(I am the receptionist of a local vet. We have had a woman come in saying her cat is no longer pooping. We do a check, and the cat doesn’t appear to be uncomfortable, and we can’t feel anything which would indicate a blockage. The woman is insistent that we do an ultrasound, however, and after she pays the fee, she leaves her cat with us, and we give her instructions to call us the next morning.)

Woman: “I’m calling about my cat, [Cat].”

Me: “Yes, I’ll just get the vet. He’s asked to speak to you directly.”

(I hear her sobbing hysterically as I put her on hold. Our lead vet comes out and takes the call.)

Vet: “Mrs. [Woman].”

Woman: *mumbles*

Vet: “Your cat is absolutely fine. We couldn’t find anything wrong.”

Woman: *mumbles*

Vet: “Yes, it is a mystery. However, I wonder if you could tell me: do you own a cat flap by any chance?”

Woman: *shouting* “Yes. Why?”

Vet: “Is there a chance [Cat] could be doing her business outside?”

Woman: *mumbles*

Vet: “Would you mind checking your garage, then, please?”

Woman: *mumbles*

Vet: “And is the cat door locked?”

Woman: *mumbles*

Vet: “Yes, I know you said no one can get in, but if the flap isn’t locked, there is a chance [Cat] could be doing her business in there.”

Woman: *mumbles and then shouts* “OH, MY GOD! THERE’S S*** EVERYWHERE!”

Vet: “Thank you, Mrs. [Woman]. I’ll see you soon.” *hangs up*

Me: “Pooping in the garage?”

Vet: “Pooping in the garage.”

(This happened to my dad. He was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes, and because of this, he has to have something to eat every two or three hours. His boss knows this. One day, the boss comes over to Dad’s desk to discuss something.)

Boss: *talking without paying attention*

(At that moment, the coffee cart rolls by.)

Dad: “Excuse me for a minute—”

Boss: *ignoring him*

Dad: “Uh, [Boss]? Just give me a minute—”

Boss: “Why?”

Dad: “I need to go get something from the coffee cart.”

Boss: *annoyed* “Now?”  

Dad: “Yes, now.”

Boss: “For Pete’s sake, would it kill you to wait?”

Dad: “Literally? Probably not. But it won’t be healthy for me.”

Boss: *pause* “Oh, the diabetes thing. Right.”

(It wouldn’t have been such a big deal, except that this happened at least once a month.)

Related:
What A Diabeetus, Part 4
What A Diabeetus, Part 3
What A Diabeetus, Part 2

(I work at the bakery in a somewhat upscale grocery store. We, annoyingly, allow customers to try a “sample” of nearly anything if they ask. When we get new product, we always cut up samples and put them out. We’ve recently started making four new breads, so we put out four paper bags with the cut-up bread and a sign stating what each bread is, its ingredients, and its allergy information. Two young boys walk up with their father.)

Father: “I’m looking for the best bread to make garlic bread with.”

(His kids start eating samples, and I help the father pick out bread. They leave, and a few minutes later the father returns, looking angry.)

Father: “Which one was it?”

(The younger of the two kids points to a bag.)

Father: “[Bread]? Which one is the [Bread]?”

Me: “This one.” *I hold up the bread*

Father: “Are those sesame seeds?!”

Me: “Yes. But it is the same bread as this one.” *picks up different bread* “It just has sesame seeds on top.”

Father: “My son is allergic to sesame seeds!”

Me: “Oh. So, do you—”

Father: *interrupts* “How could you let him eat this?! You should warn people with allergies!”

Me: “I’m sorry, sir. The allergy information is posted right here—” *gestures to the sign* “—on top of the bag.

Father: “My son can’t read!”

Me: “Well, then, as the father of a son with allergies who is too young to be able to read, shouldn’t you be paying more attention to what he is putting into his mouth?”

Father: *glares and storms off*

This story is part of our Food Allergies roundup!

Read the next Food Allergies roundup story!

Read the Food Allergies roundup!

(I work as a shift leader for a fabric store. Toward the end of my shift, I go to the office to finish the paperwork for a few orders. I’m seated at the computer finishing up an email when my general manager enters the office to start her shift. The office is also where we store custom orders when they come in, so they don’t get confused with regular stock. A few items are standing in one corner waiting for pick-up, clearly marked.)

General Manager: “Hey, [My Name]! How’d today go? Did the truck come in okay?”

Me: “Afternoon, [General Manager]. Not bad, though they didn’t include the new holiday decorations that were in the inventory. I was just putting through a couple of custom orders before I head home.”

General Manager: “Oh, okay. Sales are good?”

(By now, she’s put her purse away and has started shuffling around the custom orders in the corner.)

Me: “A bit slow, but not the worst we’ve had this week.”

General Manager: *suddenly annoyed* “[My Name], why aren’t these on the floor yet?”

Me: “Pardon?”

General Manager: “These rolls, they’re the restock for the home decor, right?”

Me: “No, they’re custom orders. The customers haven’t picked them up yet, but I called them this morning and left messages that their fabric was in.”

General Manager: “So, why aren’t these on the floor?”

Me: “Because they’re not for the floor; they’re custom orders that are waiting to be picked up.”

General Manager: “Oh.”

Me: “Anyway, I’m going to clock out now.”

General Manager: “So, why aren’t these on the floor?”

Me: *exasperated by now* “Because we can’t sell them!”

General Manager: “Why not?!”

Me: “Because they’re custom orders, and the customers already paid for them, and they would be pissed!”

General Manager: “Oh.”

Me: *still exasperated* “Is that all?”

General Manager: “I guess.” *muttering under her breath as I leave*

(I didn’t work another shift for two days. When I came back, the assistant store manager informed me that the general manager had put the custom orders on the floor, despite what I had told her, and despite the tags plastered on the rolls with the customers’ names and phone numbers. One roll had been cut by the time the customer came to pick up her fabric, and she was understandably furious. From then on, the general manager had nothing to do with custom orders.)

(It’s first thing in the morning at the Visitor Center and I’m working behind the counter, sending out some emails. A couple with two middle-school-aged kids comes in and starts looking at brochures. The wife picks up a map that tells some of the history of Arizona and opens it up — I assume, as my back is turned to her while she is doing this. The woman gets angry and chucks the map at the back of my head.)

Woman: “This is a horrible map; it doesn’t even show Hopi! It only shows Navajo Nation. I bet the Navajo love that!”

Me: “I’m sorry. We don’t have any control over what is printed on the free maps.”

Woman: “I would complain to the publishers! They don’t have Hopi on this map!”

(My coworker and I look at each other, eyebrows raised.)

Me: “I’m sorry that map isn’t what you want; here’s a free map of Arizona that has all of the reservations on it.” *hands woman the map*

(After she left, we looked at the map in question. The counties were shown on the map, and none of the reservations. “Navajo” in this case was referring to a county.)

This story is part of our Native-American roundup.

Want to read the next story? Click here!

Want to read the roundup? Click here!