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Mr. Hayes, a homeless man, moved six years ago into an abandoned house on Cleveland's West Side, where he has become a model resident. He even started paying property taxes in 2011. In this photo, taken this week, he plays in the backyard of the house with one of his two dogs, ShyBear. I do not reveal his real name or address to protect his privacy but he agreed to talk to promote his dream of homesteading in which homeless people can claim and care for properties no one wants.

CLEVELAND, Ohio -- Mr. Hayes is a model neighbor.

From his home of six years on Cleveland's West Side, he looks after the elderly lady next door. He shares vegetables from his backyard garden with anyone in need and keeps his two dogs well fed and fenced in.

The 58-year-old puts his trash in a city-supplied garbage can and clears snow so visitors and the mail carrier can get to the front door. He calls the police at the first sign of trouble and pays property taxes.

Mr. Hayes' life would be unremarkable except for one big thing.

He's a squatter.

Homeless and suffering from mental illness, Mr. Hayes moved into the abandoned cottage-size house on this dead-end street in January 2008. The unsecured house sat behind a much larger house, since demolished by the city. He sought refuge here after moving out, or being evicted from, boarding houses and cheap apartments he says were full of drugs and noise.

He's survived on a pioneer's spirit, which he likens to that displayed by the characters in Willa Cather's famous frontier novel, "My Antonia."

A blind, or indifferent, government, preoccupied with larger neighborhood problems such as prostitution and drug dealing on nearby Lorain Avenue, also has enabled him to blend in.

I met with Mr. Hayes on a recent afternoon to get a glimpse of his version of homesteading in which homeless people claim and care for abandoned homes. His version is radical compared to homesteading practices elsewhere that involve offering vacant land to immigrants and others who promise to farm or build on the property.

Mr. Hayes is trying to prove his version is viable, or at least worth exploring.

Hayes is actually his first name but some neighbors just call him Mr. Hayes. I agreed not to reveal his full name or his address to protect his privacy, though he is well known. He himself has reached out to elected officials and government agencies to push his homestead agenda. He also has a lengthy police record, which includes charges for disorderly conduct, marijuana possession and trespassing, among other misdemeanors. He was ordered once to undergo a psychiatric evaluation, according to court records.

Mr. Hayes' house has just three rooms and a bathroom. He uses the front living room for storage, though books and family photos are displayed neatly in bookcases. Mr. Hayes lives in the middle room, which has a desk, a bed and makeshift kitchen, which includes a small refrigerator, hot plate, toaster oven and space heater. The middle room also is filled with lots of clothes and blankets, CDs, herbal remedies and other odds and ends, such as duct tape, bags and Q-Tips.

Mr. Hayes' makeshift kitchen includes a toaster oven, hot plate, and spices.

In the back of the house is the old kitchen that's now full of tools and junk. The house doesn't smell, even with Mr. Hayes' dogs, ShyBear and Cane, by his side most of the time.

Mr. Hayes pays a neighbor for electricity, which is delivered through a large extension cord slung between the houses. It's an arrangement that Mr. Hayes knows is not legal or safe. But he's in no position to live by building codes. He spent his first winter in the house without power and nearly froze.

The house has plumbing but no water service. Mr. Hayes collects rainwater running off the roof in plastic garbage cans. He filters some of the water in a Britta water pitcher for drinking and cooking. He uses the rest to flush the toilet.

He asked the Cleveland Water Department last summer to restart service to the house and send him the bill. The department turned him down but official Jason Wood encouraged him to seek legal rights to the house.

"Unfortunately, unless and until the property owner authorizes you to reside at the property, CWD is unable to provide the services requested," Wood wrote in an email to Mr. Hayes. "One option might be to reach out to the county prosecutor or the county land bank to secure, if possible, authorization (in the form of ownership or as a tenant) to reside at the property."

Mr. Hayes also sought legislative relief earlier this month.

"Pray God we learn well the lesson from Seymour Avenue about the pitfalls of abandoned properties and broken neighborhoods," he wrote to one councilman, referring to the street where Ariel Castro held three women captive for a decade. "Ergo: Would you, please, introduce an amendment to the ordinance so that qualified people may put to good use properties that are verifiably abandoned?"

Mr. Hayes does his best to care for the house. He patched a leak in the roof and secured the doors and windows.

Cuyahoga County property records show the house is owned by Urban Investments Group Inc., a company that has bought many houses in Cleveland presumably with the goal of reselling them for a profit. The company, whose leaders are nearly impossible to track down, owes tens of thousands in back taxes and penalties on its properties. The company owes $27,000 alone on the house Mr. Hayes is living in. Considering the house is of questionable worth, the chances of the company claiming the house are slim

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In 2011, Mr. Hayes decided to start paying down the tax bill. He took $200 from his disability check and traveled downtown to the Cuyahoga County Auditor's Office. There, he gave a clerk the property's parcel number -- though which the county tracks houses -- and turned over the money. The clerk asked few questions and applied the money to the outstanding debt. Mr. Hayes later arranged to have future tax bills sent to his house. He pays $200 dollars to the county twice a year.

At his home, I reviewed the tax bills – which indeed list Mr. Hayes name – and his receipts. The online property records reflect the payments he's made.

I asked Mr. Hayes why he is paying taxes.

"I'm not looking for a free ride," he said. "I want to show how abandoned properties can be used to solve homelessness."

It's a noble gesture but won't likely forestall the inevitable – the demolition of the house.

Mr. Hayes, , who is tall, slim and clean shaven, made lunch for me. He warmed up fish in the toaster oven and mixed it in a bowl with brown rice and a hard-boiled egg. He seasoned the dish with salt and rosemary.

During the meal, he told me he grew up in White Plains, N.Y., and worked in the region as a journalist and laborer. He said he's educated but struggles with anxiety and depression. Drugs also sidetracked his life. He came to Cleveland in 1994 to help care for his sick mother, who moved here to be close to her relatives. He said he believes she was mistreated in a West Side nursing home before she died. This belief sparked a crusade against elder abuse that occupies much of his time. He said he's been sober for years and identifies with Arthur "Boo" Radley, the mysterious character in Harper Lee's novel, "To Kill a Mockingbird."

He reads and communicates largely through the Internet, but he also has a cell phone. After taking classes through the now discontinued federally funded program, Connect Your Community, he received a free computer and Internet service for a limited time. For a while, he had a phone line in the house. He has a modest Facebook page that features a picture of his dogs and posts about mental health issues and elder abuse.

Before I left, I asked Mr. Hayes what he wants for himself.

The answer was right in front of me.

"All I ever wanted was a quiet home with a fenced-in yard and a couple of dogs," he said.