My 'hood springs to life on Trash Day.
Friendly -- albeit stinky -- garbage guys boisterously pick their way through discarded couches, lopsided cans and pounds and pounds of cut grass. Night-crawlers get a head start, ravaging whatever's left outside by midnight before the sun decides to wake. And anything with wings clearly considers Wednesday mornings to be reason alone to chirp extra brightly.
Then there's the guy with the savage-looking Boxer. Actually, I think the dog is harmless, it's the heavy metal collar with daggers that's a little off-putting.
I thought he was my neighbor at first. The fact that he gingerly traversed the lawn across the street, let his dog pee on a shrub and then casually rambled over to the trash was pretty much a dead-give-away. Wrong.
His house is a few blocks away. But every week, as his Boxer peruses appealing cracks in the sidewalk, he makes his way from house-to-house with an enormous plastic bag. By the time he's done, it's filled with cans. Coke. Sunkist. Coors Light. He's apparently not so picky.
Bizarre? Slightly. Appealing? Completely.
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