This Dawg Don’t Hunt

This Dawg Don’t Hunt by Gary Benton
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Bubba walked into the huge store and looked around. It was the same as usual, filled with lots of unhappy people in a hurry. He held a small bag in his left hand and walked up to the refund counter. Bubba was dressed as he normally dressed for a trip into town; worn blue bib-overalls, white tee shirt, combat boots, and his “Joe’s Feedlot” ball cap. His right cheek held a large amount of snuff.

“May I help you sir?” A middle-aged woman in a red vest, with the name Lucille on her nametag, asked him as soon as he approached the counter.

Bubba could tell right off that he did not like the woman. Her hair was dyed a blue-purple color and her gold-framed glasses were held down low on her nose. The woman’s voice had a hard tonal Yankee twang to it.

“ Nope,” Bubba said to himself, “this heah woman hain’t a-gonna hep me much, I ‘spect.”

“Yep, you shore can hep me, Lucille. I wanna ree-turn this heah.” Bubba said as he handed the woman a small plastic bag that held the purchase he had made the night before, as well as the receipt.

The woman took the bag, opened it, and looked inside. She didn’t even raise her head as she looked over her glasses at Bubba, smiled a fake smile, and said, “We cannot take software back. Once it is purchased, it is yours.”

“Lady, you listen to me. I paid more than a hunnert dollars fer that softwar and hit don’t softwar at tall. I should have bought hardwar instead.“

“Sir, I am not sure I understand your complaint. I can see plainly that it is software.”

“Well, mayhap I hain’t ‘zackly ‘splainin’ this right. See, let me put this a-ways fer ya…iffen you bought a coon dawg and it didn’t chase coons, what would you do with it?”

“Well, I don’t know sir. I have never bought but one dog in my life and that was my little Charlie. He was a poodle. Nonetheless, I suspect I would take it back for a refund, if it did not hunt as advertised.”

Bubba reached down, picked up the bag and held it in the woman’s face as he said, “Well, woman, this dawg heah don’t hunt.”

“Sir, let me get the manager of the refunds department and let him explain our return policy as it pertains to software. I am sure he will be able to assist you in understanding your rights as if pertains to refunds in the retail market.”

“Now, I don’t know a dang thang ‘bout no markets, ‘ceptin a little ‘bout the hawg market I hear on the radio each Tuesday mornin’. Iffen it makes yer frog hop, lady, get the manager, get the assistant manager, or get the owner. I jess want my money back.”

As Bubba hung around the counter for about ten minutes, he looked at flyers, read the signs, and watched other customers as they received refunds much larger than his amount. As each person counted their money in their hands as they walked off, Bubba felt his blood pressure going up. Then, the department manager arrived.

He was a little squirrelly guy and weighed about eighty pounds, bald, big low-priced black rimmed plastic glasses, and a cheap brown suit. He obviously had the habit of combing what little hair he had left over the bald spot to hide it .He was constantly repositioning the long locks as he approached Bubba.

“Now, what seems to be the problem here? I understand you are dissatisfied with one of our dog products?” The squirrel asked in a high-pitched voice.

Bubba turned, walked over to the trashcan and spit a long stream of brown tobacco juice. As he lifted his head, he felt a drop run down the side of his left cheek and chin. He didn’t bother to wipe his chin or cheek as he turned back toward the man and said, “Yep, I guess you could call it a dawg product.”

Bubba spent the next fifteen minutes explaining how coon dogs were supposed to hunt and how he expected his money back when they didn’t. After Bubba’s explanation, the manager was more confused than ever.

“Sir, I am a bit confused. Exactly what product did you return for an anticipated refund?”

“I brought back some softwar yer man told me last night would werk in my machine, only it don’t.”

“Sir, we cannot accept software in return for a refund.”

“Ok, now, you move yer skinny little butt and get me the man YOU work fer then. And, this time I hain’t a-givin’ you but five minutes. Then, at the end of them five minutes, I will start talking in a VERY loud voice ‘bout y’alls refund policy.”

Bubba had less than a five minute wait. In just a few moments, the store manager was there. He was dressed in a plain white shirt and a plain black tie, nice black pants, and shinny black shoes. He had all of his close-cropped brown hair, no glasses, and was more than just a little overweight.

“Good afternoon, suh. I’ve heard of the difficulties you are experiencin’ heah today. How may I assist y’all?” He asked with a pleasant Southern voice as he extended his hand to shake with Bubba.

“Well, I brought back some softwar and I want a refund. I got home las night right after I bought it and dee-scovered it ain’t fer my machine. I didn’t even open the package. It said right there on the side what machine it was fer and it ain’t mine.” Bubba explained as he shook the man’s offered hand.

“Suh, you mean to tell me the package has never been opened? Did ya tell that to the other two employees you spoke with?” The manager asked as he looked at both the refund clerk and the manager of the refund department.

“Whal, no, I didn’t open it. Why would I open it ifn it ain’t fer my machine. As fer a-tellin’ the other two folks, well, now, they jess never asked, nor gave me the time to say anythang ‘bout that. They jess rambled ‘bout how they could not refund my money over softwar stuff. And, I can a-tell ya right now, they hain’t got a lick of Southern manners ‘bout ‘em. Neither one of them even said good day or nothin’.”

In less than five minutes, Bubba was walking away from the refund department counting his money. The store manager had left taking the two red-faced employees with him, right after telling another person to refund Bubba’s full purchased price.

“Funny place this is,” Bubba thought as he folded up the money and placed it in his wallet,

“They don’t know nothin’ ‘bout coon dawgs that don’t hunt or rednecks givin’ ‘em a hard time over poor manners. Yankees is always in such a dern hurry.”

Then, as he exited the store, he thought, “Think I will take Maude out fer a beer later tonight.”

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