The woman in front of me in the check-out line had at least thirty cans of dog food on the conveyor belt. She was dressed in tiny shorts and a tee-shirt, her hair too blonde for her age, her voice brassy and loud, too loud for the grocery store line at 10:00 pm. I felt judgmental. I felt guilty, too. I’d run out and left the boys alone with their sister. She was both intellectually and physically disabled with an uncontrolled seizure disorder. Keep your ears open, I’d said, even as I told them they should get to bed. I had promised them that I would buy some of those frozen biscuit sandwiches with sausage and cheese for the next morning’s breakfast. They had to take onerous elementary school standardized tests, a hearty breakfast was in order, and the crap would ease their hearts if not sharpen their brains. The cashier was a buoyant young man, trim and neat, and he kept up a constant stream of chatter as he scanned each can of dog food. “What kind of dog do you have?” he asked the lady. “Oh, he’s a mix,” she replied. “What’s his name?” the cashier asked. “It’s Salad,” the lady said, and then quickly added that her dog had seizures and that’s why they called him Salad. The cashier looked blank but laughed quickly and loudly when she clarified. “His name was Caesar, but he started having seizures, so we call him Salad, now.”
As the cashier put the last can of dog food into the woman’s bag, I pulled out my pistol and shot straight through the can with such force that dog food splattered both cashier and customer who were both struck dumb as I picked my way through the mess and walked out of the store with the Jimmy Dean sausage biscuits stuffed into my bag. I nodded at the thin sliver of moon that shone down on the parking lot, stepped into my car and peeled off, toward home.
What we do instead of slapping people
Have I ever told you how much I love your writing and how I would buy any book you wrote in a heartbeat? And then buy copies for my friends?
I have to say I'm surprised you shot the dog food.