Customer: “Where are your puppies?”

Me: “We don’t sell puppies, ma’am. We sell supplies that a puppy would need and dog food.”

Customer: “But you’re a pet store!”

Me: “Yes, and we sell things for pets. We don’t sell the pets.”

Customer: “Since when?”

Me: “Since the New York Puppy Mill Pipeline Law, which prohibits the sale of dogs, cats, and rabbits in New York pet stores, went into effect on December 15, 2024. This store stopped doing that a couple of years earlier, though.”

Customer: “So how do I get my son a puppy for Christmas?”

Me: “Well, we have adoption drives here every weekend, and we can also refer you to—”

Customer: “—adoption? No. I want to buy one. From a store. That way I can return it after Christmas, after my son gets bored with it.”

Me: “Ma’am, I am so happy to tell you that people like you are the reason this law exists. Now get the f*** out of my store before I start being impolite.”

I’m looking around at a pet store. A guy with a supervisor badge approaches me.

Supervisor: “Did you need help with something?”

Me: “You’re out of [product] that I need. Is there any in the back?”

Supervisor: “If the shelf is empty, then we’re out.”

Me: “Could you order more to keep in stock, as I buy fairly often. Weekly, actually. You’re often out.”

Supervisor: “We already order enough.”

I look at the empty shelf.

Me: “But you are out.”

Supervisor: “Yes, but we order enough.”

Confused, I just laugh and then leave. Not sure what school of economics he went to, but I just found another store that stocked more.

I’m picking up a new bag of prescription cat food that my vet ordered through the pet supply store’s “automatic refill” system. When I get home, I notice the label says something different. I call the vet to confirm, and then I call by the store.

Names in the story have been changed (both human and animal).

Me: “Hey, I think there’s been a mix-up. I ordered the feline renal support, but this is canine.”

Manager: “They’re practically the same formula. Just smaller kibble for cats.”

Me: “Uh… no, they’re definitely not. Cats can’t process some of the stuff in dog food.”

Manager: “We’ve never had a problem before. Your vet probably checked the wrong box.”

Me: “I just called her, she read me the confirmation email she sent you: ‘Feline Renal Support F.'”

Manager: “Our system must’ve auto-subbed it. It happens when we’re low on stock.”

Me: “So you’re admitting you replaced medical cat food with dog food?”

Manager: “Well, technically it’s still ‘animal nutrition.'”

Me: “So is birdseed. Doesn’t mean I should feed it to a cat. Do I really need to explain how worrying this is to someone who works at a pet store?!”

Manager: “It’s just… we can’t take back opened prescription food.”

So, he knows that they f***ed up, but he just doesn’t want to deal with complicated admin?! The bag is sealed with the store’s own sticker that says ‘Filled by: Tyler.’

Me: “Then Tyler can explain why he wrote ‘dog’ on the order for a twelve-pound tabby named Princess Sprinkles.”

He glances at the label, sighs, and suddenly changes tone.

Manager: “Alright. We’ll replace it… just this once… as a courtesy.”

Me: “Oh, I appreciate the courtesy. I’m sure Princess Sprinkles will, too, once she stops barking.”

This happened when I was eighteen. I worked in the kitchen at a chain diner. The uniform is a short-sleeve white Oxford shirt, a black bow tie, and a black apron.

My dad texted me asking me to stop by the pet store and get some dog food on my way home. No problem. I go inside, in my uniform, name tag, my hair in a very tight bun, still in a hair net. I’m looking at the dog food, trying to find the right brand.

A woman comes down the aisle and asks me:

Customer: “Where is the organic dog food?”

Me: “I don’t know, I’m sorry.”

She then STARES at me for a solid fifteen seconds. I can FEEL it as I’m looking over the dog food.

Customer: “Um, don’t you work here?”

I laughed and said:

Me: “Oh! No, I work at [Restaurant].”

I thought it was a funny mishap, no harm, no foul. She doesn’t laugh, though, she just says:

Customer: “You’re WEARING a nametag.”

I looked down and unpinned my name tag, showing her the restaurant’s logo.

Me: “Yeah, sorry. Just got off work.”

She is like… really boiling under the surface.

Customer: “Well, maybe you shouldn’t wear such confusing clothes!”

I didn’t know what to say, so I just picked up my dog food and went to the counter. I overheard her complaining to the next cashier about me. The cashier didn’t know what to say either, so I left before she talked to anyone else. Her seething anger was beyond confusing.

Customer: “I saw that you make customised water bowls?”

Me: “Yes, we can engrave your pet’s name on it.”

Customer: “Okay, I want one, but first I need to explain. My kitten likes to dig out any potted plant inside the house and then get inside the pot. He likes to curl up and hide inside any plant pot, and then just watch the house from inside it.”

Me: *Wondering where this is going.* “Okay?”

Customer: “And he’s also a little f****** dictator. He meows from his pot and expects us to bring things to him and do his bidding.”

Me: “Right.”

Customer: “So what I’m trying to say is that the cat’s name is Pol Pot and that’s what I’d like engraved on His Majesty’s water bowl.”