When I was in Bellingham, I bought two cases of Diet Dr. Pepper. I put them in the back of the Jeep, which is also where I left Dex while I ran into Lilly's apartment for a few minutes. When I returned, no cardboard remained. The only forensic evidence that the cases ever existed was 24 slightly chewed, free-range cans of pop.
Whenever I rounded a corner, a heavy metallic avalanche would swamp Dex, who lunged to keep out of the way of the rolling cans.
"Serves you right!" I yelled into the mirror.
And then the cans began exploding. Three of them sprouted geysers. Today, Dex has a peaty, cherry bouquet. And of course, a pesky insouciance.