Dog biscuits at the wine shop

Every time I buy a bottle of wine, I ask her the date as I’m writing my check. Before she answers, I guess: January 5^th? Oh, I’m afraid so, she says as if remembering better days. That’ll be $14.03. I play along, I thought it said $12.95.  She lowers her head and raises one eyebrow, biting her tongue rather than accuse me of being an idiot. There’s a harsh chuckle trying to escape the back of her throat. Well, that’s before Mr. Cuomo gets his cut, she smirks, having made slight adjustments over the years from Pataki to Spitzer (briefly) to Patterson (almost as briefly). Oh, yes, I apologize, as if it were my fault or I was trying again to avoiding paying my state taxes. We move on to the weather. Again, I’m diplomatic, but she has none of it. Well, at least the sun is out, she says, but doesn’t sound at all pleased. Snow? I ask. That’s what they’re saying, but that’s only after the cold—the harsh chuckle has forced its way out of her tight lips. Well, I guess it’s what we can expect for Albany, I smile, apologizing for all of upstate New York and its inconveniences and miseries. As far as I know, except for a short Boston childhood she’s lived here all her life, and she has managed this little shop and has watched skies darken,  and roads freeze over, and has listened to the bad news and the dour violins on her old radio for at least 20 years. She’s known my dog, and given her treats, since Lucy was a pup, and she prefers the dog to me, even now when the poor thing is achy and cranky and bony and blind.  She’s always grudgingly pleasant, as if fighting her own will to be nice, like that stuck chuckle, but one thinks if she had her way there would be no customers—or at least no purchasers—with questions about Merlots and credit cards and demands for boxes, the only humans even worth acknowledging would at least pay in cash and would be there because of dogs, and she could ignore me while she bent down to give the dog a treat and talk to her: Now, I didn’t hear any chewing, you can do better than that. And the cranky old dog would try.