Yesterday I had my comuppance. I clambered over a fence, tiptoed through a beautifully manicured lawn and was just preparing to scale the second fence into a horse pasture when I heard a voice. It sounded angry. I pulled out my earphones.

“What do you think you’re doing? This is private property,” said the irate homeowner.

“I’m so sorry. I was just cutting through your yard to get to Parker’s Mill Road,” I answered, by way of apology and with just a trace of a question mark at the end of my sentence, hoping he would see the utter harmlessness of my actions.

“This is not a cut-through,” he snapped.

“Don’t worry,” I said, my voice rising now. “I don’t even live here. I’m just visiting my mother.”

“Make sure it doesn’t happen again,” he said, rage bubbling up through his words.

“Got it,” I said, all attempts at politeness vanishing. The only way out at that point was to climb another fence, which I did as quickly as possible.

This was at the beginning of my walk, and after that I started trotting, hoping I could bounce the bad feelings away. It was what I deserved, I know. But the punishment did not fit the crime. It made me think about how many times it doesn’t. Not a bad thing to ponder from time to time.