The morning poop.

March 6, 2016

Walked our Brug Gunther west.  He pooped.  It’s at the far end of our 1925-vintage block.  We returned east via the alley, with leash in my left and baggie of poop in my right.

Morning sunshine streaming down alley.  Utility poles, one leaning.  Row of dumpsters.  Does the garbage truck put them down in a neat row?

Narrow storm door leaning against dumpster.  Particle board repaired with white paint.  Sprayed?

I opened another dumpster to drop the baggie.  Hmmm “leaf blower,” I murmured.  Surprised me that I spoke aloud.

Delighted by the blower, I optimistically looked ahead.  The next dumpster had a treadmill next to it, a derelict “Vitamaster 800.”  The next, a bunch of cardboard printed “Bouncer.”  I looked to the house’s front, and sure enough, trampoline, with netting.  A heavy plastic bag.  I stooped to pick it up, then thought better.  I’ll leave this for whoever else picks things up around here.

A bit of tree had grown through a chain link fence, cut off.  Farther, two wooden pallets lean against a fence across the alley. Now, a third one.  No one has touched the pile of boards I put behind our garage.

Gunther made a couple of sympathetic barking sounds as we passed the fence with dogs behind.  At the east end of the block someone left a toilet on the porch.  Most of the birds have quit their morning chirping.