persephone, on the road

The eighty-year-old woman I work with has a small dog who has been her near-constant companion since her husband's death early this year.  He follows her everywhere, nearly dissolves when she is gone, and defends her against friend and foe with every fiber of his vocal chords. 

It is a symbiotic relationship.

On a semi-weekly basis, I drive to the grocery store, where they have the long plastic vegetable bags and twisty ties best suited for picking up and securing fresh feces.  I walk nonchalantly past the tomatoes and the pomegranates and the sweet potatoes, scan the room, and pull as many bags off the roll as I can before I start to feel sheepish.  The twisty ties come off in a clump. 

My traveling companion is waiting for me in the car, with the doors locked.  (Years ago, in California, a man climbed into the driver's seat while she was waiting for a friend in the store, and he drove off, despite her protestations, and would have proceeded to kidnap her had she not jumped out of the vehicle when it slowed for an intersection.) 

My purse bulges.  I unlock the doors and start the car.  "Forget about the seat belt!" cries Thelma to my Louise.  "Just drive!"