Some neighbors are loud, some are nosy—ours was just messy. John’s refusal to use proper trash cans had turned our peaceful street into a dumping ground. Every week, his overloaded plastic bags split open, leaving the rest of us to clean up the aftermath.
We tried polite reminders. We tried stern warnings. Nothing worked. Then, Mother Nature took matters into her own paws.
After a particularly windy night, John’s trash was everywhere. The Rodriguez kids found fast-food wrappers in their sandbox. Mrs. Miller’s prized hydrangeas were buried under greasy paper plates. Even stoic Mr. Peterson, who rarely complained about anything, was seen muttering as he fished soggy mail from his roses.
But the real justice came the next morning, when a gang of raccoons raided John’s remaining trash. They didn’t just rummage—they redecorated. Rotting food floated in his pool. A yogurt container perched on his mailbox like a taunting trophy. And when John finally emerged, broom in hand, the raccoons stared him down before sauntering away.
By the next trash day, John had brand-new, animal-proof bins. No more loose bags. No more neighborhood complaints. Sometimes, it takes a little wildlife intervention to teach a man common courtesy.
