So in the interest of illustrating the full possible gamut of bad dog behavior, let’s examine this one: getting in the trash.
On Sunday, well technically Saturday night, the Beast did so, and I initially could not understand the reason for it whatsoever, because there was no food in it…as far as I could recall (try remembering exactly what you put in the trash). But I was wrong. There were two rotten bananas in it. They were neatly tied up in a plastic grocery bag.
Upon first opening the door Sunday morning, I discovered the bananas on the step outside the back door, minus the plastic bag. My guess is that the bananas were too disgusting even for the Beast, and in a fit of rage, he ate the plastic bag instead.
The houseflies had called a convention about it. Wait…we interrupt this regularly scheduled programming for an important technical question. Can they be called “houseflies” if they are outside the house? (Hum the Jeopardy! theme and grab a beer while Fakename Googles.)
Done. And I can guarantee you that you don’t want to know this stuff about Musca Domestica, but on the other hand you’re probably a glutton for punishment because otherwise you probably wouldn’t be reading this blog.
Anyway, it seems they are houseflies no matter where they are, and in my case, entire clans spanning many generations had gathered on the step just outside my back door. In the interests of science, I decided to leave the bananas there to see how long it would take the flies to devour them. Kind of a CSI thing. That, and the fact that there is no reward great enough in this life or the next that would induce me to touch them.
So we have kind of a banana body farm. Day 2: The bananas had moved off the step onto the patio. I personally think the flies did an airlift. I do live in a very wooded area with a lot of wildlife, but I’ve never spotted any that I know to be particularly attracted to bananas. (Other than me, but I just didn’t get around to them in time.)
Since Sunday morning it’s rained twice, so I’m sure you can imagine just how bad this has become. In fact, it’s reached the level where I really, really need to Do Something.
This is where the rubber of living alone, with all its joys and independence, meets the road. When you live alone, you never have the eekamouse option. No one but you will remove the giant spiders/giant beetles with the horrible scary fuzzy antenna/rotten bananas. OR…you can sing lalalala and put your fingers in your ears–which blocks all that buzzing.
Now however, we are at the point where neither the dogs or the cat, or me, want to go outside, because we have to pass by the body farm. Since we have to do it anyway (them to pee, me to go to work) we do it anyway, but then we don’t want to come back in either. We are getting hoarse from the lalalas.
So as I said, now it’s Do Something time. My plan is to use a broom to sweep the body farm into the yard, where it will become part of the universe and fertilize the weed farm. Then burn the broom.