We take the dogs to the riverside not nearly as often as they would like to go. My husband ends up with both leashed dogs tugging him, our 80-pound, dark-ages torturers on four legs, because I have a compulsion to pick up human leavings.
I don gloves and carry trash bags, stooping until my back threatens to seize. I mostly find fishing line, sometimes with hook attached; plastic bottles; sandal or shoe, singular; dirty diapers (I did mention the gloves); and occasionally something worse.
Last week we discovered what two seals had already known; the smelt were running the Columbia River. Our female dog was given permission to eat two smelt. She’ll be denied that crunchy tidbit next smelt run since the two fish reappeared in not-so-recognizable form near the front door the following morning.
Then there are the found of the lost.
Part of a dock that broke from its mooring, which I tugged and it tugged me and my shoulder out of place.
The mess my curiosity gets me into could be worse.
Sedum leaves (not pictured); glue stick; green half-dome of a bobber; oak seeds; glittering tackle bead; purple…uh, pole bell; the green figurine high diving snorkeler to which the twine bound its fate with rather powerful firework; and pretty purple polka dot barrette.
We also know what the locals were using for bait. [shhh….]