds on his window and orders the dog owner to clean his pet's feces. The dog owner responds with two words: "Fuck you." The lawn owner exits his house and confronts the young man on the sidewalk. The dog owner again refuses to clean up the mess, and, as if the pit bull also does not want its owner to pick up its shit, it attacks the leg of the lawn owner. Eventually, the dog owner pulls a pistol from his waistband. This is always the American moment of truth. The gun is the most blunt form of communication there is for the common man. In one motion, the crowded table of an argument, a disagreement, is cleared of all but two things: death or life.

Though the dog owner doesn't point the gun at the lawn owner, the lawn owner fears that he might be trapped in the last moments of his life, that the exit to all the days he spent in this world turns out to be, of all things, a stinking and steaming pile of pit bull shit. But there is no report, no sudden transition from everything to nothing. Time is on his side, for now. The pit bull owner departs without discharging his weapon or cleaning up the dog's mess. An area check for the suspect yields negative results.