The golden retriever, Buster, sat by the door like a furry diplomat, tail thumping a rhythm only he understood. His human, Karen, eyed the grocery list—milk, eggs, a loaf of sourdough—and sighed. “You’re coming with me,” she said, clipping his leash. Buster woofed in approval, though his nose was already buried in the scent of sandwich meat drifting from the kitchen.
The store was a maze of fluorescent lights and existential dread. Buster trotted beside her, paws tapping a syncopated beat. Then, disaster: a deli counter. The moment Karen turned to grab mustard, Buster lunged. A ham slice sailed through the air, landing with a thud on the linoleum. “No!” she hissed, as a stock clerk stared, mouth agape.
By the time she corralled him, the cart was a war zone. Celery stalks lay scattered, a bag of chips crunched underfoot. Buster sat proudly, a half-eaten turkey breast clamped in his jaws. “You’re a menace,” Karen muttered, snatching the meat. He blinked, innocent as a newborn foal.
At home, she slumped on the couch, only to find Buster atop the sourdough, gnawing with the focus of a maniac. “You’re banned from groceries,” she said. He whined, tail wagging like a windshield wiper. Later, she’d discover the bread had been used as a nest for a rogue tennis ball. Some things never changed.
The next morning, Karen opened the fridge to find Buster staring at a leftover sandwich, ears perked. She held up a finger. “One. More. Time.” He barked, a sound like a squeaky toy being crushed. The war continued.
