Apples for the Creature

We didn't know the summer's almost tragic heat wave and dry spell in the Midwest would do it, but we arrived in Southwest Michigan too early for the "self-pick" apple season. We talked it over and decided the farmer's market would serve as our distant second choice to gather our supply of honey crisps, but he didn't know.
My sister and I took a guided tour of the newly dedicated dunes preservation area; it was beautiful, though the tour guide didn't contribute much to our enjoyment. Still, it was natural beauty of a sort we didn't usually have in an apple orchard, and it was a gorgeous day. The sky was brilliantly clear, and a stiff breeze brought whitecaps into the beach in droves. We walked a while and learned a few things about the history of the area we had never known, but he didn't know.
We piled into the car, equipped with a stroller to help tote the produce we planned to buy, and a few extra bags. Still gorgeous, the day allowed for a leisurely survey of the stands and their offerings. As we reached the far end, we saw one stand closing up and loading the truck with what little was unsold by the close of the third hour. The paper said the market would be open for six hours, but that apparently didn't mean every stand would stay until the end. Farmers' markets run at the pleasure of the farmers, after all, and most people set out for the market in the early to mid part of the day, and not the late afternoon, we decided it was time to buy, but he didn't know.
I found a stand selling baked goods and supplied the shoppers with bites of the marvelous cookies the Amish farmers had brought. Later, the shoppers decided I was being too stingy with the bites of cookie and made their own visit, rendering my service redundant. We filled the back of the car with our purchases, including a bushel of honey crisps, but he didn't know.
When we pulled up at home, we divided the spoils, and set them on our respective porch steps. Deer had been steadily eating the flowers and gourds from plantings around the house, so later we decided to move them to the porch. My sister has a screen door on the first floor porch, but the rest of the porch is not screened. The screen doors seemed to be simply symbolic barriers to keep toddlers inside and dogs and deer off the porch. When we went to bed, we locked the screen doors, making our intentions known—no one is allowed on the porch tonight. But he didn't know.
In the morning, there was one bag of apples strewn across the porch, and most of the half-dozen apples had been grasped by small paws and chewed by small teeth. The apples were not for him, but he didn't know.