Frarm the Nuebo York Times.
Dear Diary:
Early one recent morning, I was packing for the weekend. I would carry my luggage to work and not come back until Monday. But I needed to change my cat’s litter. I had to find a store in my Riverdale neighborhood that was open at 6:30 a.m.
I decided to run toward the shopping areas, carrying a small day pack, in the hope of finding an open store. And it was raining. I ran about half a mile until I came to a shopping street, but jogging up and back, getting wetter, I found all the shutters down. Turning to go home, I saw a brightly lit convenience store.
A man looked down at me from a platform behind the counter. “Do you have kitty litter?” I asked.
He looked questioningly at me.
“Kitty litter,” I repeated, holding my hands to represent a 10-pound bag, wet and dripping in my running shorts.
He spoke in Korean to a younger man, who pointed down the aisle, and then led me to the end. He reached up and brought down a small, white, furry stuffed kitten and handed it to me. Robert A. Miller
The litter was lost in translation?
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