Except for looking outside during winter months the balcony of my condo is largely ignored. After years of living in apartments without one I swore I would be on it all the time. Just the same the view is great. I was attempting to enjoy that view but spotted a large glob running down the length of the sliding door. Because we had some snow and it was pretty cold outside I thought it was ice. Then I see this yellow stuff. Not ice. Eggs I heard that inner voice say. I beat the suggestion back knowing the little voice was right but not really wanting it to be. My brain began these random calculations. Who would egg my balcony? Kids? Neighbors? Halloween was ten months away. I turned detective. I see broken shells enough eggs for a cake, enough for a large omelet, but not enough for quiche. Did you ever notice how an egg looks in a pan versus how it looks when it slips out your hand and drops to the kitchen floor? It expands. Like an egg on the kitchen floor I had to clean the balcony immediately. I picked my cleaning weapons, spatula, gloves, boiling water for the cement floor, which froze as fast as I could pour it. Soon I had my very own ice rink. I don’t skate. With time I considered it a random act. I only know a few of my neighbors and they were all friendly so I let it go. Spring comes around and you guessed it there is another attack. I was having a heavenly nap on the couch, the kind of nap where you drool. A loud thump at the balcony window woke me. I look out and there is a greasy brown paper lunch bag on one of the chairs. I am still a little groggy and don’t quite get it. My brain is still napping only my eyes are fully awake. They spot something and wake up the brain shouting. It’s worse than eggs! I venture outside. It smells. It’s brown and a pile of it has escaped from the bag which is so heavy it is still sitting upright. I again choose my cleaning weapons, water, gloves, bleach, plastic bags, and disinfectant spray. To the dumpster it all goes. I prayed about it, wondering why then again I tried to let it go. Weeks later at a yard sale I was giving an account of it to a neighbor I just met. After musing about the strangeness of it she asked if I had a dog. Nope. Do the people next to me have a black dog? Yes a big black one. Is their balcony next to mine? Yes. She then explains how some dog owners hate other dog owners who don’t pick up poop. My next door neighbors/big black dog owners are the non picking up poop type. What? I am amazed I thought all dog owners were required to love each other, fleas and all.

Did I just give information to an enemy combatant? For two weeks until the rain blurred the letters. I had this sign on my balcony. I DO NOT OWN A DOG.

The war seems to be over, and I sit outside more. Its a good thing.