Poor Foster.

He’s always been a little high strung: refusing to go outside on Independence Day, hiding under the bed when a three year old girl visits, climbing into our arms during a thunderstorm. You know, the usual. Those things come and go, and we’ve taken them all in stride.

Until Monday.

Apparently, Foster has a new phobia: ochophobia, the fear of vehicles. In Foster’s case, it’s a little more specific.

Garbage trucks.

Each time one of the trucks passes our house, he quakes with fear and wants to be held until he can’t hear it anymore. As you picture this, consider that no fewer than SIX garbage trucks pass our house each Monday¹. To make matters worse, he can hear the trucks going down the adjacent streets.

Let’s see… Foster’s a little dog. He could live another ten years. That’s 520 more Mondays. Only 3120 more garbage trucks to go!

Sigh.

Never a dull moment.

¹We have three garbage cans, one for recycling, one for yard waste and one for actual trash. They only collect from one side of the street at a time. Three cans times two sides of the street equals six garbage trucks.