12/04/2025
So well written I had to share.
I made a terrible decision today. Or maybe a beautiful one. Hard to tell when you’re living with a 165-pound Great Dane named Moose, who approaches life with the coordination of a sun-dazed giraffe and the innocence of a preschooler hopped up on sugar.
After surviving the trauma of the vet’s office (he cried, I cried, the vet probably cried), I decided he deserved a reward. A big one. A brand-new toy.
A sensible human would have clicked “Add to Cart” on Amazon and called it a day. A sensible human would have remembered the size of their dog and the fragility of… everything. Unfortunately, I am not sensible. I am a Great Dane parent. We don’t think—we simply commit.
And so, Moose and I ventured into the Pet Superstore.
The chaos began before we’d fully entered. Moose does not trust automatic doors. He thinks they’re magic, or possibly possessed. When they whooshed open, he froze, causing a mini-traffic jam behind us. After studying the threshold like an archaeologist evaluating a cursed artifact, he finally leapt inside—like a tranquilized elk attempting ballet.
Inside, the sensory explosion hit him. Biscuit smells. Toy squeaks. The trembling aura from the hamster aisle. His tail—an unguided missile—began its deadly dance.
WHAP. There went a display of kale chips.
THUNK. Plastic crates trembled under his mighty tail-drumming.
I apologized profusely while pretending to control him, though in reality I was clinging to his leash like a passenger being dragged behind a runaway boat.
When we reached the toy aisle, Moose entered a state of holy enlightenment. He approached the bin of rubber chickens like a monk approaching a sacred shrine. He selected one, looked deep into my soul, and chomped down.
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEE.
The sound? Think dying bagpipes mixed with existential despair.
He adored it. He had discovered his true calling.
Everything was manageable until we encountered… him.
The adversary.
The menace.
The villain of Moose’s story.
A senior, wheezing Pug named Barnaby.
Barnaby barked once—a tiny, asthmatic “woof.” Moose, who could flatten him like a pancake but believes in peace and diplomacy, lost his mind. His feet skidded, scrambling in place like a cartoon character on a waxed floor. And in his attempt to escape this fierce little gremlin, he backed into a towering display of calming h**p treats.
I saw the future. It wasn’t good.
“Moose. Freeze.”
He did not freeze. He spun. His tail hit the structure.
CRAAAAAAAAASH.
Down poured bags of anxiety chews, burying us in a mountain of irony so thick it should’ve been studied by philosophers. Moose trembled behind me, trying to compress his enormous body into the size of a peanut while clutching his screaming chicken.
The Pug toddled away smugly. Barnaby: 1. Moose: 0.
An employee rushed over. I prepared to be escorted out.
Instead she squealed, “OH MY GOD, IS THAT A GREAT DANE?!” and immediately threw herself into Moose’s gravitational field of charm. He leaned all 165 pounds on her. She swooned. They bonded. I quietly restored the ruins of the h**p-treat tower.
Ten minutes later, Moose was surrounded by staff doting on him like he was some kind of royal exile. Meanwhile, I looked like I’d just escaped a natural disaster.
At checkout, the cashier scanned the rubber chicken. I reached for my card. Moose tried to “help” by resting his massive head on the counter… and then, as if guided by Murphy’s Law, a long, glossy ribbon of drool descended from his mouth.
We watched it fall in slow motion.
SPLAT.
Right on the keypad.
“I—I don’t have a napkin,” I whispered, broken.
The cashier just laughed. “Sweetheart, I own a Mastiff. This is nothing.”
Moose strutted back to the car like he’d just completed a successful diplomatic mission. He climbed in, curled up, gave his new chicken a sleepy little squeak, and looked at me with soft, trusting eyes.
And that’s when it hit me:
Yes, I had been humiliated.
Yes, Moose destroyed half a store.
Yes, I now carried the scent of drool and defeat.
But seeing him that blissfully happy? Worth it a thousand times over.
Still… next time?
Amazon.
Definitely Amazon.
