Monday, April 18, 2011


Here's what I saw when I was coming out of Fry's today: a woman who must have been well into her 70s, with the prototypical stooped shoulders, wearing a straw hat with a cartoon-sized bill, wraparound sunglasses, and a thickly-striped shirt, along with khaki shorts.

Her grandson (or great-grandson) was standing beside her. He was as tall as she was, but looked to be no older than twelve. They were standing beside their car, with a shopping cart between them, and in the shopping cart was--a pug. The dog, that is, and nothing else.

As I was watching them, their car alarm went off. "Oh, SHIT," said the old woman, "Davey, hit the remote." She said it like they were involved in a bank job, and her grandson fumbled in his pockets for an interminable length of time before pulling out the keys and turning off the alarm.

Then, with fantastic persistence, the old lady lifted the pug out of the shopping basket, his rear legs dangling free, and put him in the car.

At that moment, I would have definitely paid for a painting.

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