Grrrrrrrr........Arrrrrgh!

We have theis really cool backyard here at the new place. It is hard to describe, and I am sure there is some sort of word for it if I were well versed in landscaping terms (terrace?). But it is like my lawn is higher than street level: a lawn on a platform of concrete, completely fenced in. I was completely at ease with my child going outside to play there when the weather is more appropriate. I can see everything he does from the window in my office that is situated on the back wall, and there is also a window that overlooks from the kitchen. It would've been so nice, but...
There is Beowulf. Beowulf is our neighbor's German Shepherd. Beowulf looks out-right frightening, as if he could unhinge the Gates of Hell. That is not the issue. He actually is gentle enough that I have found myself comfortable with Evan playing with him unsupervised. But he is enormous, and therefore has enormous...droppings. It never crossed my mind to be concerned about this. I assumed that, being that we are all living in close proximity in an urban setting, Beowulf's owners were being responsible pet owners. When one has their own lawn, one can be free to allow the dog to leave enormous piles of crap everywhere. But this is a shared lawn. And I have a 7-year-old little boy who loves nothing more than to scoot around on his knees in dirt with huge toy trucks. These two scenarios just do not mesh well.
I didn't realize this. Our short time here has basically been composed of me going to and from my car, down the front walk, as I am coming and going from work. But this morning, I am trying to sleep in a little as I work tonight, and John and Evan are in the bathroom, where John is helping Evan with his unruly hair. I hear muflled voices mumbling something, and it went like this: "HMMMMMmmm mmmmmmmm hhmmmmmm DOG POOP." Huh? What? I ask John what he was saying. "Nothing", he replies. I insist he tell me.
Apparently, my sweet son has taken his miniature version of solid white leather shoes I have provided and tread directly into the center of a pile of Essence de Beowulf. What's more is that the boys hid this from me. I don't know if I need to elaborate on this or not, as there was an entire post in days past devoted solely to the type of shoes I buy my son. As we speak, right now, John is deconstructing the shoes and placing all of the parts into my washing machine with enough Clorox that I can smell the bleach through the floorboards. I am trying to figure the most diplomatic way to address Beowulf's parents, and am wondering if gift-wrapping a Pooper-Scouper for the holidays is entirely too passive-agressive.