Reuse, Reduce, Re... Oh, That Is Not Where Dog Waste Goes!
My building recycles. In the basement is a large plastic Dumpster intended for papers; next to it are three large trash cans for metal, glass and plastic. I was dutifully dragging my empty cereal boxes and weekend Times to the bins the other day and was horrified to realize that the following sign had become necessary:
"Please do not place pet waste in the recycling bin."
Pet waste! In the recycling bin! That's disgusting! And illogical! What kind of product could possibly be constructed from pet waste?! (Note to commenters: I am actually not interested in hearing ideas about the kinds of products that can be constructed from pet waste.)
It probably says something about me that I did not feel inspired to blog about my horror following the time I entered a subway car covered in human feces, nor when a woman leapt from the window next to my office. But I have really strong feelings about recycling. At our last building, when I heard from the super that items were being improperly recycled, I volunteered - volunteered - to create and post signs cheerfully pointing out NYC guidelines. When a dear friend confessed in his 25 Facebook Things that he collects recyclables that earnest guests set aside at his parties and pitches them into the trash, I was truly (briefly) horrified. (Because he is hilarious, I decided not to cut off communication.)
I don't know why I am so uptight about this. Maybe it's because I know that I am powerless to do anything the construction of coal-fired power plants in China, or the bajillions of watts of power a single Vegas casino in burns through each night, and so I really, really want to make sure that that Dr. Pepper can makes it another life cycle. Clearly I have not decided to live off the grid. Maybe recycling is just a self-indulgent way of assuaging my guilt for not making more substantial life changes.
Or it could be because of this story. As the environmental reporter at the Arizona Republic, I wrote frequently about trash and recycling. To stand at the edge of a landfill and watch thousands of tons of junk pour into the ground each hour is to be convinced that eventually the earth will rupture and we will all drown in a sea of used Kleenex and Pop Tart wrappers.
To stave this off, the city of Phoenix has an excellent recycling program. Every resident is provided with a complimentary blue barrel for recyclable items. At the processing center, elaborate machinery separates the paper from the cans, the metal from the plastic. But before it goes into the machine, it all goes down a conveyor belt while human workers pluck out the unrecyclable items that have been tossed in the bins. Diapers. Lawn trimmings. Once, a human head. And yes - pet waste.
This costs the city $1 million each year. The morning the story ran, I came into my office to find a voice mail box full of more angry calls than I have ever received on a single story. Why must I recycle? angry libertarians ranted. Why should I waste my time noting the color of my trash can? Why are these people being so choosy about my garbage? "Are we supposed to put a bow on it?" shouted one man, before slamming the phone down. I had thought the story made the simple point "Please don't try to recycle poop," but apparently some felt differently.
So it is. People in my building will still deposit their maltipoo's waste in the recycle bin. I will keep dutifully washing out my wine bottles and separating the #7 plastic from good old #2. And the diapers will continue to roll down the conveyor belt, as somewhere a single tear rolls down Al Gore's cheek.
Posted on Thursday, Sep 24, 2009
