His nose found its way through the mound of trash in the Dumpster like a cruise missile steering toward a hardened bunker, regardless of collateral damage.

"That's got to be a ham sandwich I'm smellin' fer dang sure," thought Gordon Heavyfoot, Grizzly Bear-about-town. He liked to make a morning stroll through the alleyways of Mudcatville nearly every day since Summer had peaked. The bright sun beating down on the dumpsters and trash cans created a veritable symphony of aromas, so that Gordon's nose always swung from side to side in indecision as he walked down the alleyways. But he usually made a bee-line for the Hoser Tavern because of the discarded back-bacon rinds that the management was inclined to toss into the dumpster, rinds that Gordon referred to in his internal monologues as "ham sandwiches".

Gordon made a lot of racket as he sorted through the trash and broken beer bottles, a racket that was heard by the patrons inside, but no one opened the back service door to shoo him away any more, not since Carol the Cook had burst out one morning, broom in hand, her object to dissuade the ever-present raccoons fron creating a mess. When she saw Gordon, she had at first frozen as stock-still as any statue of Brave Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham, then fled into and through the screen door, slamming and bolting the solid oak one. Gordon seemed to have this effect on almost everyone. At first he had suspected his breath, holding one huge paw over his mouth and sniffing, but he found the aroma of coffee grounds, egg shell, and ants quite enticing. Now, he had grown used to it, and to the staring pale-faced patrons of the pub who gawked out the back windows at him.

He leaned into the dumpster as the ham sandwich aroma became nearly overwhelming, and with a loud bang the metal chamber fell over on the asphalt. With a groan of satisfaction, Gordon schlurped up a long stringy bit of bacon rind, sat back and belched. He then commenced a series of snorting huffing vocalizations that sounded like random animal noises to the Pub patrons, but had Dr Doolittle been there, he might have heard these lyrics

In the early mornin' sun
Big ole ham sandwich in my gut
Takin' a pause here in my fun
Sittin' restin' on my butt
When I see a dumpster bin
It always makes ol Gordon grin
Grease a-drippin' down my chin
Well here we go again my friend

And Gordon leisurely resumed his perusal of the garbage, like a fat man wallowing in a salad bar. Finding no more ham sandwiches, he farted and ambled off.