28/11/2025
🤣🤣
Big dog owners will understand...
I took Moose to the Pet Superstore and I am now technically a fugitive.
After the emotional scarring of the vet visit, I decided Moose deserved a treat. A reward for his bravery. A new toy.
Now, a rational person would order a toy online. A rational person would understand that taking a 165-pound dog who has the spatial awareness of a dizzy toddler into a store filled with breakable objects and meat smells is a su***de mission.
I am not a rational person. I am a Great Dane owner.
So, we went to the Pet Superstore.
The disaster began at the automatic doors. Moose believes these doors are sorcery. When they slid open, he stopped dead, causing the three people behind us to pile up like a cartoon car crash. He examined the threshold for invisible force fields. Finally, convinced it was safe, he bounded inside with the grace of a gazelle that has just been tranquilized.
Immediately, the sensory overload hit him. The smell of bulk biscuits. The squeak of toys. The scent of fear from the hamster aisle. Moose’s tail—which is essentially a fleshy baseball bat—began to wag.
Whack. A display of organic kale chips went flying. Thud. He drummed a rhythm on a stack of plastic crates.
"Sorry! So sorry! He's just... enthusiastic!" I apologized to a terrified employee, dragging Moose toward the toy aisle while trying to look like I had control. (Spoiler: I was merely a passenger on the S.S. Moose).
We reached the toys. This is Moose’s Mecca. He approached the bin of rubber chickens with religious reverence. He carefully selected a yellow chicken, looked me in the eye, and bit down.
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
The sound was ungodly. It sounded like a bagpipe dying. Moose’s eyes lit up. He bit it again. SCREEEEE! He loved it. He had found his voice.
We were doing okay until we turned the corner and encountered The Enemy.
It was a Pug. A singular, wheezing, elderly Pug named Barnaby (no relation to the previous story, just a coincidence of chaos). The Pug looked at Moose and let out a small, raspy bark.
Moose, who could crush this pug like a grape but chooses pacifism, panicked. He scrambled backward on the polished concrete. His paws lost traction. He looked like Scooby-Doo trying to run on ice.
In his panic to escape the ferocious breathing of the Pug, Moose backed his rear end directly into a freestanding display of "calming h**p treats."
It was like watching the Titanic go down, but with more cardboard. The tower wobbled. I reached out a hand. "Moose, freeze!"
Moose did not freeze. Moose did a spin move to check his perimeter. His tail caught the tower.
CRASH.
Hundreds of bags of calming treats rained down upon us. Irony is dead. We were standing in a pile of anxiety medication, and my dog was hyperventilating.
I stood there, holding a screeching rubber chicken, ankle-deep in h**p chews, while Moose tried to hide his entire 165-pound body behind my legs. The Pug waddled away, victorious.
An employee rushed over. I braced for eviction.
"Oh my gosh!" she squealed. "IS THAT A DANE?"
She didn't care about the mess. She ignored the destruction of inventory. She dropped to her knees. Moose, sensing a sucker, immediately stepped out of the debris pile and leaned his full weight against her, nearly pinning her to the floor. He offered her a paw the size of a dinner plate. She was in love.
I spent the next ten minutes apologizing and trying to restack the display while Moose accepted belly rubs from three different staff members, looking like a celebrity philanthropist visiting the commoners.
We finally made it to the checkout. I was sweating. My hair was disheveled. I just wanted to pay for the screeching chicken and leave.
The cashier scanned the chicken. "$12.99," she said.
I reached for my credit card. Moose decided to help. He rested his chin on the counter, directly next to the card reader. And then, gravity took over.
A long, thick, viscous shoelace of drool slowly descended from his jowls. I watched it in slow motion. The cashier watched it. Moose watched it.
It landed squarely on the keypad. Splat.
"I... I don't have a napkin," I whispered, humiliated.
The cashier just laughed, wiped it with a paper towel, and said, "Honey, I have a Mastiff at home. This is nothing."
We walked back to the car. Moose carried his yellow chicken proudly in his mouth, head held high, marching through the parking lot like he had just conquered a nation. I opened the back of the SUV, and he hopped in.
He lay down, rested his chin on his paws, and gave the chicken one soft, sleepy squeak.
I climbed into the driver's seat and looked at him in the rearview mirror. He looked back, his eyes soft and heavy, the chaos of the store already forgotten. He looked so innocent. So perfect.
I sighed, started the car, and realized that despite the public humiliation, the destruction of property, and the drool on my jeans, seeing him that happy was worth every penny.
But we are definitely ordering from Amazon next time.
