Yesterday's spate of 40 mph wind gusts wreaked havoc with our trash dumpster. When I went outside to walk around 4:15, I saw that it was sprawled all cattywompus across the back end of the carport. All that was missing was yellow crime scene tape around the perimeter. Dumpy was on his side, his lid gaping open like the mouth of Farmer H when he dozes in the La-Z-Boy.
I thought nothing of it. Dumpy has been known to topple over every now and then, like a freshman sorority gal at her first TKE House kegger. I knew I had to move him, because his lid was hanging over in the section where Farmer H parks my mom's old 2002 TrailBlazer with no working 4WD that we paid entirely too much for half of to my sister the ex-mayor's wife. I tried dragging him back behind the not-driven 1980 Olds Toronado (scene of a mysterious pooping incident), and turning Dumpy over on his back, but his lid wouldn't stay shut, and I didn't want Jack and Copper running in there to shred the lone trash bag he held at the time. So I tipped Dumpy over on his belly, where his lid flapped shut due to gravity.
Juno did not deign to join us until the end of the walk, and she whimpered and sniffed at Dumpy and acted a bit anxious like her old pal Poor Dumb Ann. I don't know why she cared. The dumpster has nothing to do with her, except she comes running to watch when one of us pulls it up or down the driveway. She used to run along with The Pony, but I guess I'm too slow for a good romp.
Imagine my surprise when I walked out today and saw this:
That's a little pile of gravel on Dumpy's back! How in tarnation did THAT get there? I suppose it's plausible that those divider thingies held it there when I tipped Dumpy over. But let's remember that I first put him on his back, then on his side, and THEN on his belly like this. So one would assume that pieces of gravel, if scooped up during the wallowing, would have fallen off. Due to gravity, you know.
Here's a closer look:
There was no rhyme nor reason to this gravel rubble. Not a mini Stonehenge, it didn't spell R E D R U M, there wasn't an X marking a spot, or a target for practice. Something's fishy here, but I don't want to imagine what. These fleabags WOOF their heads off all hours of the night. I don't want to think about somebody (I imagine that Michael Myers guy, escaped mental patient age, in the mask from Halloween) standing out there shenaniganning while I sat in my basement watching TV.
I had just taken out a bag of trash to put in before pulling Dumpy up the driveway for tomorrow's pickup. So don't think Dumpy "refunded" in the driveway. You might also notice that his lid doesn't match the barrel, if you know what I mean. Since we've had him for 20 years, his handle had cracked. Rather than retire Dumpy and give us a strapping young version, the trash company put a new lid on him. A lesser lid. The cinnamon babka of the trash dumpster lid world. You can see that the new-lid middle part of that handle is hollow. It's quite uncomfortable gripping it while dragging Dumpy the length of the driveway, over uneven, unpacked gravel. At least in the winter my hand is cushioned by a glove.
What say YOU, my fellow internet sleuths? Any possible scenarios? Or do I have to call Mystery, Inc.?
OOH!!! I just figured it out, looking at that picture one final time before hitting PUBLISH.
I'll explain it in the comments if nobody else does.