My next door neighbor has a human-sized hot dog statue. I can’t tell if he’s plastic or concrete (or kosher), but he used to rest in her backyard. He’s very cute, with eyes and a plump tongue licking his upper lip in concentration as one skinny arm reaches up to spread ketchup in a neat spiral on the crown of his head.
Last year, or perhaps it was the year before, our neighborhood held a yard sale, and my neighbor stuck the hot dog out front with other various items for sale. Some teens drove by, several loaded into the bed of a pickup, and asked how much she wanted for the hot dog. She said a million dollars. Tires squealed and the sound of laughter rose from the bed of the truck as they zoomed away.
My neighbor also has two life-size blues brothers statues. Once, at dusk, I glanced out my back window and gasped at the bulky man in the dark sunglasses and hat staring back at me from over the fence. She’d moved one of the statues.
I’m not sure where the hot dog has gone; I’ve not peered over the fence looking for him recently. The summer humidity has kept me inside, and I don’t want to snoop. But I’ve begun to miss the silly grin and earnest eyes. And since the weather is beginning to cool down, perhaps I'll pay him a visit.