Dog River Dispatch: Thunder or Trash Can?

You ever notice how thunder and a rolling trash can sound exactly the same? Not kind of. Not similar. Exactly the same.

I’ve been pausing conversations mid-sentence, cocking my head like a confused retriever and muttering, “Is that... weather or Wanda?”

Because if it’s thunder, I’m grabbing the cat and unplugging the router. If it’s Wanda, I’m going back to my sandwich.

But Belle Perdue makes no promises. Our skies like to lie. We’ll get a full afternoon of low rumbles that never deliver a drop of rain—just enough noise to ruin a nap or make Miss Lettie mutter, “God’s furniture bein’ rearranged again.” And let’s be honest, ever since she ran into the street barefoot to save her neighbor’s lawn chair during that freak April storm, she’s got strong opinions about preparedness.

And then there’s Tuesdays. Trash day. The one where every fourth house forgets until the last possible moment and barrels their bin to the street at 9:52 p.m. with all the finesse of a rogue cement mixer.

Now, I live on Dog River Road, and we’ve got three confirmed roller-draggers:

• Mr. Eugene, who drags his uphill like it owes him money.
• The Hatleys, whose twins treat theirs like a parade float.
• And old Marva, who drags two—her own and her blind sister’s—from the far end of the cul-de-sac like some kind of saintly possum.

Every single one of them sounds exactly like thunder.

So if you see me peering nervously at the sky with a butter knife in my hand, it’s not a nervous breakdown. I just don’t know if I need to butter my biscuit or bolt down the porch furniture.

Welcome to Belle Perdue.
Where the weather’s a rumor, and your neighbors are louder than God.

Explore more: Belle Perdue