My dog was a lab-retriever rescue who was six or seven when we got him and slightly… special. I loved him, don’t get me wrong, but for a dog and in particular, a lab, he had some interesting personality features along with the fact that he had medical issues like arthritis. The biggest one: he basically hated water. He’d drink it just fine, but giving him a bath was painful because he didn’t like water hitting his chest and he hated being dried. If we tried to blow dry him, he’d bark and snarl, and towel drying took too long because he’d think it was a game and constantly try to run away.

We finally found a groomer at a pet store who could handle him. When we took him in the first time, we explained everything to her — all his issues and troubles we had. She told us that she could handle it; it would just cost us a little more and take a bit longer. Considering that giving him a bath at home usually took at least three people and a few hours, we figured it was fine. So, she bathed him and did a great job keeping him calm and getting him taken care of. Basically, she bathed him in whatever way she did and groomed him and then let him crate dry with a couple of fans blowing gently if needed. And he was fine. So, whenever he needed grooming, we always made sure to talk to her and schedule on a day when she was going to be in.

Fast forward a few years down the road. I’m now in college but living at home and I take a lot of responsibility for him when I can. He’s obviously a lot older, like 14 or 15; we were never entirely sure how old he was because his previous owners couldn’t give us a straight answer. The age was the best guess based on what the vet said. He still has the special neurosis, but he still can get bathed just fine by this one tech. I have scheduled an appointment with her and things are good.

The day of his appointment comes and I get him to the groomers only to see that the tech isn’t there. I ask about her and she has apparently had a family emergency. No big deal. I just explain to the groomer who’s there all about my dog and let her know how things normally go, because she is looking at him a little warily. Again, at this time he’s well into his teens; it’s a lot more obvious that he’s got arthritis and just that he’s an old dog in general. She tells me that it’s fine, and I hand him off and go about running various errands.

About thirty minutes later, I get a call from the pet store. When I pick up, it’s the tech and she tells me that I need to come and get our dog because he’s freaking out and she thinks he’s about to have a stroke. I finish up the errand I was in the middle of and get back to the store as fast as I can. When I get there, she brings him out and he’s soaking wet. When I ask her what happened, she says that she got him into the bath and when she turned on the water, he freaked. I explain that I mentioned this when I dropped him off, and try to see if she handled things the way the other tech usually does, but she refuses to walk through anything, maintaining that I need to take him because they can’t be responsible. She tells me that because of things, she isn’t going to charge me, but she refuses to let him dry and tells me that we aren’t allowed to bring him back.

So, I have to get my sopping wet, freaked-out dog into the car. While he likes car rides, because of his arthritis and everything else, sometimes getting in and out is difficult, and this is one of those times. But I manage to get him in and mostly calmed down enough so I can get in the driver’s seat and go. I get him home and dry him off, dry out the backseat of the car, and give him some treats and love before getting him back into the car so I can go get his nails trimmed at the vet. I get him taken care of at the vet and then get home, where I give him some more attention and treats.

When my mom gets home, I tell her what happened and she calls the pet store. She talks to the same tech I had, who gives her the same story about him freaking out and now being basically banned. She calls back a few days later and gets the tech we’d been trying to schedule with. The tech apologizes and then explains that because the tech who’d banned him is her manager, she can’t change the ruling and is going to be sad to see our dog go. My mom is frustrated although she doesn’t blame our tech. She speaks to the manager again, wondering why it was okay to a) not listen to the special care instructions I’d mentioned, and b) force me to take an obviously worried animal home — not that he would have hurt me on purpose but… — especially when he was soaking wet. The manager just maintains that she’s done what she could in trying to care for him and in not charging me for the work she started.

We’ve never gone any further with that store, although we probably should have. But we have found a groomer/doggie daycare that will take him. They love having him around because he was super friendly and one of the oldest dogs they regularly take care of. He loves going there because they always give him a new squeaky toy to bring home. We aren’t always thankful for that portion of the grooming.

A boy I dated in college thought it was great fun to try to get girls to flash him while he and his friends were driving down the highway. He never did it while I was in the car because that was disrespectful to me. But when he was with his buddies, it was okay because that’s what boys do. I tried to explain that it really wasn’t acceptable behavior, but he brushed me off. (Yes, I know, I should have dumped him right there, but I was young and dumb.)

The day after this conversation, he came to my dorm room to study before going out with his buddies. I asked if he intended to play this flash game again, to which he angrily replied that it wasn’t a big deal and I was overreacting. To quote him, “Tits are tits. You have them. So what?”

His friends arrived and crowded into my room, ready to go on their adventure. Before they left, I asked for everyone’s attention and lifted my shirt, showing my breasts to my boyfriend and all of his friends.

They cheered and clapped. He was livid. How could I do something so trashy? Why was I being such a w****? Did I want to bang all of his friends? What was wrong with me?

I stood there calmly waiting for him to run out of air before I replied, “So, you can look at other girls, but other guys can’t look at me?”

He gaped like a fish out of water while his friends stood there in awkward silence. I told him if he thought his game was acceptable, I was going to continue showing off my body to anyone who asked. He stormed out without saying another word.

When he returned that evening, he said he was willing to forgive me if I promised to never act like that again. I shut the door in his face.

As I’m getting my oil change for my car, I’m chatting with the lady at the front desk. I’ve been here lots of times and she loves to talk to cure the boredom of waiting.

She tells me she and her husband have a farm, as well. She raises mostly sheep but has a few Pygmy goats. The two in question are called Oreo and Cookie.

Apparently, a local male teen thought it would be funny to pee on Oreo. So, he sticks it through the fencing to pee on this goat. The goat, however, doesn’t take this well. Oreo turns and gives the offending thing a few nips.

Cue all Hell breaking loose! The boy is in obvious pain, and my front desk lady finds him and calls 911. After the boy is checked over and deemed fine but embarrassed, the paramedics warn that the boy’s family could sue. My front desk lady documents the event just in case. She is laughing, however, as this boy would have to go home and tell his parents how he was injured, that he was trespassing on private property in order to pee on a goat, and God knows what logic led to this moment of brilliance.

My front desk lady laughs saying he got what he deserved. She has never been sued to date and I got the feeling that this was an old story.

I was 11 and had just started school for the first time, as I’d been home-educated since I was four. I hadn’t had a structured education system, so school rules and unwritten codes were very new to me. It didn’t help that, although I wasn’t diagnosed at the time, I am autistic and struggle to pick up social cues.

On my second day of school, we had a class called Personal and Social Education, which was basically life skills and sex ed, and we had guest speakers from the police, fire department, etc., to teach us how to handle life.

This particular day, the first class of the year, the teacher was explaining to everyone that if they didn’t attend school, their parents were breaking the law. Naturally, this confused me; my mother had been the media coordinator for an alternative education group we belonged to for years, so I was quite well-informed on the legality of home education. I didn’t grasp that the teacher was trying to tell us about the consequences of skipping out on classes, because I didn’t know that was something people did. I just knew that not attending school was perfectly legitimate, and the teacher clearly hadn’t heard about home education, so I should be helpful and explain.

Naive little me put my hand up and said my mother had educated me at home. Before I could get any further in my explanation, this teacher gave me the most disgusted look and announced loudly, “Well, your mother should have gone to prison!“

I was thoroughly humiliated. I put my hand down and stared at the desk, and spent the rest of the class trying not to cry, because the teacher was Authority and she’d just told me I was wrong and that my mum had broken the law. I was devastated and, being as naive as I was, I was convinced I’d just got my mum into serious legal trouble.

When my mum picked me up after school, she could tell I was upset. It didn’t take much prodding before I broke down sobbing. I told her what had happened and that I didn’t want her to go to prison.

She came into school the next morning to speak to the principal, and while I never knew exactly what was said in that meeting, I never saw that teacher around the school again.

But I learned a very important rule that day; I was never to say something that implied a teacher might be wrong, or challenge something I knew was wrong, because that was Not What We Do At School. It pretty much destroyed my confidence and signposted to everyone in my class that I was an easy target.

Just hear a kid out when they’re trying to make a point, teachers.

I’m the stupid one here. I go to my local library to use the Internet and sort through some paperwork while waiting for my daughter to get out of an after-school activity. Sitting at the nice, long table, I spread my papers out, and when I run across something I no longer need, out of habit, I rip it up and toss it in the trash, completely forgetting I’m in a place where you’re expected to be quiet. For the record, there is no public shredder.

As I’m packing up my belongings, an elderly gentleman starts walking past the table. When he gets right behind me, without stopping, he rips something almost right next to my ear. I nearly jump out of my chair, and he keeps walking, not looking back.

Guess it serves me right for being so clueless.