Mornings are for sleeping and sunbathing. Afternoons are for missions. Today’s mission smelled of dust, plastic, and distant, delicious rotisserie chicken. We were going to the place of a thousand smells: The Big Box.
“Alright, Dewey,” Big Daddy said, struggling slightly as he leaned on the door frame. “Big trip. I need that special salt, and I need a new beard trimmer. You coming, buddy?”
I was coming. I was always coming. This place was dangerous. A vast, echoing canyon where giants roamed, pushing carts that shrieked like frightened birds. It was no place for a normal, small dog. Good thing I'm a Great Dane trapped in a tiny, sleek body.
In the parking lot, Big Daddy was carefully easing himself into a motorized cart. Ah. The Chariot of the Gods. Big Daddy only uses the Chariot when the ground is cursed with the Wobblies. It’s a specialized, low-speed war machine, designed for one purpose: to allow the King of the Mountain (Big Daddy) to be seen and worshiped by his subjects.
“I know, buddy. It feels silly, but standing for too long today is a one-way ticket to dizzy town. Let’s just get the salt and go home.”
We enter the massive store. The parade begins. We roll slowly. I bark at a passing toddler—respect the King!—and the child giggles. Victory. Big Daddy navigates the first aisle, which is dedicated entirely to giant, colorful paper towels. A distraction. I scan for enemies.
Big Daddy muttered to himself, “Okay, supplements are Aisle 14. Wait, no, that's laundry.”
He stopped the cart abruptly.
DANGER! The King has stopped the Chariot! He is performing the Great Head Shake of Strategy! It means he is receiving vital, secret information directly into his brain through the ceiling lights. I must provide cover!
I jumped up on my front paws and let out a series of high-pitched, ferocious "warning yips" at a nearby stack of boxed macaroni.
Big Daddy calmly pulled me down and rubbed my ears. “It’s okay, buddy. Just a little dizzy. Didn’t need to fight the mac and cheese.” The King is humble. He does not wish to advertise his strategic genius. Fine. I shall return to silent observation.
We reached the desired aisle. Big Daddy was looking up at the high shelves, squinting. “Why is the giant bag of trace minerals always on the top shelf? Every time. It’s like they know I can’t stand up to grab it.”
The Pillars of Salt are guarded by the High Shelf Demon! This is the true test of the parade!
Big Daddy slowly and carefully used the cart to stabilize himself as he leaned and reached for the bag. The effort strained him, and he had to pause, slightly winded. “Almost... got... it.”
A young store employee, Josh, walking by, saw Big Daddy struggling. “Need a hand, sir? That stuff is heavy.”
“Oh, yes, please. I appreciate it,” Big Daddy said, grateful.
Impossible! The Giant of the Blue Shirt has intervened! He saw the King's struggle and performed the Ancient Rite of Shelf Retrieval. He is a friend! I must show my approval!
I started wagging my tail violently, then gave a single, loud, happy "WOOF!" at Josh.
Josh chuckled. “He’s a good boy.”
“The best. Thanks again.”
We continued the parade toward the beard trimmer aisle. The Big Box is conquered. The salt is secured. The King is safe in his Chariot. And the air smells like victory... and maybe a rogue piece of fallen rotisserie chicken. My work here is complete. Time for the triumphant ride home.
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