"No arguments here," you agree, more than ready to be going now that you've finished your meal. You wait impatiently for him to finish paying up and precede him out the door the minute he's done. "Where's next?" you ask him. "I know just what to put on your dog tags."
"Heh, I can't wait," you say dryly. "Let's do the pet store first, then. And we can do clothes and groceries both at the Target." You point them out across the parking lot. The pet store is like getting punched in the nose. As soon as you walk through the door, your senses are assailed by a yammering crowd of scents. You turn right around and walk back out. Sitting on the curb with your head in your hands, you mutter, "Sensory processing disorder: a demonstration."
His curled-tight position suggests you might get bitten for a sympathetic pat, so you just sit down next to him. "Give me some money and I'll go in on my own," you suggest. "I can manage a financial transaction."
You consider it, but shake your head. "I'll go in. Just give me a minute. My brain has to... sort of... deal with all that information. Then I'll be okay for a while." Fortunately, it's brisk and breezy today, and there aren't a lot of unfamiliar smells in the parking lot. After two or three minutes you get up and brush your seat off. "Okay, I'm good to go now, I think. It was just like -- bam, suddenly fucking parrots, what the hell." You throw him a half grin. "Thanks for waiting for me." This time, the sensory barrage is something you can navigate through, as long as you don't have to address any of those chaotic elements, which you don't. You're not here to buy kittens. You go past the live animal area and find the accessories, and life is pretty manageable from there.
You get a purple collar for yourself and a big gaudy blue thing with stars on it for Bel. At the kiosk for engraving tags you type, painstakingly, letter by careful letter, SIRIUS. "After the constellation," you explain. "The dog star, you know."
"Are you a Harry Potter fan?" you inquire delightedly. "Everyone's going to think you're a Harry Potter fan. Oh, that's perfect." You step up to the engraving kiosk, pick out a purple heart, and type RUSTY. "Purple heart, get it?" you say as you show him.
"Oh, right, British. The Purple Heart is a medal you get for being wounded in the line of duty. I got one along with my medical discharge. So I got a Purple Heart for getting woofed, and... here's a purple heart... for." You run down like you're out of batteries. "Maybe it's only funny to me."
"You should wear the purple heart tag, medal, whatsit, then, I think?" you suggest. "I don't think I'd be allowed if it's some sort of military thing."
"Well, this isn't an actual medal of Military Merit, is it, so it's fine. It goes with the collar, look. Trust me, it's fine." Embarrassed, you hurry on to pick out a long-extension leash in case of needing to be dogs in a leash area. "Is there anything else we need for the cute doggie bit? You're the master of disguises."
"A fake mustache, a rubber chicken, and those shoes with knives in the toe," you say promptly. "Unfortunately we're going to have to make do with... oh my goodness there's clip-on bow ties. That's adorable. We really can be dashing spies." You grab a white one for Bel and a black one for yourself. "We're going to be the most handsome gentlemen at the park," you say happily.
"You're a corn dog," you accuse, while your stomach fills up with butterflies. Do NOT fall in love, how stupid are you? You hold out your shopping basket for him to drop the items into and hurry to the checkout.
You grab a few large, bright bandannas— you love bandannas, they make you look like a dashing rogue— and trot after him. At the checkout you thoughtfully put two of every on-display chew-treat in the basket. Rawhide tied in knots, pig's ears, jerky sticks, bone-shaped biscuits, a lumpy rubber thing that's supposed to have peanut butter inside. Peanut butter is delicious. It ranks up with sandwiches and curly slides. "I don't know which are good," you see. "We'll just have to test them. Consider it part of your education."
"You're insane. You're a crazy person." You pay for it all, though. As you're stowing your purchases in the truck, you say, "Are those chew treats actually like... pleasant? When you're in fur? Because they smell like Satan's asshole to me right now."
"I expect the rubber ones will be better once you put the snack inside," you agree. "Never liked that plasticsy new smell, either."
"Can the treat be a piece of sushi? Or a hard-boiled egg, I think I would probably contend with a weird rubber pineapple to get a hard-boiled egg." You shut the hatch and start for the next store. "Okay, next errand: do you have preferences in clothes? Other than 'not wearing any'?"
You laugh at that. "God, it's been forever since I thought about it, I think the last time I bought clothes I was fourteen. I don't know, something easy? Cheap? Nothing you won't mind me losing in a ditch somewhere."
"I figured that much. I was asking more along the lines of, say, colors. How about we just go with elastic waist track pants and a few t-shirts -- I'd think those would be okay even if you shift in them." In the athletic wear section, while he's holding up pants to his waist, you grab a 3-pack of white shirts, and then notice they're having a sale on graphic tees. You pick one out and show it to him, grinning.
You stare at the shirt attentively, working rustily through the letters, and when you get the joke it does actually get a laugh from you. But you wave him off, protesting, "Oh, no, I couldn't, clearly that garment was printed out expressly for you!" (i have no idea what grade level erskin reads at but it's probably pretty damn low)
