Don't spoil him

Mining the notebooks again this morning.  Twelve Novembers ago, on a Sunday morning,  I was in a grocery store in a town outside of Boston.

Two women and two men in having their morning coffee. Regulars. One of the men finds the coffee jug empty, makes a new pot himself, quite at home.

"See you in here every Sunday," says one of the women, who is smoking and has a smoker's rasp. She has a job as a demonstrator. I didn't catch what it is she demonstrates, but the other woman thinks this is an appropriate job for her because she is a "people person."

Conversation turns to talk of dog foods, which apparently is not a non-sequitur. The first man, who made the coffee, advises the second woman, "Don't give him anything from a can."

The second woman says she feeds her dog a mix of canned and dry food.

The man warns her, "Dry. Only dry."

"He won't eat it."

"He'll eat this new stuff they got. Sportsman's Choice."

The first woman establishes the man's authority on the subject: "He keeps hunting dogs," she says. "How many have you got?"

"Three." He asks the second woman, "What do you have?"

"A golden retriever."

"That's a hunting dog," says the first woman.

The man tells the second woman, "Don't spoil him."