When the dog died we didn't know what to do. We had nowhere to put him and the ground was too frozen to dig a hole. Cremation was $700, which was more than we had. We worried terribly about it. Could we thaw the earth somehow? Could we take him to a farm? Was there enough wood for a tiny coffin? The first time someone suggested the garbage bin out back we all shuddered. There was no dignity in that. The dog deserved more, surely. We loved him, you see. We loved him like one of us. But our choices evaporated as fast as a drop of water on hot cast iron. There wasn't enough money, or wood, or dirt. Then someone pointed out how much the dog had always loved garbage, how he was always sneaking fish bones or watermelon rinds or dirty paper towels when we weren't watching. Once we'd forgotten to tie the full bag tight enough, and returned home in the evening to find black plastic shreds strewn across the lawn and the dog on his back squirming through old coffee grounds and kitchen scraps. We could only laugh. Look how alive and happy our dog is, we'd said. Wouldn't life be better if we could roll through the garbage so freely? So that decided it. We wrapped him in old towels and kissed his soft head and placed him in the garbage bin outside. We recited a hymn. All week we walked past him and left gifts. Here is an apple core. Here is a tinfoil ball full of bacon grease. Finally, on Monday, one of us wheeled him to the curb. No one was home when the garbage truck came, so when we returned in the evening the bin was empty and we couldn't bear it. We filled it with things we never planned on throwing away, things we realized we didn't need. An umbrella. Old issues of National Geographic. A set of hair rollers. Someone even tossed in their new collared shirt. We were like children, throwing toys in a toybox. And from then on, every piece of trash felt like a prayer. Turkey neck. Old shoe. Napkin.


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