I poured the hot water into my mug, watching the tea bag inflate and faintly color the water. It was a cold mid-February morning, with hoar frost clinging to the tree branches draped low across the back yard.

I shivered, glad to be inside the warm house, wrapping my hands around the warm mug, looking across the yard. Amidst the sparkling crisp glory of the winter’s morn, I saw my neighbor’s dog squat down and leave a steaming pile on my side of the property line.

I thought of Geoff Beale.