A woman came up and started talking to me. She was the store manager. She spoke slowly and calmly, like this sort of thing happened all the time. She gave me a coffee. She asked me questions. What color was her hair? Her shirt? How tall? I had to be careful not to answer in hands. I wanted this manager to have come to me like a St. Bernard in the snow, with a cask of brandy around her neck. I wanted to bury my face in soft, sympathetic fur and feel comforted, like a child who is protected by her faithful golden retriever. I wanted all the bookstore employees to be like the terrier boy, a kennel of man's best friends ready to watch out for me while I roamed among the more unpredictable animals.
The manager wasn't a St. Bernard. She was all human, ticking items off a list. She wasn't aware that just a few minutes ago, I would have been slapping at her with my flippers and bellowing. Would I press assault charges if this woman was caught? Could I leave my name and number in case they recover the keys? No, I wouldn't press charges. Sure, I'll leave my name and number. Does she really think they'll get the keys back? She shrugged. "You never know." She acted like this sort of thing happens all the time.
© 2000 E.V. Hobbs