Tuesday is trash day.
Last Tuesday was a normal drag the trash out to the curb kind of day. I lovingly placed my container at the side of the curb never thinking this would be the last time my hands would embrace its greasy handles.
I returned home from work to discover my trash container was gone.
Poof!
Just gone.
I looked around the cul-de-sac, called out for it, checked behind the house, interrogated the children, but nothing.
I think it was the diapers. I don’t blame it for running away.
This morning I decided to check with the city on how I should go about getting a new trash can. The garage was starting to look and smell like the inner city and trash day was soon approaching, and I needed a plan.
I explained my situation to the lady on the other end of the line and I was told I needed to call the police and report it stolen.
What?!
I explained to them I didn’t think it was stolen, I was all but certain the truck took it, and was concerned about filling a false police report. “This happens all the time, this is just our procedure”. I asked how they arrived at this procedure, and suggested the trash collector simply leave a note explaining that the can slipped out of the jaws of death and a new can would be on its way.
She told me it could take up to two weeks to get a new can.
I sat there for a second thinking about placing soiled diapers in my garage for the next two weeks, and thanked God it was winter.
There is now an APB out for my wayward trash can. I can’t wait to read about this in the paper; “Police responded to the one thousand block of Main Street on the report of a stolen trash can. A despondent citizen was found frantically searching nearby houses, Diaper Genie in tow, desperately crying out for help.”
I wonder if I should give them a photo of the suspect?
I think it was an inside job.