Quite literally. There is trash everywhere.
I pick junk mail addressed to people I have never met from the mint growing in front of my house on a daily basis. While shoveling snow a couple of weeks ago, I uncovered a half-eaten McDonald’s filet o’ fish meal. And when I walk my dogs, I must keep track of where their noses are or they will indulge in whatever hotdogs, pizza slices or meat-soaked paper towels they can hone in on. The worst, however, are the chicken wing bones. I don’t know how many decaying chicken bones I have ripped from my dogs’ mouths. (Looking forward to post-Super Bowl Monday… not).
To be fair, I live within a five-minute walk of York College, and I didn’t care for the neighborhood I lived in during college, either. I assume, the students that I share streets with are of similar indifference.
The small mammalian community, that seems to be thriving, adds to the problem. A groundhog family lives under my shed. I wouldn’t mind them in particular if they didn’t spend the summer eating my broccoli. I have occasionally run into the neighborhood skunk on predawn dog walks. But only once have the skunk and my dog Baxter come nose to nose.
The worst are the raccoons. They scavenge people’s trash left out for the garbage truck and spread their findings with abandon.
We were all taught that littering is wrong. And I understand its hard to care about property or belongings you aren’t invested in — until I owned my house I didn’t give a crap about rubbish-strewn streets either — but now all I see is trash.