the old nag

I set down 40 pounds of dog food on the passenger seat, without buckling it in, and I sense that my car doesn't like it. "Bing, bing, bing," she says, like a mother gently reminding her child. When I respond by taking my foot off the brake, she gets increasingly on edge. What if we're in an accident? What if we can't stop in time? What if . . . ? I ignore her and start to leave the parking lot. "Bingbingbingbingbingbingbing!" she cries. I step on the gas and proceed into traffic, sending her into a panic. "BINGBINGBINGBINGBING!" All the way home, this nagging. And me without a button to turn off the Swedish smart-assitude.