No, that’s not some snazzy metaphor for 2017. Or a summation of what my house looks like these days. (Although close on both counts. Haha. Just kidding. Sort of.)
The last six months or so I’ve been walking the pup around my neighborhood instead of taking her to the local sixty-acre dog park, because one day she just decided she didn’t like getting in the car anymore and would rather stay on leash and walk around here instead. (I think this has something to do with the number of rabbits that invaded our neighborhood this year. As you can imagine, there aren’t a ton of rabbits at a dog park. Although the day she found a recently killed one is one of my most vivid dog park memories…)
Anyway. Sometimes we go to the right, sometimes we go to the left. And I’ve started thinking of the right-hand walk as the dead squirrel and empty vodka bottle route. There’s a squirrel on the sidewalk about two blocks from here that’s been on the sidewalk for at least the last few weeks. Before that it was on the grass next to the sidewalk for weeks. I don’t know how it died. It must not have been run over, because at this point the skin on its chest is gone and you can see each and every rib on one side of its body and they’re all perfectly intact.
(Why I haven’t taken a picture, I don’t know. Probably for the same reason I didn’t take a picture of the tiny little snake eating a frog ten times its size when I was in Guatemala. It’s a cool thing to see and remember, but not so cool I want to ever look at it again.)
And then there are the vodka bottles we see on our walk. Those little baby ones that it would be easy for someone to swipe when no one’s looking as well as some larger ones that would fit well in someone’s hand. Fortunately, whoever the resident alcoholic is, they haven’t reached the liter-sized bottle stage yet. But whichever direction we go, the little vodka bottles litter every remotely wild space. Empty lot=vodka bottles. Dirt road=vodka bottles. Cluster of trees next to a stream=vodka bottles.
Some days I think I should pick it all up. Bring a bag and one of those little tools the convicts use to grab trash off the ground and erase all signs of the resident alcoholic (or experimental kids or both) and give the dead squirrel a final end.
But I don’t.
I could actually make some profound point right now out of all of this, but I’m not going to. I just thought I’d share. And, really, who doesn’t want to write a post with a title like that?