Brown and yellow bungee cord about 6 ins long, with broken hook: one. About ten inches of black insulated wire attached to a broken piece of green plastic at one end with a ragged break at the other: one. A lens, the nose piece, and part of the earpiece from a pair of plastic sunglasses; one. Lumps of asphalt of varying sizes that do not exceed a few ounces: three. Cylindrical Brussels-sprout-size piece of shiny dried tar; one. The curved and broken rim of a large clay flowerpot about three or four inches long and caked with clay: two. About ten inches of stretchy black rubber tube: one. Rather snake-like at first glance but too uniform in diameter to be a member of phylum Chordata. Yellow and black pieces of plastic with signs of complex injection molding; four. Possibly part of a futuristic toy gun. Torn crackly cellophane peanut butter cookie wrapper: two. White rock, probably part of a gravel driveway: two. Playing card-sized piece of rotten wood: three. Dry and flaking in many subtle pale brown tones. Torn pieces of wood fungus, Turkey tail: two, Oyster mushroom: one.
Steve walks out into the front yard behind Ossian, who is in a hurry to greet me.
“How do you like that collection on the windowsill?”
“Don’t know what to make of it.”
“I call them Ossian’s trophies.”
“Who awards them?”
“He selects them himself , with great care, when we are out and about.”
“Quite a variety of pollution!”
“Once he has found the right thing, he runs home and settles down to examine it on the doormat.”
“Well, it’s a good cleanup, I suppose.”
“He enjoys a drink of ditch water seasoned with oak leaves and engine oil.”
“Can’t you get him away from all this pollution?”
“It is not easy.”
“No!”
“He found a Ziplock bag in the woods last week.”
“What was in it?”
“I don’t know but got it away from him as quick as I could.”
“I read that even the arctic is full of microplastics.”
Steve pulls on the sleeve of his green Snaz-Super-Fleece jacket with orange trim.
“Unfortunately.”
“Yup! Every time it goes in the wash, this stuff is contributing.”
“Ossian is a true twenty-first-century dog.”
“Perhaps he will be an influencer!”
“Well, he hasn’t had any video experience yet.”
“I have my phone right here.”
“That’s alright Fred, not yet.”
“I think he has the presence to do it, though.”
“He delights in plastic and asphalt.”
“What a strange palate.”
“Unique, to canines of our time.”
“Did you see those shiny little cylinders on the side of the street lately?”
“Yes, I don’t see any on display.”
“Well, as I said, he is into asphalt at the moment.”
“The side of the road is crumbling into the ditch, so there is plenty of work for him.”
“He’s a busy collector.”
“Our streets are busy too, with people throwing their trash in the ditch.”
“What are those shiny things, anyway?”
“Empty nitrous oxide cylinders.”
“Isn’t that stuff under pressure for frothing whipped cream?”
“Not on these streets.”
“I hear kids get high on it.”
“Not just kids.”
“They look like part of a tiny welding kit.”
“When is he going to add one to his trophy collection?”
“He is not into drug stuff.”
“Nothing wrong with confectionary!”
“No, he has been hanging back outside the Cavendish Pie Shop
lately.”
“There you are.”
“Ossian has reached a more purposeful stage in his daily meanderings.”
“Starts with a plan, does he?”
“Nothing he shares with me!”
“No, there is a certain communications barrier.”
“What I mean is, that he seldom used to follow a scent along the road for more than a yard without getting distracted.”
“Well, he is a trophy hunter!”
“I guess you do have to be on the lookout.”
“Especially under the leaves and ivy around here.”
“Rooting around.”
“His first trophies were three frozen baby snakes.”
“All at once?”
“No, over the course of several days.”
“Why aren’t they exhibited?”
“It has been a warm winter, and they wouldn’t have lasted.”
“Did you have to rebury them?”
“I think they went in the trash.”
“I’ll bet he found them under those azaleas.”
“No rooting around in the grass.”
“Snake in the grass!”
“Yes, he pulled them out in a strand, spaghetti-like.”
Steve drops a treat for Ossy who is biting his pant cuff.
“Now let’s see if he eats it.”
“Why shouldn’t he?”
“Look, there he goes.”
Ossy is walking slowly over to the flower bed. He stops and circles a spot and then moves on.
“What is he doing?”
Steve lets out another length on the leash. Ossy moves on getting the leash tangled in dried stems at the base of a hydrangea.
“Keep watching.”
Ossy stops and paws the ground carefully making a shallow hole. He drops his dog biscuit into it and pauses to inspect his work.
“Looks like he is burying, now.”
“Yes, he has buried any number.”
“Does he dig them up?”
“Never seen it.”
Satisfied with the hole, he carefully pushes dirt and leaves over the hole with his nose.
He tamps each bit down until the treasure is judged to be properly hidden.
“Here he comes.”
“Look at the clay stuck to his nose!”
Ossy trots back to Steve and looks up at him quietly.
“Yes, his nose never gets properly cleaned off.”
Steve looks up as a flock of geese pass over in echelon, encouraging each other with their cries.
“Looks like they are flying away from that front!”
“It is coming our way.”
The distinct line of the front crosses the sky above us. Sunny to the East and dark to the west.
Ossy is tugging on a tarp covering Steve’s wheelbarrow. He pulls hard with his teeth securely embedded and his front paws spread in front of him for good traction.
“What have you got in there?”
“Bamboo, I cleared a patch this summer and put it in there to dry out.”
“You feel that?”
“I think your bamboo is about to get damped down!”
Steve walks over to Ossy shortening the leash with each stride. He gets close and pulls up on the leash telling Ossy to, ‘let go’.
Ossy doesn’t do so until his forepaws are off the ground. A gust of wind blows under the tarp which flaps off the barrow and across the yard.
Steve reassures him with kind words in a low voice as the rain gets heavier.
“Steve, I am going back home.”
“See you, Fred.
“This dog is weatherproof you know.”
