Let’s talk about false advertising.
When a grocery store claims to be “pet-friendly,” one naturally assumes it’s prepared for pets. That it has systems in place—rules, protocols, maybe a reinforced snack aisle so dogs don’t self-serve an entire row of jerky treats.
Well, this morning, I learned that when a grocery store calls itself “pet-friendly,” what they really mean is “We tolerate your pet’s presence until they inevitably cause a disaster, and then it’s entirely your problem.”
It started innocently enough.
I was out of dog food for Moose (my 90-pound Golden Retriever with the appetite of a small bear and the manners of a raccoon in a trash can). There was no way I could postpone the errand—Moose had already begun his Hunger Protest Phase, which involves staring at me with such deep disappointment that I start questioning my life choices.
So, I leashed him up and walked to the new pet-friendly grocery store down the street. It seemed like a win-win: I’d get his food, maybe a snack for myself, and Moose could feel like a productive member of society.
I should have known better.
Phase 1: The Entrance Incident
As soon as we walked in, Moose was greeted like a celebrity. Employees smiled. A lady in a yoga outfit knelt down to pet him. An old man pointed and went, “Now that’s a real dog!” which, frankly, is an insulting thing to say in a pet-friendly store. I assume it was directed at some poor chihuahua in the produce aisle.
I was lulled into a false sense of security.
Then, we reached the automatic doors.
See, Moose has a complicated relationship with glass. He views it as a conspiracy. Windows? Suspicious. Mirrors? A personal attack. Automatic doors? A supernatural horror that must be defeated.
So when the doors slid open, Moose panicked.
His solution? Charge forward at full speed.
And because I wasn’t expecting a siege, I lost my grip on the leash.
Moose bolted inside, yanking the leash behind him like a medieval flail. I lunged to grab it and, in the process, hip-checked a display of organic honey. Jars toppled. Glass shattered. A nearby employee let out a dramatic “Oh NO!”
Moose, meanwhile, was already deep in aisle three, having a spiritual experience with the gourmet dog biscuits.
Phase 2: The “Sampling” Problem
By the time I caught up to him, Moose had helped himself to what can only be described as an all-you-can-eat buffet.
A bag of peanut butter treats had been surgically ripped open. A box of grain-free biscuits had been tipped over and lightly grazed (but still ruined, because no one wants a box of dog treats with slobber-based water damage).
Worst of all, Moose had somehow managed to chew open a plastic container of fresh rotisserie chicken. The human rotisserie chicken.
The man has no boundaries.
Me: “Oh my god, Moose, we do NOT steal poultry.”
Moose: [looks at me, mid-chew, completely unbothered.]
At this point, an employee appeared. His name tag said “Tyler.” Tyler had the weary expression of a man who was not paid enough for this.
Tyler: “Sir, your dog is… uh… consuming store property.”
Me: “I see that, Tyler.”
Tyler: “That chicken is for humans.”
Me: “I don’t think Moose sees species. He just sees protein.”
Phase 3: The Cover-Up
Now, logically, I should have just paid for the damage and left. But no, I panicked.
I tried to cover my tracks, which is hard to do when your accomplice is actively chewing the evidence.
I grabbed a nearby bag of dog food, tossed it into my basket, and whispered, “Let’s go.”
But as I turned, a SECOND problem emerged.
A woman nearby—a concerned citizen, a champion of justice, a Karen in her prime—was watching me like a hawk.
Karen: “Excuse me, but I think your dog just ate an entire chicken.”
Me: “Define ‘entire’.”
Karen: “The store has cameras, you know.”
Moose: [licks his lips]
At this point, a manager was called.
His solution? Ban Moose from the store.
Tyler: “Sir, I’m sorry, but your dog can’t shop here anymore.”
Me: “He wasn’t shopping. He was foraging.”
Phase 4: The Escape
Moose and I were escorted out like criminals. A man in a Kroger apron actually walked us to the door as if Moose might attempt one final heist.
To be fair, he wasn’t wrong. As we passed a display of bagels, Moose lunged for one last grab.
I yanked him back.
The manager sighed.
The bagels were spared.
The Aftermath
I left with:
- A bag of expensive dog food
- A rotisserie chicken I had to pay for but didn’t get to eat
- A lifetime ban for Moose
- A deep sense of shame
Moose left with:
- A stomach full of stolen poultry
- No regrets
Later, when I texted the gang about the incident:
Tessa: “You should’ve known better. Moose has impulse control issues.”
Sophie: “He gets it from his owner.”
Mark: “Wait, so you paid for the chicken, but they didn’t let you keep it? That’s theft. I’d sue.”
Chaz: “Bro, they banned Moose??? I’ll boycott. No pet-friendly store left behind. #JusticeForMoose ✊🐶”
Justice for Moose.
Sure.
Anyway, I’m never showing my face in that grocery store again. Moose, on the other hand, has already forgotten the whole thing. He’s currently napping, dreaming of his next heist.