In the Pet Department
“Frank!” yells a portly, redheaded customer service rep at me, as I pass,
“Long time no see—What’s that?” She sneers and points to the small rodent
nesting in my pocket: “Oh, its one of those gray mouse-things…”
“ A stoat,” I mutter, then to myself, “You ought to know, it’s one of yours.”
As I reenter the pet department, I pull the stoat out and feed him. He eats
greedily as I look at the tropical fish, and then begins to vomit. I decide to get
a box for him.
Meanwhile, I have to set him on the floor—A yellow lab mix with a dirty
coat wanders the department unsupervised, and I occasionally pet him and
say “Good-boy!” As he eyes my stoat with no more than a passing curiosity, I
head back to customer service, where I ask a pair of sarcastic teens manning
the window for a box.
“Eh, Right there.” One sneers indicating a pile of small boxes.
“Yes, I see them. I need a pet box, you know? With air holes?—Never
mind.”
I paw through the cardboard boxes but none are large enough. I pick one
that is big enough to fit the stoat, though not big enough to let him move
around.
“Forget it,” I shrug, “It’ll have to do.” The teens have offered no more
help, and after all, the nauseous rodent was not going back into my pocket.
