Last night we made a run to our local ghetto strip mall to get ice cream. It's a short trip, but we took Arthur along for the ride anyway. When he gets in the car it usually means that: a) he's going to the vet; b) he's going to the beach; or c) he's going to Grandma's house, so he was extremely confused by our late-night outing. (There he is, waiting in the backseat). Or maybe he was just struck dumb by Baskin-Robbins' hideous revamping.
Driving home, he couldn't stop looking at my sister's cone.
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