Jack helped me put out the donation last night. He carefully fastened on the tags and laid it on the lawn. Not where I preferred but I don’t want to nag.
The boys and I returned from our walk this morning and I noticed white items scattered around the donation bag. I thought, gee, someone tried to use it to put their garbage in. As the boys and I drew near, I discovered the white items were sharpies and a cloth bag. Large holes poked in the bag and the tags ripped off immediately identified the criminals. Yes, our black beady eyed neighborhood syndicate, the crows, left their imprint.
Its garbage day and the syndicate is on the look out for a hustle. I chuckle. They got a surprise. Utilizing a small hole in the bag, the syndicate enlarged it, pulling out what appeared to be delectable items only to discover the items not so delectable, only plastic and cloth. Pissed, they left them and moved on to unsuspecting homeowners who leave their garbage can lids slightly ajar. The syndicate is adept at prying off those lids and going whole hog on the contents. The owner arrives home to find their garbage strewn across the lawn, only the choice bits removed.
No one escapes our neighborhood syndicate. Not the bald eagles pursued relentlessly by the entire syndicate till they leave the area. Not any neighbor careless enough to forget to batten down their garbage can lid. Not your dogs who pick up a dying member of the syndicate. Jack, me and the boys survived stalking, dive bombing and flying objects, including a dead animal dropped on us. You are marked for life once you annoy the syndicate.
I stuff the items back into the bag. I move it to the driveway curb and lay it gently with the holes up so items won’t spill out when its picked up. The syndicate won’t bother it now, word travels fast in their ranks. No choice morsels in that black bag.