“Is this the chicken, boy?”
A small beat of silence, then a quiet bark. One bark—reluctant, like he hates barking, but he’ll do it for me.
“Okie dokie. Chicken breasts. Check. Next.”
“Cashews,” the robotic voice says. Off we go to find those. Despite the music, I’m actually excited about shopping for this meal. And with Jason beside me, it feels like I have company. When Hattie and I shopped together last week, it took two hours to get litchis and mineral water. I’m convinced she stopped at every single item to ooh and aah like it was her first time ever being inside a store. Even Jason started to whine—and not the cute whine either.
Next up: onions and broccoli florets, both of which I already have at home.
Then: one green pepper, one red pepper, one thumb of ginger.
Those I don’t have, so we head down the produce aisle. The clacking of my cane and Jason’s cheerful footsteps make a rhythm that almost drowns out the Christmas song assaulting us in October. Halloween first, please.
Eventually, we have everything we need for cashew chicken, and my stomach grumbles in anticipation. I snag an apple to hold off my hunger—I don’t want to spoil my appetite.
I consider grabbing a bottle of wine, but think better of it. Probably not the best idea to drink while cooking. Besides, Jason might judge me for drinking blind.
“Wine or no wine, Jason? It’s not like I’m going to get blind drunk.”
I snort at my own joke, but Dog-Jason gently steers me away from the liquor aisle. Fair point. If my jokes are this lame when I’m sober, staying that way is probably best for all involved.
I’m convinced we’ve got everything when Jason nudges my hand upward.
“What have I missed, boy?”
He directs me toward a shelf and plops something into my hand. Frowning, I openBe My Eyes. The volunteer tells me it’s lime juice. Before I can thank her, Jason nudges another bottle near my hand. Peanut oil.
“Good choice, boy. The recipe does say canola or peanut oil, but go big or go home, right? What would I do without you?”
I pop it into the cart and turn, only to hear a voice behind me.
“That’s precisely why they shouldn’t allow pets in stores. How unsanitary. That dog just grabbed a bottle off the shelf with his mouth. Now I have to worry about fleasandworms.”
Well, that’s it. You can say what you like about me, but back off, Barbie—you don’t get to talk shit about my dog.
I whip around, ready to let her have it, but stop myself. Someone who begrudges an otherwise-abled person their support isn’t going to get it.
I need to save my energy for better things.
So, I turn back, lift my chin, and say, “C’mon, Jason. It’s obnoxiously loud in here. Time to get home.”
An indignant “Humph” hits my ears, but I walk away smiling. I didn’t lose my shit. I must be growing.
By the time Jason and I make it home, my apple core is all that’s left of my willpower. My stomach is doing the grumbly death-rumble thing that warns future-me she should’ve eaten something substantial before grocery shopping. Lesson learned.
Maybe.
Jason guides me through the doorway like he owns the place, tail thumping once before he trots toward the kitchen. He scratches at the back door. I shake my head.
“You know you were just outside a second ago, right?”
He whines, and I laugh. “Okay, okay. Nature calls when it calls.”
I open the kitchen door and let him out, then start unloading groceries onto the counter. Produce here, cans there, cashews where I won’t mistake them for dog treats. That little buzz of excitement hits again. Cashew chicken. Me. Making dinner like a functioning adult.
I’m lining up the peppers like little edible soldiers when my doorbell rings.
Jason barks from where I assume he’s doing his business—or chasing rabbits. One bark, sharp and annoyed, and then silence as he returns to whatever he’s up to. It still amazes me how having him nearby pushes all my weird intrusive thoughts out of the way. I head to the door with confidence. Maybe because I know Human-Jason is scheduled to do my cooking class. Or maybe because Jason’s paws are bigger than most people’s heads. Either way, I’m grateful for the peace.
