In 500... (or less)

The Garbage Bandit

The garbage was all through the yard. This was the third week in a row.

"Honey, can you grab me a garbage bag?" Harold yelled from the porch. "Whatever's been in the garbage was at it again last night."

He cursed and grumbled as he picked up shredded food wrappers and miscellaneous papers, keenly aware that his neighbor, Arthur, watched on with glee.

"Having a little trouble with your garbage?" Arthur reveled in opportunities to annoy his neighbor. He succeeded effortlessly.

"What was your first clue?" Harold shot back. 

"I told you, gotta get those raccoon-proof cans like I have," Arthur bragged, gesturing toward his pristine yard.

"Yeah, yeah," Harold said. 

"I'd rather just jam this down your throat," Harold mumbled under his breath. Arthur was insufferable on a good day.

After a short conversation that was nonetheless far too long, Harold barged back inside.

"Honey, we've got to do something about this. I know you love animals and all, but I've got to go get a trap or something to get rid of our trash bandit."

"You'll do no such thing." Martha could bear the thought of an animal suffering, let alone one with its leg stuck in metal jaws, squealing with agony. "Just go out and get a can like Arthur's."

"Out of the question," Harold said. "That would be admitting to that rube that he was right about it. Besides, they'll get his garbage one of these days. There hasn't been a trash can yet that can foil a hungry raccoon."

"You men and your egos," Martha said, rolling her eyes. "You'd rather pick up chicken bones in the yard than admit you were wrong."

"I can admit I'm wrong." There was a pause as Martha waited for him to qualify the statement.  "Ok. Except to you and to Arthur."

"Just buy the can," his wife persisted.

"No. I'm going to trap it. I'll use a box trap. It won't be harmed. Then I can take it somewhere and let it go." Harold smiled deviously as a thought popped in his head. "Like in Arthur's trash."

"As long as you don't hurt it."

For the better part of the week, Harold banged and sawed, building a perfect box trap. His wife thought he was joking, but he chuckled to himself as he imagined dumping the captured raccoon into Arthur's trash can.

Harold placed some bait in the trap and put it right in front of the porch, so he could quickly scoop up the animal and deliver it into the neighbor's garbage without being spotted. He found himself more than a little excited about whether the trap would work, and had a hard time falling asleep.

"Harold, get out of bed!" Martha yelled from downstairs. He'd overslept.

"The trap!" He sprang from bed and raced down the stairs, grabbing his housecoat on the way through. "I can't believe we caught the little devil!"

"Why did you put it so close to the door?" Martha's voice sounded a little off. Then the smell hit him.

The skunk in the trap was not pleased, nor was the recently-sprayed Martha.