Emotional Comfort
Late afternoon, Day of the Dead. An election looms. We’re out of dog food so I drive down the mountain to resupply. The radio waves are jammed with polls and pols. It’s getting darker earlier, as they say, and the sky is threatening.
There’s still some light left when I arrive at the dog food store. They sell other things—cat food, bird food, lawn furniture—but I call it the dog food store because that’s the only thing I ever buy here. I don’t have a cat. The birds around our place can fend for themselves. And if I feel like lounging in the great outdoors, I don’t need any furniture. I’ll sit on a rock.
I grab what I need and take it to the checkout. The clerk, a young woman wearing combat fatigues, asks, “Did you find everything you need?” I say, yes.
“Did you know we’re having an end-of-season sale on sundials?” I didn’t know that, nor did I know sundials have a season. I tell her, no thanks.
The clerk looks at the cans I’ve placed on the counter. She says, “My dogs love this brand!” She’s giving me that look that says: “Go ahead, ask me about my dogs.” So I do. I ask her about her dogs. People love to talk about their pets. I learn all about a pair of German Shorthaired Pointers. One of them is currently away on the “show circuit.” The other is at home. “She never goes away on the circuit. She’s my emotional comfort. You know what I mean?” I say I do.
The clerk continues: “I can’t bring her to work. Not here. They won’t let me.” She points to the floor behind the counter. I look to where she points, a cramped space and not very comfortable-looking for a German Shorthaired Pointer. I nod.
“But that’s okay,” she says. “I can bring her to my other job.” She waves her hand vaguely toward the store exit. That may or may not be the direction where her other job lies, but I get what she means. Or maybe not. She’s giving me that look again.
Okay, now I get it. I ask her what her other job is. That’s what she really wants to talk about. People love to talk about their jobs. She tells me all about her graveyard shift at an equestrian center.
“I’m usually there all alone all night. The place is big and scary sometimes. You know what I mean? Big and scary! Especially when I hear those weird noises coming from upstairs.” She points meaningfully toward the ceiling of the dog food store. I don’t look up.
She continues: “That’s when I’m really, really glad Midnight is with me. You know, for emotional comfort.”
I nod and say: “Midnight is an interesting name for a dog. Is she black-haired?”
The young woman gives me a dirty look. “Why would you ask that?” People don’t like it when you interrupt their stories. I give an innocent shrug. The young clerk in combat fatigues doesn’t say anything else and finishes ringing up the dog food.
Transaction complete. I pay what I owe, say thank you, and exit the dog food store. A light rain is falling and daylight is failing. It’s later than I thought.
On the drive home, I listen to the news. No comfort in anything being said. The weather deteriorates. The darkness thickens. The radio voices fade in and out. Important news arrives and departs. The road ahead is empty and hard to see.
