I used to think I was the biggest heavy garbage hound around, but that was before I seen my buddy Timmy in action.
Now, if there was some kind of competition for who’s the best at findin’ stuff in the heavy 
garbage pick-up, I’d have to protest right off the bat, because Timmy’s a cab driver, eh, and that gives him an unfair advantage over the rest of us. He’s drivin’ around all day and night, and I know for a fact if he don’t got anybody in the cab with him, he’ll just stop and load up his trunk. Well, for cripessake, if it was practically my job to drive around every day and look for heavy garbage, I guess I’d be better at it than the rest of us, too.
Anyways, Timmy’s always comin’ in the coffee shop tellin’ us about all these things he found, and he comes in the other day and says – Boys, I need your help haulin’ some stuff.
Whaddya need? Cyril says, but I cut him off.
Wait a minute, now, I says. Ask yourself what week it is. I’d say Timmy here found himself somethin’ real good in somebody’s heavy garbage pile. Or at least somethin’ so big, he can’t fit it in the trunk of his cab. And I bet he’s tryin’ to trick us into helping him.
Whuh?? Murph said, because nothin’ sets off Murph’s temper like gettin’ tricked.
G’way! Cyril said.
No, no, no, now, Timmy said, but he had a smirk on his face, but sure enough, he fessed up that that’s what he was tryin’ to do, so we had to come to some kind of agreement. Cuz see, he needed our help to pick up the stuff and take it to his place, and we needed to know where the stuff was if we were gonna go get it for ourselves.
All right, then, I’ll make yis a deal, Timmy said. I’ve been keepin’ it quiet, but I got my barn about half done over, and I found a big pile of stuff I can use to finish it off. So if yis help me pick the stuff up and get it to my place, I’ll have yis all over Friday night.
Murph yelled up and down he wouldn’t do it unless Timmy bought him a case of beer, just on principle because nobody tries to trick Murph and gets away with it.
So anyways, we go out and the five of us – me and Cyril, Murph and Timmy and Tommy – got in my truck and Cyril’s truck and Timmy led us all the way in to Sydney to this dead end street with this giant pile of stuff in the front yard. It was the most heavy garbage I ever seen in one load – a fridge, a tv stand, an old couch, you name it.
We were there half an hour loadin’ up the two trucks and we were just about to pull out when somebody opened the door of the house and a fella waved out to us. Timmy went up to talk to him and a minute later, Timmy comes back to the truck with a giant black Newfoundland dog on a leash.
Where in the hell do ya think he’s goin’? I said.
Turns out what happened was, there was an older fella lived in the house but he passed away, and he left behind all this stuff and his dog, and the fella’s son was home from Ontario tryin’ to give way whatever he could because he had nowhere to put it. The son said the dog would stay right well-behaved as long as ya fed him a hotdog for a treat everyday. Anyways, long story short, Timmy’s tellin’ us all this while this giant black dog squeezes in between me and him in the truck on the ride home.
What’s his name? I said.
I never thought to ask the fella, Timmy said. What’s your name, dog?
But that’s what stuck, and the dog’s name became Dawg.
Fast forward to Friday, and we all go over Timmy’s to get our first look at his barn. There was Dawg, layin’ at the side of the barn like he lived there all his life. And holy cripes, when we went in, it was like somethin’ ya see on TV. He had a TV set up in the corner, and a couch, and he turned an old workbench into a bar and put it next to the fridge we hauled home for him. He even had one wall all decked out in Montreal Canadiens signs and everything else (cuz he’s a Habs fan, eh).
So anyways, just to smooth things over with the fellas, Timmy had a case of beer for Murph, and a 60-ouncer of the Captain for the rest of us. Needless to say, it didn’t take too long before we were havin’ a time. The hockey game was on TV and we were playin’ darts and everything.
Of course, if you’re havin’ a few pops, it’s not too long before ya gotta go take a leak. So Timmy announced to everybody he was about to take a leak, which was kind of an usual thing to tell everybody like that.
Then he said – Look at this! I thought of everything! And he slid over a board that showed a hole in the wall. Don’t even gotta go outside to take a leak! he said, as he was undoin’ his pants and kinda leanin’ himself into the hole.
I figured, why walk outside to – AAAAGGGGHHH! That’s when poor Timmy started screamin’ and poundin’ his fist on the wall.
Two hours later, we were all still at the hospital waitin’ for word.
Poor Timmy, Cyril said.
Poor Timmy? I said. Poor Dawg. Wasn’t exactly a Coachman, was it?
John McNeil 