Mario And The Monster who Eats The Trash

I talk to my dog a lot

I work from home, so I talk to my dog a lot. Lately, I’ve been talking to him about taking out the trash. Mario loves trash. He lives for it. So I’ve been convincing him to stay away from it by telling him some pretty bold lies.

Mario’s a Jack Russell and, like most terriers, he’s smart as a whip. My wife and I adopted him at 3 months old and we started out with a standard, lidded trash can. For a  time things were great. It didn’t even occur to Mario that he might get into the trash and help himself to cast-off bones and banana peels. But once he had, the seal was forever broken. Every time I left our apartment he would tear into our garbage and strew it across the kitchen and living room.

To address the problem, we ordered a “dog-proof” trashcan from the internet. We didn’t have it a week before Mario had gotten inside and pulled out our leftover Chinese food. We went back online and tried a bin with a different, _more_ “dog-proof” latch and more stars from customer reviews — but it couldn’t stop Mario. We tried everything. We taped the lid onto the can with duct tape, we weighed the lid down with books. We were desperate for a solution.

Eventually, we resolved the issue the old fashioned way. We threw _$200_ at a brushed-aluminum trashcan behemoth with a weighted foot pedal and a clam-shell opening at the top. Mario’s 13 pound frame can’t open the latch and it’s too heavy for him to pull over. In fact, it’s too heavy for _me_ to pull over. 

Ever since we switched to the behemoth, we’ve been “trash party” free. Which is great for my wife and I. But it’s not so great for Mario.

After the trash incident, I felt that the relationship between my dog and I had become strained. My long weekdays with him at home were spent in awkward silence. I would sit on the couch with my laptop, working, and he would sit on the other end, silently criticizing me. I did my best to ignore his furtive glances and impatient sighs but there’s only so much of that you can take.

The worst was when I had to empty the trash. I’d pull the bag out and tie it off while he knit his brow in confusion watching me. “Why?” His expression would ask. “Why would you keep this from me? You know I love it. And you don’t want it. Do you hate me? Am I being raised for food?”

His accusatory looks were too much for me to bear. But the communication gap between us didn’t allow me to put into words why I couldn’t just give him the trash that he so desperately wanted. How could I explain to him the decision to purchase the behemoth wasn’t personal?

It was a very troubling time for me. And it was in the depths of this anxiety that I devised a plan.

After a lot of thought, and several hours rehearsal in the mirror, the next time I took out the trash I picked up the bag in front of Mario and muttered as gravely as I could, “I only pray it is enough.” Then, with my brow furrowed and my face dark, I took the bag to the dumpster. 

When I came back, Mario’s confusion was evident. I closed the door slowly, locked both locks, and returned to my work without a word. Despite his inquiring looks I remained silent. In fact, we hadn’t spoken of the incident at all before the garbage can was full again.

The next time, before I left, I grabbed a baseball bat and swung it a few times. “Probably no use bringing this,” I mumbled. “It could just rip it from my hands. Best to just give it what it wants.” I left the bat in the corner, crossed myself, and walked the bag to the dumpster. 

For weeks we carried on like this. Every time I did the chores I’d have an opportunity to say something like, “Bag feels a little light this time. Hope it’s enough to satisfy the bastard.” The lines were always performed with a look of deep inner fear. Wide eyes. Trembling chin. I tried to appear as though I was suffering from a severe, bracing terror, because that’s the kind of thing that a dog can’t help but pick up on. 

One night, when the wind howled, I jumped up shouting, “It’s here... It’s here!” Mario was so startled that he barked.

For the past several weeks, every time I took the garbage out I added more details, painting a clearer picture of something terrible, frightening and arcane to whom I sacrifice the garbage. As a result, Mario understands that the trash is quite special - in fact, it is our salvation. Somewhere within 30 seconds of our front door is a place where I leave the trash for the neighborhood wendigo, a hideous fiend whose hunger will never wane.

The results have been marvelous. Now, the second my foot hits the behemoth’s weighted pedal, Mario runs under the couch. He’s so respectful of the trash that he even shies away from the public bins on our walks. My wife and I joke that he’s kind of traumatized.

All in all, the wendigo has been much more successful than the lies I told to get him to take a bath.