The Shit Wars

Brenda Lightle

“He’s at it again,” Mom says, standing at the kitchen window.

Dad responds, “that son of a bitch,” slamming his coffee cup down. His face as red as his hair. He gets up from the kitchen table and yanks his green Army jacket—our last name stitched on the chest—from the coat closet. I abandon my spoon, letting my Life cereal go soggy in the bowl, and watch him thrust his arms through the sleeves. His tongue sandwiched firmly between his teeth.

My brother and I know that look well. I often wondered how he avoids biting his tongue off.

“What are you going to do?” Mom asks.

“If it’s war he wants, then it’s war he’s gonna get!” Dad storms out the side door to the garage, slamming it behind him. My brother and I leap from our chairs to go watch.  

We quietly open the front door and watch from behind the screen. Dad emerges from the garage, shovel in hand. He strides down the driveway toward the gravelly edge in front of our house, where our property line meets the street. Deci, our collie, trots along beside him, staying within the cyclone fence that encloses our front yard.

We see Mr. Kozak—who had moments earlier been spotted flinging poop onto our gravel parking strip—standing with his back turned, while Pepper—his big black poodle—sniffs through the grass.

He doesn’t see Dad. My brother and I exchange wide-eyed glances as my cereal begins to turn in my stomach.    

Dad bends down and scoops up a pile of poop from the parking strip, and—with a quick flick—launches it into Mr. Kozak’s yard. It plops right beside him.

Mr. Kozak spins around, red-faced and snarling with his grey hair matted and belly peeking out from under his white T-shirt. I’m surprised by his disheveled appearance.                    

He locks eyes with Dad, then staggers toward another pile, awkwardly chasing it through the grass until he scoops some onto the shovel blade to fling it. But the launch goes wrong—he loses his footing, nearly falling. The shit bomb plops into the center of the street, melting into the pavement.

Moving closer, my brother and I press our faces against the screen mesh, not quite believing the spectacle: two grown men waging war over dog poop. This wasn’t the Mr. Kozak we knew—the one who slipped Deci dog bones through the fence and waved from his garden. And certainly not Dad, who acted like Mr. Kozak was the Viet Cong.

After regaining his balance, Mr. Kozak goes for another pile. Meanwhile, Dad hammers shit bombs with machine-gun accuracy, some finding their target, others splattering in the street, until the ammunition runs dry.

Then Pepper runs over, sniffs the last pile, pees on it, and then poops next to it.

Dad leans on his shovel, erupting in laughter. I hear Mom in the kitchen hum in amusement.

“You think this is funny?” Mr. Kozak slurs, stabbing the grass.

“Look!” Dad points toward Pepper in mid-poop.

Mr. Kozak follows his gaze, letting his weapon drop.                                  

“It’s your dog’s shit, not ours,” Dad declares. “Deci’s fenced in. She can’t get out.”

Mr. Kozak rubs his neck, mouth hanging open, glancing between Pepper and Dad as the realization dawns on him.

I remain glued to the screen, its diamond pattern etching into my face.

“Come on, Pepper.” Mr. Kozak trudges back toward his house, Pepper bounding after him. They soon disappear inside, and just like that, the war ends.   

“Why does Mr. Kozak think Deci poops in his yard?” I ask when Dad returns.

“Because he’s been drinking again. And when he drinks, he thinks he’s back in Korea.”

Until that day, I had no idea Mr. Kozak drank.

But Dad? He wasn’t drunk. He acted like he was on a mission. And the way he’d leaned on his shovel and laughed—like he’d won. 

For the next week, as we played in the street with the other kids, one of us would inevitably feel the squish underfoot or hear the telltale crunch beneath a bike tire—each time followed by the pungent smell of landmines left behind and long forgotten.