In the 1980s the indigenous people of Mole Lake Wisconsin held an annual bluegrass festival. Charlie Danial, The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band and scores of other bands played there.
It was rustic camping at its best. A friend and I went to the Northwood’s earlier than the rest of the group to stake out a camping site. We picked out a wooded area next to a field and set up the tents.
We did not notice the swale at the edge of the trees that had become the final resting place for a large dog. The insects and bacteria had done their job; he was just fur and bones, no smell.
The guys paid no attention to it.
The arrival of the fairer sex changed the dynamic. They insisted we do something about it.
Everyone brought along at least a case of beer. Our solution to the problem was to bury the dog in a mound of empty cans. Out of sight, out of mind.
Some fellows had lined the back of their pick-up truck with six foot tall chain link fencing. They drove from campsite to campsite, collecting the aluminum cans for a nice payday.
They approached our group, pointed to the pile of cans, and asked if we wanted them.
We said no. They eagerly started grabbing the cans and the pile was soon diminished to the point where the dead dog was clearly visible. Harsh language ensued.
Now were we not trying to be assholes, but when you are drunk, some shit is funny shit.