"The Four-Legged Avenger"

I was sitting at my desk
when I witnessed it through the window:
the handyman the widow next-door had hired
chasing a dog down the stairs. It was obvious
that he'd let the pooch out of the house by mistake
and was trying to catch he before it escaped into the yard.
He failed, stumbling awkwardly down the steps
in pursuit of the canine on the loose.
The widow and the handyman's helper
emerged from the door, a frown on the former's face
a smirk on the latter. The small white-and-black dog
ran off to kicked up leaves with his back feet
under the big elm that canopied the rear half of the property.
The handyman, winded and in his late fifties, reached down
tentatively as the dog barked his discontent.
It was no surprise that the old coot would miss
as he lunged for the dog's collar. The smirk and frown
grew larger simultaneously. The handyman slapped his thigh
in frustration and spit sideways onto the driveway
wishing he could mutter the list of four-letter words
that were running through his mind. The sign on his van
would not allow for that, though: "Friendly Home Repair, LLC".
The dog began to run in circles around the garage, barking
his battlecry of scorn as he pounded a victory lap into the ground.
Whistles, threats, the clapping of hands: none of them worked.
A plume of smoke rose from the widow's face
as she lit a long slim cigarette and ran her bony fingers
through her tassled gray hair. Her reddened face squinted
in my direction as she tried to make out whether or not
she saw a shirtless tattooed man sitting at his desk
watching her dilemma through the window. If it'd matter now;
if she could hear me through this double-paned glass; if poor old Richard
weren't rolling in his grave like a rotisserie chicken, I'd say it:
"You put the old man six feet under. This is what you get."