and my patience for idiotic adults who act like children.
Ugh, it seems that’s all I blog about anymore, no? Me having a run-in with someone stupid and not filtering my sarcasm before it gets to my mouth.
So I take Rowdi to the vet yesterday for her checkup (oh joy of joy, she has fleas!). After we are all done with the vet, I’m standing at the checkout counter waiting for my bill and talking to the vet’s assistant. Rowdi is standing quietly at my side, staring intently and respectfully at this giant St. Bernard at the far end of the the lobby. It was so cute to see her so intrigued with something yet not pulling at the leash–I think she was in awe.
First the vet’s assistant (this cute little college girl) tells me that she’ll never forget the first time I brought Rowdi in for an appointment a year ago and said, “I’ve never owned a dog before and have no idea what I’m doing!” and then she tells me what a great job she thinks we’ve done with Rowdi, and what a great dog Rowdi is. I aww thank her, and then we start talking about the carpet-dog (Australian Shepherd) behind the counter who is staring up at us and is completely still and looks like a statue. The vet’s assistant tells me the carpet-dog is begging for cookies and says, “I’m sorry, but if Rowdi can’t have one, you can’t either.” And we continue to talk about poor Rowdi’s strict diet and make other such small talk while I wait for my bill, the flea pills for Rowdi and the kitties (oh yeah, shoving pills down kitty throats is so much fun), and Rowdi’s flea preventative.
That’s when I realize an increase in loud chatter in the vet’s office, about four feet away from me, in the same direction as the St. Bernard. But I’m thinking it’s just that–loud chatter. You know how it is when a bunch of people start talking at the same time. I continue talking to the assistant (I really should learn her name, it’s the same girl every time and I always recognize her face) and ignore the chatter until it becomes clear that the chatter is alarmingly annoying. I finally turn toward the noise and see this lady–you know the type. Early 40s, cheerleader mom who would kill another cheerleader to make sure her daughter makes captain, boob job, perfect nails, doesn’t leave her house without her makeup perfect, perfect straight black hair, and clutched tightly in her arms is a muppet dog to match her hair. Oh good grief, she is looking at me. And talking to me. Talking at me. With scared eyes. Chatterbox with the muppet hair and the muppet dog and the french manicure sculptured nails is talking at me.
MUPPET: Are you holding onto that dog’s leash?
SARAHK: [Nothing from me, because see, I really am still trying to take it all in, take her all in. She doesn't start with "excuse me" or "pardon the interruption while I ask a most ridiculous question that I already know the answer to", and I am pretty much stunned into silence. Doesn't happen very often.]
MUPPET: Are you holding onto that dog’s leash?
SARAHK: No. I’m just letting her roam around free in the vet’s office with all the other dogs. [Oh, look. I found my voice.]
MUPPET: We’ve been attacked by a dog before is the reason I’m asking. [She's actually pointing to herself and her matching muppet dog while she's saying this, and she's speaking in a very urgent "you understand" tone. And no, I don't understand. You're being a child in a room full of adults.].
This whole time, Rowdi has not even blinked in Muppet & Co.’s general direction, because she is still heavily enthralled with Mr. St. Bernard, who is obviously not a female, because females larger than Rowdi tend to make Rowdi bark. Finally, I just wave Muppet off and turn back around. But not before my mouth starts talking again. “No, I’m not responsible with my dog at all.” What responsible adult human takes their 60 lb. pit bull / German Shepherd / lab mutt to the vet with all the other sick dogs off-leash?
So I turn back and start talking to the vet’s assistant, and she whispers, “Don’t worry about it. It’s not you. It happens all the time in here.” And I’m actually kind of non-plussed, maybe because I’m so used to the muppet’s type, and I’ve received the same kind of treatment in the vet’s lobby before. I just say, “Oh, I’m sure it does,” because really, I’m sure it does, as Rowdi is not the only large dog in the world, and the Muppet is, well… a clone. So the Muppet gets very wide eyes when I turn around and ignore her in my Alpha-dog way and takes a very wide berth around Rowdi and me to walk to the other end of the counter, lest Rowdi jump up and snatch her twin muppet dog right out of her muppet arms.
And of course, I didn’t think to ask Mitzi the Muppet if her little twin was on a leash until I got out to the car. Because the little muppet was not on a leash. And good grief, woman, when you see two adults having a conversation, the very least you can do is say “excuse me” before interrupting to ask your inane questions. If she had bothered to look at my hands, she could have seen that I was holding Rowdi’s leash. She only asked the question in order to say, “Your big dog scares me. Make sure you hold on to her tight so she doesn’t eat my little Fluffy here.” If that is what you mean, then say, “Excuse me, ma’am. Your big dog scares me. Make sure you hold on to her tight so she doesn’t eat my little Fluffy here.”
Maybe next time, I’ll carry an extra leash in my left hand so that when a muppet goggles or asks the inane question, I can just casually flash the leash, all bundled up and not attached to the dog. Like, look at me, my dog is off-leash. Fear her!