It’s funny the things you see when you’re walking the dog: your dog’s butt, mainly, but other things, as well.
Things like the signs real estate agents put in front yards: “FOR SALE,” “UNDER CONTRACT,” etc. The other morning, I passed a sign in my neighborhood that had a line at the top I’d never seen before: “TOO LATE!”
I guess that means “SOLD.” But it’s rubbing it in a bit, isn’t it? Do we want our real estate signs dripping with mean-spirited attitude? What’s next? “SOLD! HA! YOU SNOOZE, YOU LOSE!”
Still, I’m not sure I prefer the cutesy, Etsy-fied “Sold” signs I stumbled across online. One read, “Said ‘yes’ to the address!” I guess the commingling of two reality show crazes — houses and wedding dresses — was inevitable.
I find the commentary that real estate agents add to their “For sale” signs fascinating. Some read “Must see inside” or “I’m gorgeous inside.” I always feel sad when I see these. They’re the real estate equivalent of “Has a nice personality.”
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Maybe we should just get rid of real estate yard signs totally. No “For sale.” No “Open house Sunday.” No “Under contract.” One morning you walk out to get the paper and someone new is living next door.
As I walked, my mind wandered to other signs. On a business, “Under new management” is a rebuke to the old management: “Those guys? You know they stank. We know they stank. We’re not them. There’s a new sheriff in town.”
Then there’s “Lost our lease.” That one always confused me when I was a kid. How could such an important document be lost? Shouldn’t they have kept it in a safe place? If grown-ups can’t be trusted to safeguard the piece of paper upon which their livelihoods depend, what good are they? (I eventually had my answer.)
It was trash day and an assortment of bins were out by the curb. Our dog, Archie, sniffed the occasional trash can. (Some, not all. I don’t know what canine algorithm sparks his interest. I always pull him away with a firm, “No!” A sniff can presage a lifted leg.)
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Trash day is satisfying for us suburbanites. It’s a weekly purge, briefly liberating our houses from those reminders of the inevitability of decay: ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Amazon-box cardboard to blue, wheeled recycling bin.
Trash day can be exciting, too. Unless you put it out the night before, it’s a bit of a scramble in the morning.
As I walked the dog the other morning, I tried to remember the last time My Lovely Wife and I overslept and didn’t get the trash out in time. I couldn’t remember and that made me sad. When you’re almost 60, your body won’t let you oversleep.
Of course, neither will a dog. We trotted on, Archie pulling from one side to the other, led by invisible scents. It was a cold morning, but sunny. Birds were singing, and I once again wished I could recognize more birds solely by the sounds they make. That desire is filed next to wishing I could identify trees by their bark.
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We crossed a bridge over a creek. Walking a previous dog — the sainted Charlie — I once saw a beaver here. That was the Year of the Beaver, when trees by the creek were suddenly reduced to pointed nubs, like pencils in a sharpener.
Someone from the county came out and wrapped wire fencing around some of the remaining trees, protection against the beaver’s toothy attack. It looked somewhat comical. Fencing around a small, young tree I could understand, but some of the fencing was around massive oak (?) trees with trunks as wide as a patio table. Do beavers have delusions of grandeur?
The beaver is gone, but the fencing is still there. And I’m still here, walking the dog, trying to figure out what’s going on in his head — and in mine.
Twitter: @johnkelly
For previous columns, visit washingtonpost.com/john-kelly.
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