Me and Trash Can #1947

Tragedy has struck. It seems that sometime around 9:00 a.m. today person(s) unknown made off with my trash can. Since today is trash pick up day, I strongly suspect that the mob, err Fat Tony, err no the lawfully licensed and bonded trash company has stolen my trash can. Of course I can not prove it because I did not witness it myself, nor after canvassing the neighbor have found anyone willing to come forward, and say that they saw the incident. As Denzel Washington put it so well "it is not what you know, it is what you can prove." As of right now I cannot prove who took it my trash can, but I am pretty sure I know. After all, who the fuck steals a trash can? I have waited a good while to "report" this abduction to the authorities (who do you call when some can naps your trash can?) in the hopes of receiving a ransom note or a list of demands that I would need to meet in order to obtain the safe return of old #1947 unhurt. No note has been forthcoming, no demands have been expressed. In a panic/rage I called the first authority I could think of. They, of course, directed me to someone else. I called the second "group" and they informed me that "the missing cart will be located and returned in 1 to 10 business days." The bloody things is not MISSING, it has been STOLEN, CAN NAPPED I tell you. This is a CRIME, and I demand justice, or at least my fucking trash can back. #1947 has, to my knowledge, not run up any major gambling debts, has not been sneaking around with other trash can's women or men (I confess I am not sure if #1947 is a male or female. How does one check without being rude?). No, #1947 has, in our two year relationship, been a solid (waste) citizen, never once complaining about the foul stuff that I crammed down its throat. He/she took being wheeled to curb without comment, even when I was clumsy/drunk a time or two and banged him/her into the car or wall. Now all I can do is sit forlonly as the sleet pelts down, and stare at the last known location (i.e. my curb) that I left #1947, wonder what terrors he/she is being subjected to my the manics that are cruel enough to can nap a man's trash can three days before Boxing Day, when #1947 will be sorely needed/missed.