Carll leaves me in the car while he grocery shops if the weather’s cool. If it’s hot he leaves me home, lest I melt. Dogs and ice cream have no business being left in hot cars. In New York State, where we live, there’s a law against it (for dogs, I mean). It’s called, euphoniously, New York Agriculture & Markets Law §353-d. That squiggle before the 353-d is called a section sign. It’s found in contracts and other legal documents, which is why neither Carll nor I knew its name. It’s believed the sign originated in monastic scriptoriums as a stylized double-s. Copying manuscripts was slow going so the monks sometimes abbreviated. Imagine how boring to sit copying manuscripts all day in reverent silence! Makes my dog days seem action-packed by comparison.

But I digress.

Sitting outside a grocery store, watching shoppers go in and out, is likewise slow going. Humans do not look good grocery-shopping. They look weary, put-upon. You should see how some of them dress. Carll, too, trudges like a sad-sack when he grocery-shops. It’s the opposite for dogs. No occupation enthuses us more than food-gathering.

Carll apologizes for leaving me in the car, but he explains I’m not a service dog. Service dogs are allowed anywhere, because their handlers can’t live without them. Can you live without me, I put it to him. No, but (he stumbles).

But what?

I’m not officially disabled.

What about your funks, don’t I yank you out of them?

Yes, but.

But what? Do you need official certification to become a service dog?

No. You just need to be identified as one.

So what am I, chopped liver? Call me a service dog, get me one those cute little “Service Dog” knit-tops, and bring me into the store with you so I’m not bored out of my gourd waiting in the parking lot.

It’s just…

Cat got your tongue? Is it your pride can’t abide being labeled disabled?

Maybe.

So I must suffer to appease your vanity. Aren’t we all disabled? Read your Christian Confession. Haven’t we all lost our way in the darkness. Aren’t God and Dog almost the same word?

But I digress.

It takes Carll about thirty minutes to grocery shop. Why so long, I want to know. First he buys berries for Jane’s breakfast which are just inside the door. (Why have berries been promoted to the front of markets? Profit margins, one suspects.) Then he goes down the cheese and nibbles aisle, where he overspends. Then the ethnic foods aisle, where he ogles Asian sauces and condiments, but he’s wary, for Jane doesn’t go for spicy. Then fruits and vegetables. For dinner, he explains, the only meal he really cooks, he likes to include on the plate meat or fish, something starchy like noodles or potatoes or rice, vegetables, fruit, and some surprising extra, hence his dallying among nibbles and exotic flavors.

Fruits and vegetables get a little boring at this time of year. He sighs for the tomato, corn, and swimming pool of summer, he says, omitting any mention of sweltering cars.

Then yogurt, milk (for Jane), eggs, and don’t forget cheese for Henry, the cheap shredded cheddar that comes in sacks, and finally, the meat and fish, which all look yummy. Oh, and a bag of Reese’s Pieces, snack size, if he’s low on them, and M & M’s, for the grandkids, but no cookies (except maybe this once…)

Since Carll likes a moral for his missives, how about this: point your brain in any direction and go. Something will turn up.