Many years ago, I inherited a very angry chihuahua mix who had a lot of health problems along with a horrible temperament. I spent a lot of time socialising him carefully with people, and I finally got him to a point where he felt comfortable meeting new people as long as he was in a pram or in my arms.

However, he didn’t tolerate anyone who threatened his home or his human (me) which ended up with him aggressively assaulting the heel of a 6’3” police officer’s shoe. But that’s a story for another day.

The time finally came to have my dog neutered, and I dropped him off at the vet. I let them know that he could be aggressive to new people, had previously bitten someone, and may need to be handled with thick gloves and a towel. I also gave them his harness, leash, training treats, and the secret code phrase I had for him when he was a good boy: “Who’s a good booger?”

I spent the day a complete nervous wreck, wondering if I was going to get a call saying he had attacked someone. Finally, I got the call saying he was ready to be collected, and I rushed over to see what damage he’d caused.

The vet brought him out in his little cone and handed him over, all smiles. 

Me: “How many people did he bite?”

Vet: “Who, this little guy? He’s the best-behaved dog we’ve had in here today!” 

And that’s when I knew that he was going to be okay. 

It’s been a couple of years now, and he’s the best dog — sociable, easygoing, and loves to walk off-leash at the beach. 

He’s not a good booger; he’s a great booger.

CONTENT WARNING: Child Neglect, Gross Body Function

I work at a restaurant located inside a club, so whilst we do have some authority to tell people off, ultimately, it is the club’s responsibility to do so.

On a busy night, I notice that some couple has their baby sitting on the table, and they’re letting it crawl around, but seeing how busy it is and the fact that the tables are being replaced that week, I let it slide.

The next thing I know, I hear a thud and a baby crying, and I overhear this lovely conversation between the club staff and parents.

Dad: “You f***ers let my baby fall off the table! She could have brain damage now thanks to you f***ers!”

Club Staff: “Sir, why was your baby on the table in the first place?”

Dad: “That doesn’t f****** matter! What the f*** are you gonna do about it?!”

Mum: “You’d better be giving us a full refund after the piss-poor way we’ve been treated!”

Club Staff: “Sir, I repeat, why was your baby on the table?”

Dad: “Because you f***ers have no seats for children!”

Club Staff: “Firstly, sir, we have plenty of high chairs available; you only need to ask. Secondly, it’s extremely unhygienic to have your baby sitting on a table that’s used for food. Lastly, it’s your responsibility to look after your children, not ours.”

Mum: “Like f*** it is! We’ve come out for dinner. Doesn’t mean we gotta look after the little s***s.”

The baby is still crying, and neither parent is making an attempt to calm them.

Club Staff: “It is not our responsibility to look after your children, and I’ll ask that you keep the language down; we have other families here who don’t want to hear that sort of thing.”

Dad: “I f****** won’t! We’ll f****** stay here all night, s***heads, until you give us the apology we f****** deserve about the piss-poor service.”

Club Staff: “Both of you need to leave now, or we’re going to call the cops.”

Mum: “Fine, you f***ers, but don’t think we’ll be f****** back here again!”

Both of them proceeded to storm out — without the kid. They didn’t come back in, so the club staff took the baby to the police across the road.

What did I find when I went to clean the table was that they’d let their baby take a runny-a** dump in one of our bowls.

Many years ago, when I was around sixteen years old, I had carefully budgeted my pay from my casual part-time job to buy some presents for my friends. (I can’t remember whether it was Christmas or birthdays.) I was at my local shopping centre (which is in a lower socioeconomic area), and when I was about to leave, I was pulled to the side by a pop-up kiosk guy selling some kind of fancy-looking nail care.

Kiosk Guy: “Can I get some of your time to look at our range of nail care? This red sea salt buffer will do you wonders.”

Me: “Look, mate, I’m a student, I work only a few hours a week, and I budget my money. Plus, it’s all spent and I’ve got no money left.”

Kiosk Guy: “That’s no problem. Let me have a look at your nails, I’ll show you how nice it is, and you can look at it for the future.”

He started showing me the product, and again, I made it clear that I had no money and wasn’t going to be making a purchase, but I didn’t have the confidence to just walk away at that age. He showed me a “sample” of how it worked by buffing one of my nails and putting a serum on it.

Me: “It sure is nice, but it looks pricey.”

Kiosk Guy: “Well, if you buy it today, I could give you a great discount!”

Me: “Ah, that’s nice, but I know you couldn’t bring it down to a price I can afford.”

Kiosk Guy: “Of course, I could! The price to buy this kit at a spa or online is $160, but today I could do it for $100!”

Me: “Ha! Yeah, nah, I still couldn’t afford that.”

Kiosk Guy: “You know what? You seem like such a nice girl who could really use this product. How about just $80 for the kit?!”

Me: “Remember when you pulled me over here and I said I was on a budget and had no money? And during this conversation, I told you that I am still in school and won’t be able to afford this?”

Kiosk Guy: “I’m sure I can find you a deal on one of our products. How much could you spare for a purchase today?”

Me: “Five dollars is what is left in my account right now.”

Kiosk Guy: *Confused* “Just five dollars?”

Me: “I told you I wouldn’t be able to buy anything today. I wasn’t having you on.”

The Kiosk Guy just looked at me so stunned and confused, and I just stood awkwardly for a few moments and walked away.

When I was fifteen, I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, and we found that eating certain foods exacerbated the symptoms, the worst ones being gluten and dairy.

I was at a cafe with my dad and my uncle, who I don’t get to see very often. The menu labeled the gluten-free foods, which was good, but didn’t indicate dairy-free, which meant I had to ask the waitress when she came to take our order.

Me: “Is the orange and almond cake dairy-free?”

Waitress: “I’ll have to go check.”

We waited for a few moments and she came back.

Waitress: “I asked the cook, and they said the orange and almond cake is dairy-free.”

Me: “Awesome, I’ll get a slice of that.”

Waitress: “Would you like ice cream with that?”

Years ago, I had a job as a “concierge” at a large shopping centre. Basically, we stood around near exits to see if shoppers needed any assistance taking their things to their cars. Christmas was a particularly busy time, with people having trolleys of food as well as Christmas presents. We wore bright shirts with the centre logo on them, so it was pretty clear we were working there.

One day, I saw a prime target for assistance: a mother with a baby in a portable capsule, meaning the baby was only a few months old at the most, and a trolley packed with groceries, heading toward the carpark.

I approached her and asked if she wanted any help to her car, expecting her to give me the trolley, to which she said, “Sure,” and she HANDED ME HER BABY! I then followed her to the car, carrying her newborn. 

Who gives a newborn to an unknown? I can only guess that I either have a really trustworthy face or it was a case of baby-brain.