In our rural county, garbage service is nonexistent. Instead, our taxes pay for garbage dumpsters in various locations around the area. You can drive there and dump whatever garbage you have, in whatever amount.
This is actually rather nice because, in our case, we don’t generate a whole lot of garbage (mostly plastics such as toilet paper wrap, that kind of thing), so paying separately for garbage service would probably be a waste of money for us.
This afternoon I cleaned up the placenta from Matilda’s calving. The chickens were starting to peck at it and the neighborhood kids found it grossly fascinating, but I knew it could attract coyotes as well as start to smell, so I took a pitchfork and sort of scootched it into a plastic garbage bag (I couldn’t lift it because it kept sloshing back to the ground – “Like picking up an egg yolk,” my older daughter noted).
I tied off the plastic bag and lifted the lid to the garbage can and put the bag on top the dead rooster who had finally expired a few days ago after getting severely attacked by our other two roosters.
And it occurred to me you really don’t want to know what’s inside a rural person’s garbage cans.