ood were the times, in the early 70's, when the healthy bad habit of throwing the empty bottles caps down to the ground was still reigning, so that our return to Brescia after long years immediately added new bits to our collection.

The province was very rich in sodas producers, and even more numerous were the bottle cellars producing cheap wines sealed by crown caps, and it was easy to feel the joy of finding some new caps walking through the streets.

Due to the relative borders proximity, the presence of foreign- coming crowns (mostly beer, but sodas too) increased as well, compared with the years we were living in the south.

We never thought to visit any factory, getting new caps was easy enough, but we soon localized the sites where walking was more profitable: parks, boulevards, or streets with a relevant presence of pubs or taverns: places, in short, where the long road-cleaners hand was not so efficaciously coming.

But it was casually that we discover “the stock-yard”, and now I need to reward the one who often obliged us to go out even against our will.

Dada was a very loving, discreet and faithful friend, a little black poodle dog used to choose the places that were more intensely inspiring its … necessity moments.

One day it leaded us far from home, to a large custom magazines square; a lot of trucks were parking there during the week, holding licence-plates from nations in business with our town, but on Sunday the place was usually empty, then we used to walk there with our little dog.

The eastern countries were still inside the U.S.S.R. orbit, and the most of vehicles came from Germany , Austria and northern Europe , but, occasionally, someone from other places arrived as well; they protracted their parking for some day, and the drivers had their frugal meals in that area, drinking beverages strictly coming from their own country.

It happened, sometimes, that some of them, arriving too late, found closed the offices, and had to stay on the place up to Monday, hindering psychologically our hunting Sunday: therefore we used to start our rites reconnoitring, head down, far from the lorries, tightening then the circle and looking between the drivers' feet. By their side they were following those strange tramps (and poodle) acting, curiously at first, then ironically remarking in their foreign languages. But, little by little, they started fearing those persons could be robbers, or hungry people looking for their poor food (goodness know how many days that dog doesn't eat…): a plastic fork in one hand, the paper dish in the other one, they keep themselves ready to catch the jack, or a screw spanner, you never can tell…

But finally, reassured by Dada's meek and swaggering look, and seeing in our hands the thing we're looking for, they kept, between remarks and giggles, having their meal again.

At the time the cans were, thank goodness, not so diffused, then bottles and caps fell down to the ground near the side-walk, among bean cans and food-containers of the most incredible delicacy, simply waiting for any “hawk” coming to take possession of those precious toothed crowns, during a little dog's walk hour.

I guess Dada never realized it, but if today we can be proud of many Turkish, Polish and Hungarian caps from that period it is largely its merit, and, when we look some of them once more, its sweet and swaggering memory inevitably comes into our minds.

Before our dog become too old those hangars changed their destination, the place suddenly lost all its collecting significance; later new places were named “stock-yard” by us elsewhere, but they had not anymore the same charm, without Dada.

By the irony of fate the methanol-wine scandal broke up, and forced to closing all those cellars whose wine production wasn't justified by vineyards presence (…), and on the civic roads the number of findings got a drastic shrinkage.

Fortunately, after a short time, a new work contract would have brought me to exotic places, giving then a newer impulse to our collection.

Lorenzo