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Back in Virginia, I could leave a rotting horse carcus out next to the trash, and the trash guys would come and haul it away.  Not so, here.  We have three big cans, one for trash, one for yard cuttings, and one for recycling.  If it isn’t in one of those three cans, it doesn’t go anywhere.
Of course I found that out after the fact, so I loaded up all the excess boxes and junk from moving, and went searching for a dump.
First of all, they don’t call it a dump.  It’s a landfill.  And its enormous.  I had to drive 30 minutes away, then up a mountain.  They gave me an orange safety vest, took down information about what I was dumping, and off I went back down the mountain.
I got to drive right up to the ocean of filth, wade into it up to my ankles, and throw my junk in. Â And I thought the neighborhood cows smelled bad. Â Those grass-fed stink factories were nothing compared to the landfill. Â What an incredible new smell I discovered!
Anyway, it made our dump look like someone’s back yard.  Don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.
