Ragheed Shawkat said municipal workers came only when neighbors bribed them.
"Maybe someone can hear our voice and solve our problem," he said, pointing to the dead cats.
Safa Razouki, one of thousands of Iraqis working to clean Baghdad's streets, scoops up trash that has accumulated since the U.S.-led invasion.
(Jackie Spinner -- The Washington Post)
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Muhanned Daher, an Iraqi engineer who works for Zozik Group, a Maryland-based company that manages the cleanup program for USAID, said that during the 1990s, Iraqis used to collect garbage and throw it in vacant lots, creating mini-landfills that were not ideal but kept the streets free of trash.
But after the war last year, he said, people started building houses on the empty lots, leaving no place for the garbage. They couldn't put it out on the street, he said, because the municipal collectors would not pick it up.
One recent morning, Daher drove through the Karrada district on his way to check on the workers clearing the median. He passed a group of men in the shade, leaning on their shovels. Daher ordered the driver to stop the car. He opened the door and leaned out, his voice raised. "Why haven't you started working?" he asked. "Don't wait for the supervisor. Start working."
Daher said cleanup crews are paid daily as an incentive to get people to work.
Laborers are paid 6,000 dinars a day, or about $4, for a seven-hour shift. Their supervisors are college students who earn 8,000 dinars a day, or about $5.50.
People looking to get on a trash crew in the Karrada district begin showing up at Wathiq Square just before 6 every morning. They are divided into three shifts, which work almost around the clock.
One recent morning, about 250 men of all ages, and in a mix of Western and traditional tribal dress, waited in small groups to be sent into the neighborhoods.
Ahmed Hatim, a 20-year-old college student, said he had another job at night, working in a clothing shop. But Hatim, who had been on the job for 10 days, said he joined the trash crew "to serve my city." He paused and smiled, adding: "It's good pay. We thank God for these jobs."
Mahmoud, who wore black jeans and an orange shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, said he had been working on a trash crew for about a month. "I needed the work," he said, swiping at the sweat that trickled down his face. "There are no other jobs."
Safa Razouki, 26, a blue baseball cap pulled low over his face, scooped up another mound of trash nearby. The crew had been working on this particular median for two days, and it was still covered in litter.
"I don't like this job," he said, as a truck pulled up with another five or six workers, "but I have no other choice."
While Mahmoud and Razouki cleared the median, the newly arrived laborers began picking up trash that had collected against the wall of a residence, where someone had scrawled in Arabic, "You are a son of a donkey if you throw trash here."
Yousif Hana, 55, a resident of the neighborhood, picked his way past the workers as he crossed the median during his morning walk. He held a black umbrella to protect himself from the blaze of the sun.
"Before the war, it was very beautiful," said Hana, a retired physics teacher who still dressed the part in a white, short-sleeve, button-down shirt tucked into creased black pants. "After the war, people started to pile up trash here. The municipal vehicles didn't come here, and when they did, they wanted bribes to take the trash."
Hana said he hoped the median would stay clean after the work crews left.
"The problem starts with the people," he said, strolling off with his umbrella twirling between his fingers.
Special correspondents Luma Mousawi and Omar Fekeiki contributed to this report.
