Dogs and Nashvillians

Monday nights are traditionally a boring shift. We've all had them. The shifts where you play with your eyelashes with the tip of a pen, just for the thrill of almost - but not quite - blinding yourself.

Tonight was no different, despite the holiday. I think everyone treated Martin Luther King Jr Day as Sunday - Part Two. Busy in the morning, then at night, everyone goes home to moan and groan about having to go to work the next day.

How I long for their problems. Retail never sleeps.

I was twenty minutes from freedom, when the phone rang. Admittedly, I didn't hear it at first. There was water running, I was standing right next to the stereo speakers.

And I might have been singing "Don't Rain on My Parade" at the top of my lungs.

But, by ring two, I had it, so no big deal.

On the other end of the phone was a man with a very familiar accent. Nashville, born and bred.

There's a soft spot in my heart for Nashville, for a multitude of sins reasons. Mostly friends, and fond memories of times gone by, slightly rose-colored by the miracle that is Wranglers.

That's the reason that I stayed on the phone with this guy for the better part of thirty minutes.

He had a new dog, with allergies, PTSD from the flood last year, among a host of other problems. Said guy (who's name, I'm sorry to say, I never caught, we'll call him Hank for fun) was funny and charming, and it was a nice conversation, even if I was sadly unable to sell him anything. If he'd been in the store, I would have had him wrapped around my little finger.

On the other hand, I did give him the information he needed, so that he could go to his local branch of the company and get the right products.

Not particularly funny or anything, but Hank made my night a bit more interesting, so I thought I'd share.

Because according to him, I'm "a peach pie of a woman".

It's the little things.