Bob does not, at the moment, pause to wonder a) why Claire has authorization to use a gun, b) why she's keeping one on her at work, or c) where, in fact, on her person she's been keeping it.

He's a little busy, at the moment, chanting "oh fuck" under his breath repeatedly and frantically scrolling through sub-menus on the iPhone, trying to find the right app in the tumble-drier sub-menu.

The little x-ray magnifying glass, that's the one, isn't it? Bob crosses his fingers, taps it, points it at the Microwave Devourer, and hopes.

And glances at his screen, of course, and sees...

... a dog?

"Fuck, that can't be right," he mutters, and goes back to side-scrolling.