a sad story with no ending.

I almost never go to Superstore, since I only shop for one, and an average store is every bit "super" enough to accommodate me. Case in point: the Superstore in my neighbourhood doesn't seem to stock long-grain white rice in a bag smaller than 8kg.

What's more, purchaising plastic bags so that I may put my groceries in them myself is an ass-backwards arrangement. Charging people for plastic bags is exactly the kind of environmental initiative I would expect from a national mega-conglomerate like Westfair Foods: half-assed, money-grubbing, ultimately insignificant. The store itself has a massive carbon footprint, compunded by the four-lane gas bar, the underground parkade, and the thousands of daily customers, nearly all of whom must drive in order to haul their bulk groceries home with them.

Today I discovered that monosodium glutamate, the Dreaded MSG, the evil food additive that every health freak has nightmares about, can be found in the Asian Food aisle at Superstore. It comes in a bag and looks very inedible. Until now, I had assumed it was the sort of ingredient that called for a government licence and a degree in chemistry.

I looked briefly for men's flip-flops, but found nothing above a size 8. That is not a man's flip-flop. In other words, even with all its grandstanding, its enormous, ugly building, its competative prices and its tremendous selection of consumer goods, Superstore was largely useless to me on this particular visit.

The sad story begins now. I was on my way back from this disappointing visit to the largest eyesore in the neighbourhood, and as I'm walking up the alley, I spot something fluttering around in my peripheral vision. It was a small hawk, maybe a foot long, brown, with a black and white bands on its tail. It had tried to fly away from me (I wouldn't have noticed it otherwise) but it seemed to be injured.

I like birds, and hawks are always extra cool. I wanted to help this one. So I hurried home and looked up the number for animal control. I called to tell them about it, and was told by the nice lady on the phone that animal control doesn't handle injured birds, and that I would have to call the SPCA. And, incidentally, that the SPCA was closed.

I called the number anyway, and was directed by their voicemail service to call the emergency line. The woman who answered informed me that the SPCA "doesn't pick up injured birds unless they're in a box," and asked me if I'd be willing to go out and capture the hawk.

I said, "No."

I am not a trained bird handler. And my immunizations are about a decade out of date. I am neither compassionate nor stupid enough to go chasing after a frightened wild animal with nothing but a worn-out oven mitt to protect myself with. So, since the professionals don't seem interested, that hawk is on its own. Hopefully it hasn't fluttered into traffic yet.

This is where the story's ending would normally be. I suppose if I'd gone out to capture the bird, I would write here about my triumph and/or my grevious injuries.