FBR 91: Garbage In, Garbage Out: Happy New Year

The world has come beseeching. What thoughts have I about the year just past and the year ahead? By way of an answer, I want to relate what occurred on this morning's dog walk.

At the bottom of the hill on Plymouth was an overturned garbage can. It was outside the snowbank, near the stop sign. Its hinged lid was laying open in the street. Since I use the same refuse company, I know these cans are heavy. They are large and have to be durable because the refuse truck is the sort with nifty mechanical arms that grab the can and lift it in a jerky arc over the open-topped truck. I righted the can, and Kip and I walked on.

Now, and bearing in mind the theme of today's Report, you are asking: why did I stand the can upright?

First of all, seeing it overturned struck me as wrong. It was an image of something that was not as it should be. Like, perhaps, a body in the snow. A man reading a newspaper that he's holding upside down. A tuft of dog hair on the carpet. That sort of thing. The overturned can needed to be set right — or rather I needed it to be, or wanted it to be, or liked being the hero of an unbidden, selfless, unseen action. All of which speaks to a deep I don't know what — sentiment? genetic necessity? — to set things just so, to undo, whenever possible, the unright thing. That's one.

There was another reason. While approaching the can, dog on leash, I had time to work over these thoughts: if a woman, say, the wife in the house in front of which the can was overturned, came out at that moment to right the can, I would feel compelled to help her. Remember the can is heavy and awkward. Yes, a courtesy. But I am walking a dog who is, uh, insufficiently trained in the ways. Yesterday, he snapped at a nice lady. This was the second time. He also jumps like a joey. Since the leash was the retractable kind, and there was nothing else but a street sign near, it would have proved difficult and time-consuming to fetter the dog somewhere, while the woman waited — in the cold, rubbing her arms — for me to help her.

A final issue was that in a few seconds, I would be past the can, around the corner, not in a useful position to hear her request, and saw in my mind's eye (that useful thing) her lonely struggle with the big wheeled can. Her husband, in this scenario, has already gone to work. Her children are too little and likely still snuggled deep in their beds. There was no choice. Just do it now, one-handed, with the dog in tow, before any such uncomfortable scene has a chance to materialize.

The New Year's message? Well, let's see. Right a wrong whenever you see it. Do it alone to avoid discomfort on all sides. Keep your dog on a leash. Yes, all of those things. In the larger picture, I really wouldn't expect the world to get any better; dogs are just dogs, people are just people, so flawed as to make you want to give up. But every now and then (and here the music swells), you just might find something tiny enough for you to do more or less successfully, at least in your own mind. Happy New Year.