The Garbage Monster from Outer Space

by John R. Erickson

  “Say, fellas, could we stop for a second and let me pull some of these stickers out of my paws?”

  I sat down and began gnawing at the stickers in my left front paw. I got those out and had moved to the rear when Snort came up behind me.

  “Hunk not stop in middle of march.”

  “Yes, well, I seem to have . . . didn’t you guys notice all these sandburs?”

  “Ha! Coyote berry tough guys, not give a hoot for little sticker-hurt in foots.” He kicked me in the tail section. “Hunk get tough, too.”

  I leaped to my . . . youch . . . feet. “Sure, you bet. No problem.”

  We resumed the march. My feet were killing me! I tried to walk on crumpled toes, on the sides of my feet, on my elbows, but those stickers were eating me alive. But I didn’t dare complain or say a word.

  You think those guys weren’t tough? They were tough.

  We marched for another five minutes or so, and then Snort called a halt. He came back to the rear of the column where I was, shall we say, unstickering my paws again. He glared down at me.

  “Uh. Hunk got soft foots.”

  “No, actually I think they’re getting tougher by the, uh, minute. No kidding. Tougher and tougher. I can almost feel the change.”

  “Hunk got soft foots, never become outlaw dog with soft foots.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Snort. My feet will be fine.”

  “Not feet. Foots.”

  “Okay, foots. My foots will be fine.”

  “Not fine. Foots soft.”

  “Okay, my foots are soft, but they’ll be fine.”

  “Ha. Better be.” He pointed a paw to a spot of soft ground in front of us. “Now Hunk use soft foots for dig up supper.”

  My spirits rose on hearing “supper.” “Hey, great. This is the part I’ve been looking forward to all day. And you said . . . dig?”

  He scowled and raised his voice. “DIG. Use foots for shovel, make hole in ground.”

  “Right. I understand the meaning of ‘dig’ but I was a little surprised . . .”

  He clubbed me over the head with his paw. “Hunk talk too much. Use foots for dig and never mind surprising. Rip and Snort watch, ho ho.”

  “Okay, fine, I can handle digging.”

  And so I began digging. It wasn’t bad. The ground was soft and moist and before long I had a nice little hole. The only problem was that I had no idea what I was digging for. Roots? That seemed a likely possibility, only there weren’t any roots in this particular area. I thought of asking about this but decided against it.

  While I was doing all the work, the brothers sat nearby, grinning and belching. They seemed pretty proud of their belching skills, and each tried to outdo the other. I would have been more impressed if they had lent a hand with the digging, but that didn’t seem to be in their plans. They didn’t mind letting me do all the work.

  I must have dug for fifteen solid minutes and it had just about worn me out. When I stopped to catch my breath, they noticed. Snort lumbered over and studied the pile of fresh dirt beside the hole.

  “Ah ha! Hunk find good grub, oh boy. Now Hunk get to eat.”

  “Hey, great, thanks. Yes, I’m starved.” I climbed out of the hole, shook some dirt out of my hair, and stared down at the dirt pile. Hmm. I couldn’t see anything but . . . I looked closer. My head came up and I gave Snort a puzzled look.

  “Grub worms?”

  Chapter Eight: I Am Forced to Eat Grub Worms

  Snort’s face wadded itself up into a scowl. “Hunk not like coyote grub?

  “Oh no, it’s not that, not at all. It’s just . . . you guys eat grub worms? I mean, I thought coyotes ate fresh rabbit . . . ground squirrels . . . prairie dogs . . . you know, good nourishing meat dishes that are, uh, nourishing and fresh and so forth.”

  “Grubber worms plenty fresh, still wiggle when coyote crunch up.”

  “No kidding? They’re, uh, still wiggling when you chew them up?”

  “Plenty fresh. Also crunch and pop in mouth, oh boy.” Perhaps he saw my eyes cross. “Hunk not like crunch and pop?”

  “I didn’t say that, Snort. It’s just that . . . well, I . . . I’ve never eaten grub worms before, is the point. They’re not part of a dog’s . . . cultural experience, shall we say, and I just have no idea . . . ha ha . . . how a guy might go about . . . eating them, don’t you see.”

  “Uh. Rip show Hunk how to eat yummy grubber worm.”

  Rip flashed a big grin and stepped up to the dirt pile. He picked around in the dirt with his paw until he found a nice fat worm. Then he pitched it up into the air, caught it in his jaws, and slammed them shut. The first sound we heard was the snap of his jaws. This was followed an instant later by a pop—which sent a little tremor through my innards.

  Rip chewed it up, grinned, and said, “Uh!”

  Snort turned back to me. “Brother say grubber worm yummy and yummiest. Now Hunk give try for eating yummy grub.”

  “You know, Snort, I ate right before I left the ranch, and gee whiz, I don’t think I could hold another bite. No kidding.”

  He glared at me with his empty yellow eyes. “Gee whiz better eat coyote food or coyote brothers get madder and maddest.”

  “Right, that’s just what I was thinking. We sure don’t want to insult anyone’s . . . uh . . . cultural heritage, do we?”

  I picked through the dirt and found the smallest, skinniest worm in the bunch. Snort watched my every move and shook his head. “Too skinny for guest. Hunk pick bigger and fattest of all. Take this one.”

  He pointed his paw to the biggest, fattest, ugliest, nastiest yucko-worm of them all. I squeezed up a weak smile, swallowed hard, and said, “Well, here goes. Over the teeth, over the gums, look out stomach, here it comes.”

  I pitched it up, caught it, and crunched it. It popped. It oozed. I could feel it spreading across my tongue and mouth, like a spill of toxic garbage juice. I had no intention of swallowing that slime. I would hold it in my mouth, heh heh, until they weren’t looking, then I would . . .

  The boys were smiling. “Pretty yummy, huh?”

  “Oh ess. Icks eeyishus. I yuv it.”

  “Ha! Then swallow.”

  He whopped me on the back and . . . gulk . . . I felt the toxic green slime sliding down my food pipe and invading the quiet happiness of my stomach. My upper lip curled. My eyes crossed.

  My pals saw it all. I got the impression that they even enjoyed it. “Pretty yummy, huh? Eat more.”

  I could hardly speak. My eyes were watering. My tongue, mouth, and taste buds had just been poisoned. I gasped for breath. “Oh, you guys go ahead.”

  “Hunk eat more.”

  “Right. You bet.”

  And so, with the wolf-eyed brotherhood hovering over me and watching my every move and gesture, I did my duty. The first five were the worst. The second five were bad enough but some better. By that time, all the circuits in my tongue and mouth had been fried beyond recognition, and my stomach had already gone into convulsions and shock.

  The Brotherhood observed it all and seemed pleased. Snort whopped me on the back again. “Uh! Hunk like coyote food, huh?”

  I smiled and gazed at them through bleary eyes. “Oh yeah, you bet. Those worms are . . . Snort, has your face always been green? Uh-oh. ’Scuse me, boys, I’ve got to . . .”

  I dashed into the bushes and put the worms back where they belonged—on the ground. When I staggered back to the brothers, they were shaking their heads.

  “Hunk cheat, not make good coyote. Better try again.”

  “No, fellas, please, no more. It’s not that I don’t like your . . . okay, let’s admit the truth. Worms make me sick. There it is. I thought I was dog enough to eat anything you ate, but I was wrong.”

  They stared at me. “Hunk flunk.”

  “Ha. That rhymes, does
n’t it? You know, guys, words are very . . .”

  “Not change subject. Hunk flunk test.”

  “No, wait, I think I can . . . okay, I flunked the test. Where do we go from here?”

  They went into a whispering conference. Then, “Maybe we try Hunk in one more test—and better not flunk.”

  Whew! I almost fainted with relief. There for a second, I’d thought my cook was goosed. “Hey, great, no problem. I’ll do better on this one, you’ll see.”

  “Uh. Better do better.”

  “What will we be doing this time? I mean, I was hoping it wouldn’t involve . . . well, worms, you might say.”

  “Hunk find out soon enough.” They looked at each other and laughed. Then Snort gave the order for us to move out.

  I fell in line behind them, and away we marched through the bushes and darkness. It was the same formation we had followed before—Snort out front, then Rip, then me—and from outward appearances, nothing had changed.

  But something HAD changed. It suddenly occurred to me that these guys were never going to give me a test that I could pass. They were never going to accept me as one of their own, be­cause . . . well, because I wasn’t.

  What a blockhead I’d been, leaving the ranch, leaving my job, my friends, my gunnysack bed . . . and yes, even my bowl of tasteless dog food. All at once leaving the ranch seemed about the dumbest move I’d ever made. Sure, I’d been blamed for the garbage barrel fiasco, but so what? With Sally May and Loper and Slim, at least a guy had a chance to repair the damage and try again on a better day. But with Rip and Snort . . .

  Right then, at that very moment, I knew what I had to do. I had to get out of there. I had to escape, run back to my ranch and hope that I could take up where I’d left off. It wouldn’t be easy, but I had a plan.

  See, I was the last in line, right? I’d been in the caboose position all night and the brothers hadn’t paid any attention to me. All I had to do was slow my pace just a bit, fall behind, and then make a run for it. I would head straight to the creek and swim downstream for a hundred yards or so. That would cover my scent.

  Pretty smart, huh? You bet it was. See, Rip and Snort were the champs when it came to following a scent on dry land, but even they couldn’t pick up a trail through water. All I needed was two minutes’ head start, and I just might be able to pull it off.

  I slowed my pace, just a tiny bit at first, then a little more and a little more. So far, so good. I stopped and listened. I could hear them marching on to the west. Great. It was working. Now, all I had to do was turn and . . .

  HUH? I ran smack-dab into a big hairy cannibal.

  It was Snort. He gave me a toothy grin. “Hunk get lost in dark?”

  “I . . . I . . . I . . . yes, yes, and I was just about to, uh, call for help. Boy, am I glad you showed up.”

  “Hunk change mind about outlaw trail?”

  “Me? Change my . . . ha ha . . . surely you’re joking, Snort. Me, change my mind about . . . hey, who’d want to go back to the dull routine of ranch life? Not me, no sir. Okay, maybe eating grub worms isn’t my idea of . . . why are you staring at me?”

  He was staring at me. “Hunk not leave, still got big test.”

  “Right, and I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Snort. Honest. No kidding. I mean, I just love a challenge.”

  “Hunk march between Rip and Snort, not get lost.”

  “Great idea. I was about to . . . there’s no need to push and shove, Snort, really. See? I’m marching. Here we go, off on a new adventure.”

  Good grief, had he read my mind? My plans for escaping had just gone down in flames. Gulp. Now what was I going to do? It appeared that I had become a captive.

  And so it was with a heavy heart that I fell into line between the cannibal brothers. Snort followed me like a shadow and never took his eyes off me. When he thought my pace was too slow, he bit me on the tail. As you might guess, that gave me a powerful desire to keep moving.

  We marched westward for another half hour or so, and then we came to a stop. I glanced around, studied landmarks, and tried to figure out where we were. My best guess was that we had tramped through the horse pasture and were now inside Wolf Creek Park. Yes, of course we were because up ahead, I could see several camp sites with tents and travel trailers.

  People came here to camp and fish in the lake, don’t you see. That’s why people came to the park, but why would a couple of rowdy coyotes come here? I mean, coyotes tried to stay away from people, right? It didn’t make much sense to me. There was something fishy about this.

  I waited for the brothers to make the next move. They went into a huddle. They whispered and muttered for several minutes, then Snort came over to me.

  “Hunk ready for next big test?”

  “You bet, sure, no problem. But Snort, allow me to point out that we’re standing in the middle of a public park. People camp here, see, a lot of people, and in a few hours they’ll be waking up. Maybe you didn’t realize that.”

  He gave me a blank stare. “Many people make many garbage.”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “Many garbage have plenty food.”

  “Oh sure, but . . . wait a minute, whoa, hold it, halt. Surely you’re not thinking of . . .”

  For Pete’s sake, my life had come full circle. They wanted to raid the garbage barrels!

  Chapter Nine: Garbage Barrels Again

  They were standing over me now, both of them grinning. Snort spoke. “Now Hunk show coyote brothers how to work big garbage deal, ho ho.”

  “Wait a minute, Snort. You mean this is the next test?” They nodded. “Raiding garbage barrels in a public park?” They nodded. “Are you guys crazy?” They nodded.

  I got up and started pacing. “Fellas, listen to your old buddy Hank. You’re the experts on wilderness survival—fighting badgers, beating up skunks, eating grub worms, and so forth—but you don’t know much about people, so let me give you a lesson.

  “Number one, people take a very dim view of animals who tip over garbage barrels in public places. Number two, they’re likely to shoot animals who do it. Number three, coons get by with it because they are cute little fellers. Number four, you and I are not cute. And Number five, we could get ourselves shot.” I stopped pacing and paused a moment for dramatic effect. “That’s as plain as I can make it, guys. I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s much too dangerous.”

  They shook their heads. “Coyote not scared, ’cause coyote got plan.”

  “You have a plan?”

  “Yeah. Got good plan. Work pretty good too.”

  “Snort, somehow . . .” I heaved a sigh. “I’ve known you guys for . . . how many years? And you’ve never planned anything. Okay, let’s hear the plan.”

  “Ha! Coyote hide in weeds and let Hunk tip over barrels, then coyote move in for big yummy feast. Pretty good plan, huh?”

  My eyes darted from one face to the other. Were they joking? No. Coyotes had no sense of humor and they never joked. They were serious about this.

  “Wait a minute. You think I’m going to . . . ha ha, I don’t think so, guys. No way. Listen, I’ve already been to school on this garbage barrel stuff and . . .”

  “Hunk take big test. If Hunk do good, maybe become outlaw brother.”

  “Yeah, right, or maybe I’ll stop a couple of loads of buckshot.”

  They shrugged. “Life pretty tough, all right.”

  I began pacing again. “One question, guys. Do I have a choice here?” They shook their heads. “That’s what I thought.” I had reached the east end of my pacing range. “In that case, I think I’ll . . .”

  I made a run for it. I didn’t think it would work. It didn’t. Those guys were faster than greased lightning bugs. Before I knew it, they were stacked on top of me, and I found myself not only getting smashed, but also looking into Snort’s face. />
  “What Hunk say now?”

  “I say that your plan stinks. Furthermore, you’re smashing me.”

  “Ha. Snort not give a hoot for smush Hunk dog. Coyote get mad and smush whole world.”

  “Okay, then let me point out that Missy wouldn’t approve of this.”

  “Ha. Missy not here, only Rip and Snort.”

  “Okay. Well, what the heck, let’s, uh, crack open a few garbage barrels and see what we can find. I haven’t been shot at in a couple of months. It might be fun.”

  They unpiled and let me up. I noticed that they were looking . . . unfriendly. Hostile. Their ears were pinned down, their fangs were showing, and the hair on their backs was standing up. Those were all bad signs.

  Snort stuck his nose in my face. “Hunk better not try run off again.”

  “Me, run off? No problem. Hey, I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” Snort glared at me and pointed a paw toward three garbage barrels nearby. “So, uh, just tip ’em over, is that right?” He nodded. “All three?” He nodded. “And what if someone comes out of that camper trailer and starts shooting? Do we have a plan for that?” He shook his head. “Listen, weren’t we supposed to go back and find Missy?” He shook his head. “Well,” I took a deep gulp of air, “here we go.”

  While the brothers hid behind some bushes, I marched over to the three barrels, hopped up on my back legs, hooked my paws over the rims, and tipped them over. Each barrel hit the ground with a loud clunk that broke the silence of the night. I cringed on each clunk, and cast worried glances toward the trailer nearby.

  If somebody in there woke up and came outside and got a look at me and notified the park ranger . . . I didn’t even want to think about it.

  Can you imagine? Loper would get an angry call first thing in the morning. “Hey, your dog’s over here in the park, tipping over trash barrels!” It would look very bad, especially since I had already been blamed for one mess that day.