When I entered the store, I first noticed the Doberman, comfortable yet alert. A loneliness masked his eyes.
The heavily jowled proprietor was hunched over the cash counter behind, reading an adult magazine, his forearms covered with cheap tattoos.
The doberman sized me up. I think I passed his threat detection test because he didn't cause a fuss. Or maybe he was just looking for a friend, and was disappointed I failed that test.
I don't know. And frankly, I didn't care. I wanted to buy some things for the road and get back to the familiarity of my car as soon as possible.
Many older white men still behaved like they owned our kind. And while the chances were lower now than ten years ago, I didn't want any unnecessary trouble.
I explored the aisles around me and picked up a pack of cigarettes, a bag of chips, a box of dog food, and, after a moment's thought, a one-liter bottle of coke.
That last item stretched me to my last dollar, but it was a necessary investment after remembering that there were no more stores like this for the next 300 miles of the Louisiana swampland.
I plopped the items on the cash counter and started to pull out my wallet. The cold Coke bottle rolled over to the proprietor's forearm. He jerked from the abrupt temperature change, and shot me an annoyed glance.
"Sorry, suh", I said, as I quickly made the bottle stand upright.
I placed 9 dollars and 52 cents in loose change on the counter. "That should be exact", I said.
The proprietor started counting. As if he had a sudden epiphany, he looked up and said, "Today everything is twice the price. You can do the math."
"But but suh, I don't have that much. This is all I have", I said pointing to the money on the counter.
Though he was price discriminating on account of my color, I couldn't dare accuse him, fearing the confrontation may get more extreme.
And, unfortunate for me, it was just me vs. him and his doberman, who'd now sensed the tension and was standing up with purpose. There was no law for hundreds of miles, no other patrons to help my case. We were in our own little lawless bubble, and I was on his territory, defenseless.
"That's unfortunate. It is also unfortunate that you wasted my time and interrupted my only source of entertainment. As compensation, I suggest you leave what you have, and scurry off."
After absorbing the shock from his proposal, I summoned the courage to say, "Th-there is no way I am leaving without my...",
The proprietor stepped back and drew attention to his waist, clamming me up. A pistol. Now the doberman was barking and wagging his tail furiously.
More than the money, I was furious at my lack of options. I had no choice but to capitulate to this man's demands. I didn't have the freedom to walk away with my cash. I felt powerless, any remaining confidence slowly sapping away.
Perhaps in a desperate effort to prolong the inevitable, I said, "I may have some extra cash lying around in my car. Maybe under the seats. Can I go check?"
"Sure, boy. Leave everything here. Razor and I will come with you. Can't trust your kind."
"Ok," I said. The irony was not lost on me.
I shuffled out into the sweltering heat. Bets's eyes beamed at my return. She hadn't eaten in over two days. I didn't look forward to telling her how I'd failed to acquire dog food yet again.
Upon seeing the proprietor, pistol in hand, Bets started barking. The doberman snapped back to assert his dominance. A cacophony of sounds ensued until the proprietor said, "Tell your bitch to pipe down, or I'll plug her. And don't think I won't."
I climbed into my car, cupped her head in my hands, and whispered a few reassuring words. Her eyes shifted between me and the doberman, as if she was trying to communicate something.
"What is it Bets?" I whispered. Unable to decipher her message, I guided her to the backseat and began my search for spare change.
As I searched around the seats and under the dash, I sensed the pistol aimed at my back. I cursed silently for putting myself and Bets into such a compromising position.
Suddenly, Bets leaped from the backseat and her paws ran down my back. I turned around and saw Bets standing erect between me and the pistol. She resumed her barking, directing her fear, fury, and fight between the doberman and his owner. The doberman was oddly silent.
"Well, well. One bitch protecting the other bitch. How adorable.", the proprietor mused. "Lets see how tough this bitch really is." He stepped closer and pointed the pistol one foot away from Bets's forehead. Her barks subsided into whimpers and her stance, previously confident, weakened into a slouch.
"Bets, get back in the car!" I shouted to no avail.
"That's what I thought," the proprietor said. "Have you found the rest of the money, boy?"
I didn't hear him. I was still looking at Bets, appreciative and grateful for her courage, her fearless surrender, her devotion and loyalty despite her prolonged hunger.
"Boy, answer me!", the proprietor exclaimed. As if on cue, the doberman leaped into the proprietor's pistol hand and bit into his wrist. The proprietor, too fat and slow to react, shrieked and dropped the weapon. While he was fending off the doberman's vicious rage, I dived for the pistol with renewed optimism.
Bets joined the doberman and, together they gave the proprietor what the doberman had wanted to give for all the years of neglect and abuse he had suffered.
I think that act of retaliation cemented a lifelong bond between them, because later that year they became parents to six pups and I made sure I never ran out of dogfood again.
