The Foot

Bob dragged his twenty pound bag of trash to the curb. After stuffing it into the garbage can, he turned to head back for the house. He stopped. He shook his head. He couldn't have seen what he thought he had. It just wasn't possible.

Still, his curiousity now aroused, he wandered over to his neighbor's driveway and peeked into the big plastic garbage can.

"Oh my god!" He turned and ran back to his house, hoping his neighbor hadn't seen him being nosy.

He picked up the phone and called 911.
"911...state your emergency."

"There's a foot in my neighbor's trash can!"

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that please?"

"A foot! A human foot. My neighbor's trash can," the man shouted.

"Address please," the dispatcher was all business, but he could hear the barely concealed excitement in her voice.

"352 East Fourth Street. Oh wait, that's my address. His is 348. His name is John Mackenzie."

"An officer is on the way. Please remain inside."

Bob waited, anxiously. Ten minutes later an officer arrived. Bob watched from his window as the man examined the garbage. What was this? He appeared to be laughing! Bob stormed out of the house.

"What's so funny?" he demanded.
"Sir, take a look," the officer's face was red and tears filled his eyes, he was laughing so hard.

Bob took a closer look and turned red himself.
It was a foot alright. A foot made of plaster of paris. Bob felt like an idiot. His neighbor, John, was a sculptor.