In Defense of Dumpster Diving

Hello, dear reader. It is I, Winston, back again with another tale from the front lines of my very glamorous, very dignified life. Except this week’s story is not glamorous. It is not dignified. In fact, it may be the single most humiliating chapter in my otherwise flawless existence, and I’m only telling you about it because I am nothing if not transparent with my loyal readers.

It was an ordinary afternoon. I was minding my own business, daydreaming about ham, when I witnessed something so wasteful, so reckless, so downright criminal that I knew I had to intervene. My Mom took a plate of perfectly good, completely edible food and tossed it into the trash can like it meant nothing to her. Like it wasn’t somebody’s potential lunch. Like there wasn’t a French Bulldog standing five feet away who would have gladly, GLADLY, taken that off her hands.

I was appalled. I was offended on behalf of every hungry dog on this earth. And most importantly, I decided that I, Winston, was not going to stand idly by while good food went to waste in a dark plastic bin. So I did what any reasonable, food-motivated dog would do. I climbed in after it.

Now, I want to be clear that this was not some reckless, impulsive decision. This was a calculated rescue mission. There were snacks in danger, and I was the only one brave enough to save them. I hoisted myself up, leaned my head in, and started sniffing around for the goods, feeling very proud of myself for being so resourceful and so selfless in my pursuit of justice for wasted food everywhere.

That pride lasted approximately four seconds.

Because that’s when I realized my head was stuck. Fully, completely, humiliatingly stuck. I tried pulling back. Nothing. I tried wiggling side to side like some sort of interpretive dance. Nothing. I tried the classic move of just freezing in place and hoping the problem would solve itself. Reader, it did not solve itself. I was stuck, head first in a trash can, butt sticking straight out into the kitchen for the whole world to see, and there was not a single thing I could do about it.

I sat there for what felt like an eternity. In reality, it was probably closer to five minutes, but let me tell you, when your face is jammed against the inside of a garbage can, and your dignity is draining out of your body in real time, five minutes stretches on forever. I had a lot of time to think in there. Mostly I thought about how this was not how I imagined this day going.

Eventually, mercifully, mortifyingly, my Mom found me. And instead of being met with sympathy, or perhaps a medal for my bravery, I was met with laughter. Actual laughter. She had to grab me by the back end and yank, and after a struggle that no self-respecting Frenchie should ever have to endure in front of witnesses, I popped free. Free, but forever changed.

And then, as if the ordeal itself wasn’t punishment enough, I got scolded. Scolded! For digging in the trash! I sat there, still recovering from my near-death experience, still shaking bits of who-knows-what off my ears, and I had to listen to a lecture about boundaries and manners and where food is and isn’t supposed to come from.

Here is where I must take a stand, dear reader. Because while I understand that getting stuck in a trash can is not my finest moment, I do not believe I am the true villain of this story. The real crime here was committed before I ever climbed in. The real crime was throwing away perfectly good food in the first place. I was simply the unfortunate hero who tried to correct that mistake and paid the price for my heroism. If anyone should have been scolded that day, it was the person who decided a plate of good food belonged in the garbage instead of in my bowl.

So I’ve been sitting with this injustice, turning it over in my mind, and I’ve decided I’m not content to just let this slide. I am officially launching a campaign. My proposal is simple. Before any food is thrown away in any household, the resident dog must be given the opportunity to inspect it first. A formal review, if you will. If I deem it unfit for consumption, fine, into the trash it goes. But if I deem it worthy, it comes to me instead. I think this is a fair, reasonable, and frankly overdue policy that every household should adopt, and honestly, I think it should become law. Somebody has to think about all the good food going to waste, and clearly it’s not going to be the humans.

Until this policy is enacted, I suppose I’ll have to be more careful about my rescue missions. Maybe I’ll station myself next to the trash can preemptively instead of diving in after the fact. Maybe I’ll work on my begging technique so the food never makes it to the can in the first place. Either way, I have not given up on my mission. I’ve just learned that my head is apparently bigger than I give it credit for, and that dignity is a small price to pay for justice.

Until next time, watch your trash cans and check your snacks. There’s a hungry French Bulldog out there fighting for a better, less wasteful world, one questionable decision at a time.

With a slightly bruised ego and an unwavering sense of purpose,

Winston 🐾