a story my parents like to tell about me is that once, when i was about 4, we were up in maine and i wandered out to the porch and said happily, “there’s a dog in the grocery store.”
“what?” said my parents.
“dog,” i said. “in the grocery store!”
i said shit like this constantly because i was an imaginative child to the point of being slightly delusional, so they were like lol ok. dog in the grocery store. enjoy that. we’ll be here reading pg wodehouse like we do every vacation. so i wandered away again.
after a couple of minutes i reappeared and said louder, “DOG IN THE GROCERY STORE.”
“ok,” said my parents.
“SEE DOG,” i insisted.
“fine,” said my long-suffering parents, closing their books, “fine, we’ll come See Dog. it’s probably another cardboard box that you drew ears on, but fine,” so they followed me back inside and i took them to the kitchen, where they found that a HUGE MOOSE had stuck its bathtub-sized head into the open window next to the pantry and was lipping peaceably at the canned goods, which is apparently a thing they do. “DOG!” i said happily. apparently i was not good at identifying animals and i thought everywhere with food was a grocery store
