02 - York, Pennsylvania
A small can of tuna sat on the riverbank, wedged between a
root and a clutter of junk left behind by some other vagabond. As I got closer,
I knew I could either climb onto the shore and stretch over the edge or brave
the icy current and snatch it from its place. Unfortunately, with each step
forward, my naked black feet grew more and more numb. Even my fingers started to feel frostbite as one hand massaged
the other.
.
I licked my lips and fixed my eyes upon the little
silver prize. The open lid exposed a chunk of fresh tuna inside, flakes of
fishy goodness which would go a long way towards stopping the rolling muscle
cramps in my gut and that was good enough for me.
.
“This should be easy,” I thought. I hunkered down and investigated
the rusted lock and the tiny glint of treasure held firmly in its grasp.
.
Those tiny black fingers, wrinkled and weathered, went to
work. I’d seen this sort of contraption a hundred times before. I’d been lucky
up to this point, careful not to get caught. I grabbed a stray twig and held t
out in front of me. One hand stretched towards the tin can and lifted it from
its stoop.
.
“Whap!” Two solid metal clips snapped shut as the #2 fox
trap broke the twig in two. If it had been one of my hands, the trap could’ve snapped
the thing in two. As it was, the fox trap sat upside-down in the mud, tethered
to the riverbank by two mooring pins and the can of tuna, sat alone, just a few
feet away.
.
“A-ha!” I exclaimed, as I proclaimed myself the champion. I quickly
scooped out a large chunk of fresh albacore meat and shoved it into my gaping mouth.
Left hand, right hand, left hand, right, I worked like a hungry little machine,
ravenously eating everything I could fit into my mouth. As I ate, a clutch of
rainbow trout surged up from the murky depths beneath the Cottonwood and
siphoned the fish bits off the water’s surface. Although me and the fish were
so very different, we occupied this same space as if it were a natural thing. I
had my tuna and they had theirs. I pawed at the empty can and it tumbled
through the roots and plopped into the water. The trout swarmed to the can
feverishly. It was eerie how many there were now – an overwhelming lot – but I’d
had my fill, so I quickly rambled up the stream and skipped over the sandstones
that lined my path.
.
“What now?” I thought.
.
I dunked my grubby little black paws in the water and rinsed
my face. As I did, crawdads swished away, kicking up a flurry of sand in their
wake. When the dust settled, they were gone.
“There must be something, somewhere for me to do,” I said, “There’s
the house on the hill with the ratty old dog and the angry old man with the
broom. They’re never quite fond of my company and to tell you the truth, I am
never quite fond of theirs, either, but I’m still hungry and that house on the
hill is always a good bet.”
.
Whenever the master was away, the dog was locked up inside
the house. The old green truck was gone, so maybe, just maybe this was my lucky
day.
.
I circled around to the embankment and crawled onto the flat
outcropping where either fishermen or young couples always sat. It was smooth
and bare, worn down by years of fairly good use. A thin layer of dirt coated my
wet paws as I looked up at the house. I quickly moved into the grassy clearing
beyond the fishing hole and the dew-covered grass washed the dirt from my feet.
.
The dog barked in the distance, but he was safely locked
away in the house. I took my time, meandering through the backyard and scouting
out all of my surroundings.
.
Three metal trash cans sat next to the porch, their lids
fastened securely with bricks. I lifted my head and took a whiff. I couldn’t
smell a thing.
.
Still, I was undaunted.
.
The dog’s barks strained as I got ever closer to the house.
I ignored him completely as I neared those beautiful silvery trash cans.
.
A car’s engine roared in the distance and I high-tailed it
for the cover of the back porch steps. I’d been belly-down there before,
nose-deep in gravel, peering out between the steps. The car approached and
continued on over the hill. As the sound faded, I immediately advanced on the
trash cans, three guardians of deliciousness.
.
Regardless of everything else, I was bound and determined to
find out what secrets they kept locked up inside, so I rose up on my hind legs
and pushed as had as I could until the can on the end finally crashed onto its
side, launching the brick, the lid, and a pile of food onto the gravel. I
rushed over and quickly sifted through the rubbish; old newspapers, pieces of
junk mail, and a few bits of grocery packaging. I dug into the bottom of the
bag and smelled coffee grounds and orange rinds. I climbed farther in, looking
for anything of the slightest value as my stomach spit out juices and digested
that tiny bit of fish rolling in my gut. A pale white piece of orange flesh sat
just in front of me. I poked my head deeper into the trash and grabbed it
between my teeth.
.
“Hey!” shouted a voice, “Get out of here this instant!”
.
If it wasn’t the old man, returning to break up my party and
I had been too busy digging around in the muck to notice. Luckily, he was
without his broom, and more importantly, he was without his dog.
.
With the orange rind secured firmly in my teeth, I popped my
head out and glared at him. He shifted in place, taking a defensive position.
This was something new. I dropped the orange rind and snarled. He moved
sideways, angling towards one of the other trash cans. “What in blue blazes was
he up to?” I growled loudly as I stepped towards him.
.
“I don’t want any trouble, buddy.”
.
The man stood in a low crouch, a metal trash can in one hand
and an open hand in the other. His arms stretched towards me. After a brief
stand-off, I glanced around at the empty space around us. Then, I just picked a
direction and went.
.
“Get out of here and stay out!” he shouted after me.
.
I ran as fast and as hard as I could until I reached the
bottom of the hill. The shouting stopped now. I was safely out of range of both
homeowner and dog, so I continued on slowly until I reached the creek.
.
I dunked the orange rind into the water and washed it
vigorously between my paws, trying to get that awful coffee stink off the rind.
As soon as the orange smelled okay, I stuffed it back into my mouth and chewed
fiercely. Each bite was a treasure won.
.
“Hey! Look, grandpa!” a little girl stood at the bank,
pointing directly at me. The grandfather turned to face me awe all locked our
gazes on each other. The sound of the barking dog returned in the distance. I
looked towards the house. The old dog loped through the grass towards me. His
master must have let him out. My eyes darted about, looking for an escape
route.
.
In no time at all, he was at the low side of the hill and
getting closer. I jumped into the creek and tumbled through the water for a
moment. Before I righted myself, the current pushed me downstream. I paddled a short
way to a heavy tree branch and grabbed hold.
.
The barks faded in the distance as the branch slipped in and
out of my grasp. Still, I managed to hold on tight until the stream spit me out
me onto the opposite side.
.
I crawled onto the bank and took a look around. A huddle of
houses sat up the hill. This was someplace new – the sweet smell of fresh trash
enticed me one again, so I investigated my surroundings and looked for a new
bit of trouble.
.
I shook the excess water from my fur and hobbled up the hill
towards a row of apartment buildings and the dumpsters at the end of the lot.
.
It was no trouble to
scale the rusty old chain link fence and step onto the lid which had been
flipped backwards and now rested on the top of the fence. I padded over the
flimsy piece of plastic until I reached the edge of the large metal bin.
.
“Bulls eye!”
.
I dove right in and the trash cushioned my fall. Garbage
bags and grocery bags and old fast food bags, filled with fries and hamburgers
and hot dogs and chicken bones were under every piece of green plastic or cardboard
I ripped open. There were small crescents of pizza crust which were old and
stale and hard as rocks. Normally, I wouldn’t argue and I’d just shove it into
my maw and let the saliva make it soft and chewy. However, wherever I looked
there was food, lots and lots of glorious food. A beggar’s banquet, this was
simply heavenly.
.
Again, though, my moment of goodness had to be tarnished by
some person, meddling into my business, nosing into my turf. There came a pair
of kids. As they reached the dumpster, they yanked open the door and looked in.
.
“Eek! there’s a raccoon!” shouted the girl.
.
The boy quickly pitched the bag full of wet newspapers at me
and it landed with a heavy thud. They may or may n ot have scampered away. I
was in the bottom of the dumpster, pinned between two boxes.
.
Quickly, I pushed through the trash and climbed to the top
of the heap. My feet shifted uneasily in the scrabble of trash that was loosely
secured inside the trash bags. I reached up to the ledge and tried pulling
myself up. It was just beyond my reach. I looked about me and saw the old
rusted wire bicycle basket and used it for support. If I could just…reach…the
ledge.
“There!” I grabbed onto the soft plastic of the sliding door
and it buckled under my weight. Ii quickly squeezed through the gap between the
two plastic doors and jumped onto the pavement below.
.
I landed awkwardly, hitting both my jaw and one of my
wrists. Still, I got up and got away. I headed down the hill and back to the
icy waters below.
Maybe I should count my wins and let go of my losses. There’s
always time tomorrow for more drama – and more adventure.
.
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