Once, a dog went to the store with a local elementary principal.
They had nothing to say to each other.
After all, one was a dog and not even, for all of that, the principal's dog.
Unremarkably, they bought things at the store.
The elementary principal bought batteries, loose ruled paper, mothballs, hankies, and some rat traps. The dog bought nothing, having no money, but snooted around the chips, padded near the slushies, and gamboled briefly near the gasoline pumps, oiling his paws watery rainbows.
A man in a large red truck took pity on his innocence and pulled beef jerky out of his dashboard. He fed it to the dog, open-palmed. Drool fell like bread on his working man's cracked paws. Everyone got his, someway.
It was a hot day. It was only a few blocks home.
The dog panted. The principal panted.
They walked in tandem, back from whence they came.
Does the principal have focus in the classroom?
I have never seen him wear glasses. Of contacts, I haven't a clue.
The principal looked at the blue blueish sky and didn't see it coming.
The dog smelled it coming.
He had a long life and today, of all days, free food, exercise, happiness and no reason to expect more than a nominal increase in such pleasure.
The rattlesnake shot coolly out of the bracken, bit the dog below the left eye and clung like a terrible lint.
The principal ran away, dry-eyed.
Love was a foreseeable snake.
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