On Saturday, after walkies in the primary walkies area - a more target-rich environment than the marina – I am brought to George to shop. It is not Dog Bone Alley, but it is fancy and has many trendy barrels of farm animal connective tissue strategically placed low enough for sampling.
My luck continues yesterday when for the price of briefly wearing a Santa hat I am given thirty pounds of chicken. It seems good to be me. Then, of course, the ax comes down.
First, I am rained out last night and get a perfunctory wee-wee outing only. Then, this morning, I am fiercely shortchanged my post-coffee-pick-up cheddar snack when she makes the apparently startling discovery that the glove box stash has dried up. Not only did she fail to re-provision – with a full twenty-four hours lead time, she fails to go back into Peets and get me a ham and swiss croissant.
Oh, it gets better. We get home, there is no santa hat practice and then she does nails.
I’m getting an attorney.