It’s August. The dog days. You know what that means. This is when a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of comfort. You want to pack your pistol. It’s become a habit to the point that you feel positively nekkid without it. You know that gentle lurch in the pit of your stomach you get when you’re in the car, you’ve gotten about a half mile from home and realize you left your phone on the table by the door? Like that. That’s not a feeling you want, but when you’re minimizing clothing in 90+ heat and humidity, it’s easy to rationalize. Do I really need to bring it this time? What could possibly happen on a trip to the grocery store and the cleaners? . . .
