June 15, 2002 - Saturday
Harry and I went to the rug store to pick up our new rug, which the store had treated with some protective substance. Harry likes the rug store and, after three previous visits, has none of the normal anxiety about the people he might meet there. He also seemed to understand very well that we were going to pick up the rug we decided to buy.
I get Harry out of the car, then open the store door for him. He walks straight in ahead of me and up to a group of three people standing and looking at the rugs hanging in the rack closest to the door. I can only assume one was a store employee and two were customers, a distinction lost on Harry.
"Where's my rug," he says in a not overly demanding, but still presumptuous way that smacks of childhood innocence. I'm still back at the door. The three people turn to him, then break out laughing. Three store employees that I do recognize have just laid another rug on the floor for viewing some distance past this first group. They hear Harry, too. One of them clearly recognizes Harry and knows that he is, indeed, there to get his rug. As we leave I wonder if Harry is disappointed our visit was so efficient, leaving no time to play on the other rugs.