Today I found myself shopping for the ghost dog. This sounds like a lonely enterprise, but I had company. We admired the snappy collars, poked at dried pig's ears, hefted ceramic water bowls, squeezed squeaky toys. We were unsure of the specific tastes of the ghost dog. Did he prefer rubber or rawhide? Was he the type to de-squeak the noisier sort of toy before commencing serious play? Was he (or she?) acrobatically inclined, a chaser of flying rings and disks?
So much uncertainty. The shop owner asked if we were looking for something specific, and we demurred, slunk out without buying anything, tails between our legs.
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