It’s Friday night and my dog Shadow has brought in his latest prize: A possum, again. Inexplicably, he is most successful at hunting on the weekend. This is important because my one and only garbage day is Friday, in the morning. Once again the carcass will fester for a whole week in my garbage can. Shadow is twelve, or 84 in dog years. He still proudly brings in his kills and barks incessantly until I get up at two AM and marvel at his kill. I haven’t kept track (because why would you?) but I’d guess he’s killed about six dozen or so. About six a year sounds right. I would be more grumpy, but the day is fast approaching when Shadow won’t be with me anymore, so I lavish him with praise before I dispose of the body. Such are the wild weekends in my house.