The woman in front of me in the check-out line had at least thirty cans of dog food on the conveyor belt. She was dressed in tiny shorts and a tee-shirt, her hair too blonde for her age, her voice brassy and loud, too loud for the grocery store line at 10:00 pm. I felt judgmental. I had promised The Brothers that I would buy some of those frozen biscuits with sausage and cheese for this morning's breakfast. The Brothers have to take onerous state standardized tests this week, so a hearty breakfast is in order, and the crap will ease their hearts if not sharpen their brains. The cashier was a buoyant young man, trim and neat, and he kept up a constant stream of chatter as he scanned each can of dog food. What kind of dog do you have? he asked the lady. Oh, he's a mix, she replied. What's his name, the cashier asked. It's Salad, the lady said, and then quickly added that her dog had seizures and that's why they called him Salad. The cashier looked blank but laughed quickly and loudly when she clarified. His name was Caesar, but he started having seizures so we call him Salad, now. As the cashier put the last can of dog food into the woman's bag, I pulled out my pistol and shot straight through the can with such force that dog food splattered both cashier and customer who were both struck dumb as I picked my way through the mess and walked out of the store with the Jimmy Dean sausage biscuits stuffed into my bag. I nodded at the thin sliver of moon that shone down on the parking lot, stepped into my car and peeled off, toward home.