The Weight of a Barrel
Page 4, Burgers with a side of bestiality.
Through rain, sleet, and snow, the tall and gangly, mostly white and commonly shaggy mutt, Rudy, walked to the park, through the park and back twice a day, a 40-minute round trip. He was a slim 55 pounds, smart, happy, and would do anything for me—or food. Most rescue dogs appear to have a deep awareness of what it means to be saved from their imminent fate—the misfortune of being unwanted—and typically express their gratitude.
Blissfully unaware of what lay ahead, we saddled up with leash and treats; glaringly absent was the most fundamental accessory, bottled water. How did we survive?
Anywhere else, a warm, sunny day might inspire unoriginal sighs like 'What a beautiful day.' But in the streets of an overpopulated metropolis, ordinary thoughts are overridden by senses immersed in objectionable smells, unwelcome sounds, and a heaviness of energy. It was a peaceful, albeit unremarkable, journey to the park passing the usual dogs walking their usual owners.
Occasionally Rudy and I would decide to go rogue by breaking the park rules by letting him off-leash. Rudy was highly trained and remarkably receptive to commands. He always stayed nearby despite his all-day confinement to a micro-apartment, a necessity in a city so overcrowded it often felt like living in a human swarm.
Rudy had an off-leash pattern you could count on, and I took advantage of the respite as well by sitting at the base of a tree with no other job except to enjoy the day. Rudy would run in circles expending pent-up energy and circle back to me for a treat; run, rinse, repeat.
The hillside we always chose sloped sharply to a woodsy edge of the park, hidden from view. Beyond that, the landscape rose up over the greenery to reveal stacks and stacks of banal architecture molded out of the red bricks and cool, grey mortar of the 1960’s. Beyond that, the horizon became more industrial with far-off cranes erecting cell towers and unnamed steel skeletons piercing the space meant for clouds.
Rudy ran. I sat, not necessarily with the gratitude I would have today, but contented and with joy. And that’s close enough.
After his run, I clipped the leash, and we continued circling the park before heading home. I glanced back at where we had just been to say farewell to the cranes and skeletons, only then did I notice. In the center of the field of grass and dandelions was an overturned, rusted steel trash barrel and its scattered contents. Looking around to see if anyone else took notice of this travesty of nature. How could they have missed it, and more so, done nothing, I thought, piously.
Before Rudy realized his under-developed sense of smell betrayed him again, I settled him in a shady spot beyond the strewn potato chips and set off to the moral high ground on the lower side the hill. Of all the park goers I was the best suited, having been raise on a farm, to clean up what would surely be a level of disgusting most cannot endure. I righted the barrel while accepting my misfortune. With cheap napkins to use as a barrier between me and future untreatable skin conditions, the clean-up began. So far so good with the majority being fast-food bags, random plastic containers, plastic kids’ meal toys, aluminum beer cans, a dead headless chicken, more fast food -- wait.
I don’t know how long I stood staring at the incongruency of such an animal in such a place, and in this state. Trash from the overturned barrel was spread far and wide and the grass had not recently been cut. It was only a few inches high, but high enough to disguise all scattered garbage as looking roughly the same. But it was not the same. There was a fully feathered chicken carcass among the refuse. Okay. I guess this is what we are doing today, Rudy. With my napkin in hand, I picked up the former chicken by one of its legs but could not resist inspecting it to be sure I was in fact looking at a real chicken and not a toy. As I held the headless corpse up to the hot sunlight in bewilderment, the animal lover within me began to feel tears well. As disorienting as the discovery of dismembered remains in a publicly funded park, that feeling was compounded by the sight of a condom hanging from the chicken’s nether regions.
As I walked toward the barrel still coming to terms with the flood of information, I came upon another chicken. Same condition. Despondent, I added it to the body count and dropped them in the barrel wincing at the reverberant thump. Another chicken, and another. I began walking past the trash and looking for chickens. Upon final collection, I had picked up eight discarded chicken carcasses, all headless, all feathered, all violated. As hard as it was to continue, the keeping our parks clean initiative was abandoned for the noble attempt of giving the chickens, and all living things, a measure of dignity by concealing their shame. I also wanted the chickens to be at the bottom of the trash can so I could cover them with remaining garbage in hopes that no one else would be subjected to the discovery. No one else would have nightmares, and no one else would be recalling this memory 26 years later.
We walked home in silence.
Even now as I write this, I’m taken back to that time, my throat is swelling, and my eyes are watery. Although I give no thought to the contemptable creatures that defiled our beautiful park, I remember my dog often. Upon our solemn return that day, we dismounted the high horse and discarded our appurtenances. Rudy could tell that something was different. He sat with me as I held him, stroked his head and buried my salty eyes into his wiry coat.