Since Christmas Day afternoon when the first remnants of discarded wrapping and the remains of that special breakfast hash brown even George The Dog turned his nose up at were carted out to the bins, I've worn a well-trodden path out the back.
However, this time it's a little different.
The bins are empty. Pick-up is not due for a bit and we've got a smelly issue in the small bin inside the house. I'm sure you have been there.
I should point out here it's not overflowing with rubbish. It's a small amount of unwanted dog food I plonked in the bin without really thinking. And it really pongs.
My first thought is to simply stick it in the big bin outside, but Mrs P has other ideas.
If I do that apparently all I'm doing is shifting the smell a bit further away from the house. As we have a postage stamp size section it won't take long for the odour to return to our nostrils.
Besides, as she who washes my unmentionables points out, I am popping down to the service station to fill up. Why not simply pop the bag in the bins there?
I need to repeat here, in case the good folk of BP Wild Bean threaten to revoke my coffee card for unlawful use of their bin, we are talking literally a couple of handfuls of gloopy, unwanted dog food – not a huge bag of rubbish.
Or at least we were. By the time I have taken the bin liner out of the bin Mrs P has also added a pile of cooked but now cold and unwanted asparagus. So probably only three handfuls of rubbish.
I am walking to the car partway through tying the bag shut, when a shriek from my beloved has me hurrying back to the house.
It seems a large blackbird has ploughed at speed straight into the ranch slider and is now nothing but a crumpled heap of feathers on the deck. So, into the bag, along with the asparagus and dog food gloop it goes. And off I go to the servo, taking George along for the ride.
We were almost there when the fun started, just as I had pulled up at the traffic lights across from the servo.
The "dead" bird very obviously wasn't. And he woke up.
I'd say it would be a pretty safe bet to assume he was somewhat shocked by his predicament, that is, waking up in a bin liner, surrounded by dog food and asparagus, after knocking himself out on a ranch slider that had been pretty murky for the last few months but which had become spotlessly clear just before Christmas guests arrived.
I'm sure you know what I mean.
Anyway.
The bird is going off in the bag, trying to get out. And now George is pawing at the bag trying to get in.
I'm nothing if not an animal lover. I can't let the poor bird suffer. I have to let it out. So, I rip open the bag.
Big mistake.
Imagine if you will, me sitting at the lights in my new Christmas polo shirt from Farmers, my hysterical dog jumping around inside our little 1995 Toyota Rav4 chasing a squawking, flapping blackbird, the pair of them tossing the remnants of the bag all over the place in their frenzied game of tag.
Eventually I managed to grab hold of George and open all the windows so the bird could escape. Behind me, another driver who had been waiting for me to move, honked his horn and wearily I moved on.
I did my best to clean up the car and throw what I could into the bin as we filled up at the servo. I knew I'd be spending the rest of the day giving the entire interior of the car a deep clean.
I went inside and paid, getting a few odd looks from people around me. I presumed they'd seen me sitting in the car waving my arms around like a madman while all hell broke loose and were wondering what on earth my problem was.
I worked it out as soon as I got back in the car and checked the rear vision mirror.
I had a big chunk of sloppy asparagus stuck to the side of my head.
• Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief too much serious news gives you frown lines. Feel free to share stories to editor@northernadvocate.co.nz (Kevin Page in subject field) .
