He slid a plain white box across the laminate. It didn't have the happy, leaping puppy on the front. It looked like something a Cold War spy would use to poison a diplomat. "Is it... the same?" Elias asked, clutching his wallet.
"I need the generic Trifexis," Elias whispered, feeling like he was scoring something illicit.
Elias took the box home. Barnaby, sensing medicine, immediately did his best impression of a statue with its jaws wired shut. After a twenty-minute wrestling match involving a slice of high-quality cheddar, the pill was down.
A week later, the scratching stopped. Barnaby was back to his nap-heavy lifestyle, and Elias had enough leftover cash to buy the good kibble. In the world of pet care, the "off-brand" victory tasted a lot like cheese.
"Same active ingredients, different price tag," Steve droned. "One kills the heartworms and the hookworms, the other nukes the fleas. Your dog won't know the difference, but your bank account will."
The clerk, a teenager whose name tag just said ‘Steve,’ didn’t look up. "We don't call it 'Generic Trifexis' here, man. It’s a combo deal. You want the mixed with Milbemycin Oxime ."
The fluorescent lights of "Bargain Beast Meds" flickered as Elias approached the counter. His dog, Barnaby, was a walking buffet for every flea in the county, and the name-brand Trifexis was currently costing more than Elias’s own health insurance.