Bringing home the rubber chicken

Letters From the Home Front

This week I bought my dog a rubber chicken. He’s not a budding stand-up comic; he’s not even a little bit funny. It’s just that during my most recent trip to the pet store for an essential — dog food — I made a wrong turn down the chew-toy aisle, and this particular plaything amused me. As did the squeaky hotdog I brought him last time, and the rubber wrench the time before.

All Simon wants is food, yet last time I checked, he doesn’t have an active debit card. So I’m his personal shopper. And the pet store knows this. While his single purpose in life is to consume, I am the consumer — at least where the pet store is concerned.