Thursday

It’s Thursday, the most glorious day of the week. It is a day like any other day, but better. Thursday is Trash Day. Buddy loves trash day. The song of the diesel powered, smog coughing behemoths echo through the neighborhood all day, starting as early as 6:30 am, in joyful disregard of the city ordinance for morning quiet.

Our house must be at the juncture of at least three different routes, because even though our trash is only picked up once, we can hear the bull elephant bellow of the trucks ringing through the neighborhood all day. Each time a truck starts its song, Buddy springs to action. He runs for the back door, skidding across the laminate flooring and hurls himself against the plate glass until someone lets him outside. He flies down the back steps and across the yard, a white streak, tiny feet barely skimming the ground. He barks. And barks. And barks. Sometimes he barks so much he gets hoarse. He barks some more.

This ritual is repeated several times on Trash Day. He runs back and forth along the fence, jumping and barking. He won’t stay outside all day where he can bark with reckless abandon, unhindered by human barriers. No, he has to come in after each salvo. My son I decided to count how many times we let him in and out on any given Trash Day.

So far we are up to four—it’s 7:30 am. It’s Thursday, Trash Day, the Most Glorious Day of the Week.