Trash Talk

Monday is trash day in my neighborhood. I trundle the wheeled trash can to the curb Sunday night. Monday morning at seven a.m. the city’s disposal trucks lumber down the street while the trash collectors in bright orange vests leap from the running boards, heaving trash cans into a chute with a clatter.

I have no idea how Chloe knows it’s trash day. Can she tell from my routine? Can she hear the trucks from a distance? At six forty-five, Chloe is in the window, quivering with excitement, waiting for the show. She adores heavy machinery.

One of the reasons I bought my house was its placement on a quiet, convivial street. Children ride their bikes, dog walkers and joggers greet each other. Before I purchased the place, I had visions of myself sitting on the front porch swing, drinking my morning coffee and greeting my neighbors as they headed off to work.

A few weeks after I moved in, I was awakened by the rat-a-tat of a pneumatic drill. I rushed out into the front porch to find workmen destroying the sidewalk.  “It’s the sewer overflow project,” one of them yelled over the din. “The city is replacing all the pipes.”

My corner became sewer pipe central. The city placed big, concrete pipes and a Porta-potty by the sidewalk. This became the spot for the construction crew to hang out on endless breaks, smoking, drinking coffee, and throwing fast food sandwich wrappers into my garden.

One morning I was leaving the house just as my neighbor was walking to his car and the work crew was gathering on the corner.

“Have a great day!” I called to my neighbor.

“Thanks,” he responded. Waving at the work crew he called, “How are you doing, Marvin? Good to see you, Brandon! How’s it going, Joe?”

The workers lit their cigarettes and nodded sheepishly.

“How do you know these guys?” I asked.

“I’m a guard at the city jail. Don’t get into trouble, guys,” he shouted genially in their direction, adding under his breath to me, “Better keep your house locked.” This was not the life I’d planned for me or for my new cat, Chloe.

But Chloe loved the noise, especially the rumble of the trucks and tractors. The instant she heard the roar of an engine, she jumped into the window and sat, nose against the pane, drooling on the glass. When I left in the morning, if the street was quiet, I was met with questions from the crew. “Hey, where’s the cat? Is Chloe OK?”

“Just start your engines, gentlemen. She’ll be right there.”

As soon as Chloe heard the big trucks come, she would raise one paw in greeting, just like the Japanese “hello kitty” cartoon. The crew would respond with a mirrored salute, calling out, “Hello, Chloe!”

Chloe loved  being greeted by her enthusiastic fans when the big trucks came. Even now, when the construction project is long gone, I come home from work to find Chloe in the window, greeting me with a high pitched whine and her “hello kitty” salute. Last night I was standing on the sidewalk, talking to my neighbor about a new construction project I’m about to begin when a pickup truck went by. Chloe jumped into the window with a loud, insistent meow.

“Good talking to you, but I think you need to go in now,” he said.

“How so?”

“Look at your window. Your cat is calling you.”

And so she was.