Cart-wars at mighty Weggers

I decided to go to mighty Weggers today (Sunday, May 18, 2008) so —A) I wouldn’t hafta go tomorry after the YMCA; or —B) I could take the dog to the vet — if needed.
And it appears that won’t be necessary, since the dog is still weak, but he appears to be improving.
Say to the dog the chipmunk is outside, and he springs into action, trotting to the door, tail wagging furiously, wimpering and yelping.
I took him for a walk last night, and he saw a bunny-rabbit — gave chase, pulling me strongly.
I think I should be putting his lights out, since supposedly he can’t be himself.
But every once in a while, he’s just like old times.
We navigated the neighbor’s fence last night, and he heard a sound.
All-of-a-sudden, bolt-erect; stop and sniff along the fence.
The old fire is still there. As long as it is, it’s near-impossible to give up.
This morning we took the dog along to the so-called elitist country-club, and he went farther; although the fact he can’t run with me is depressing.
And when we returned, the dog jumped up into the Bathtub on-his-own.
No help.
“Get outta here with that help. I can do it.” BOINK!
(The van-floor is 20 inches above the ground.)

So here I am at Weggers. I get in a checkout-line, and Granny falls in behind me in a powered handicap-cart.
She slams it into my ankles.
“I was hoping you’d help me unload my cart, young man. You look pretty strong.”
Um, PASS! I don’t think slamming my ankles is a good way to drop a hint.
I move up, and the checkout processes my order.
Again, Granny slams her cart into my ankles.
“Oh, excuse me, young man. I guess I gotta be more careful. This cart is either on-or-off.”
“Um, I’m 64, Granny.” I say.
“Well I’m 72. Part of the greatest generation that ever was!”
Checkout complete, I proceed out the aisle, and stop to fold my receipt and put it in my wallet.
Again, Granny slams me with her cart.
“Now what? Is this a hint I should take out your order? Do I look like a ‘Helping-Hands?’ Go slam a store-employee.”
“Well, excuse me, young man.”

“Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester we often buy groceries at. They have a store in Canandaigua.

I work out in the exercise-gym at the YMCA.

Our dog is “Killian;” a rescue Irish-Setter. He has lymphatic cancer, and probably won’t survive. —He’s over 10; we don’t know his birthdate.

“The so-called elitist country-club” is nearby Boughton (“BOW-tin”) Park, where I run and we walk our dog. It was called that long ago by an editor at the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, where I once worked, because it will only allow taxpayers of the three towns that own it to use it. We are residents of one of those towns.

“The Bathtub” is our 2005 Toyota Sienna van; called that because it’s white and like sitting in a bathtub.

“Helping-Hands” are Wegmans employees that load groceries into cars for people and collect the carts.