(I work at a pet store. A customer comes up behind me and roughly taps me on the shoulder while clearing her throat. I turn to see a woman in her 40s, cradling a snarling Chihuahua in her arms. It snaps and lunges at me. Throughout our conversation, this armpit piranha keeps trying to escape its owner’s grip.)

Me: “Hello! How—”

Customer: “She barks.”

Me: “Oh, a talker, eh? Does that happen more when she greets you, when she’s hungry, or when she plays?”

Customer: “She barks!”

Me: “Okay. We have tons of interactive toys to occupy her, and we offer classes for—”

Customer: “Where are your collars? She needs to learn her manners.”

Me: “Training collars are showcased in aisle eight, but they are locked up.”

Customer: “I’m not trying to steal!”

Me: “No, I know. It’s just policy.”

Customer: *eyes me suspiciously* “Fine. Show me.”

(I take her to the aisle with the showcase and we go over the different kinds. Again, I try to find out why her dog is barking and what she has done about it, but she is adamant that she just wants to buy a collar and go home. I warn her that it won’t be an instant fix, but she insists she knows her dog better than I do. She picks one, purchases it, and leaves. Thinking my ordeal is over, I return to my duties. Two hours later, a manager pages me to the register. I arrive to see the same woman, the dog still on her arm. On the register belt is the collar she purchased, the box and directions shredded.)

Me: “Yes?”

Customer: “You sold me s***!”

Manager: “You helped this woman?”

Me: “She wanted a bark collar.”

Customer: “It doesn’t work!”

Me: “It does take a little while for your dog to stop. It’s not an instant fix.”

Customer: “That’s not what you told me! You said this would solve my problems!”

Manager: “[My Name], you know these don’t work right away. Were you thinking of something else?”

Me: “No. I told her they work, but over time. What’s happening when you put it on your dog?”

Customer: “It doesn’t even turn on!”

Manager: “Oh, it’s just defective. That’s easy enough.”

(We exchange her collar for another one and my manager takes her aside to listen to her complaint. When it’s over and she leaves again, my manager looks like he’s about to bang his head on the wall.)

Me: “So… what’s up?”

Manager: “She wanted me to fire you for not telling her she needed to charge the collar.”

Me: “Uh, well, it’s an electric collar and there are no batteries. What did she think it did?”

Manager: “I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

Me: “It’s literally the first sentence in the instructions.” *looks out the all-glass front of the store* “She’s standing out there.”

Manager: “I know. She’s waiting for me to reprimand you. Please just go look pitiful somewhere else.”

(Houston, Texas has just been hit by Hurricane Harvey, the worst hurricane on record. Entire communities are gone, whole families are being discovered dead in their homes, and the whole city has been completely torn asunder. My store in New Jersey runs pet-based fundraisers several times a year, and our current group has generously told us to cut their fundraiser short in favor of collecting donations for hurricane relief. I’m ringing up a regular customer, who is always brusque, a tad misogynistic, and generally hard to deal with, a few days into the new fundraiser.)

Me: “Okay, and we’re currently collecting donations for Hurricane Har–”

Regular: *impatient and waving his hand in my face* “No, I have my own water problems.”

Me: *livid, but silent*

(Whatever his “water problems” were, I hope they got only worse!)

(I work at a very well-known pet store that sells live animals. A few months into working there a visibly concerned elderly gentlemen comes up to me.)

Elderly Man: “Excuse me, miss, I believe one of your hamsters is… giving birth.”

(I know this is very unlikely considering males and females are housed separately, but mistakes are occasionally made. I go over to where the alleged pregnant hamster is.)

Me: “Um… sir, these are male hamsters, it’s impossible for any of them to be giving birth, and there aren’t any babies in the tank.”

Elderly Man: “But what’s coming out of that one’s butt?”

Me: “…those are his testicles, sir.”

Elderly Man: *visibly embarrassed considering he was with his wife and grandchildren* “Well, thank you for checking out the situation for us.”

(I haven’t seen them in the store since.)

(I am an intern at a local pet store. I am about 16 or 17, and it is my first week. A man walks up to me and asks if we have any rabbits.)

Me: “Certainly! Right this way!”

(The man takes a look at the rabbits.)

Customer: “No, these won’t do; they have claws. Do you have any without claws?”

Me: “No, sir, all rabbits have claws. They need them.”

Customer: “Why? Why do they need claws?”

Me: *a bit stunned* “Well, sir, they are meant to dig, so they need the claws for that.”

Customer: “Can you remove them?”

Me: “No, sir, we cannot remove the rabbits’ claws.”

Customer: “Okay. Do you have any other animals without claws?”

Me: “Unfortunately not. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

(The man stares blankly at me for a couple of moments:)

Customer: “No, you don’t understand! I’m a bunny-rabbit!”

(Then, he walked out, leaving me with probably the most confused face ever.)

(I’ve just taken my geriatric golden retriever to a groomer within a larger store and, like most dogs, she is not happy about it. Before we reach the register, a small girl — maybe four or five — and her mother come out of an aisle.)

Girl: “PUPPY!”

Dog: *growls and turns away*

Girl: “Pet the puppy!”

Me: *I put my arm out to stop the girl from approaching* “I’m sorry, but I’d rather you didn’t pet her.”

Girl: “Why?”

Me: “Well, she just got a bath and she didn’t like it.”

Mother: “Why?”

Me: “Because she doesn’t like baths. So she’s grumpy and I don’t want your daughter to get hurt.”

Mother: “Does she bite?”

Me: “No, but she’s not in a good mood, and I’d rather she wasn’t provoked.”

Mother: “Are you threatening my daughter?”

Me: “No, I’m trying to protect her. [Dog] is old and just got a bath, so she’s not in a very good mood.”

Mother: “She’s fine. She’s good with dogs.” *to her daughter* “Go pet the puppy, sweetheart.”

Me: “Do not pet the puppy.”

Mother: “You have no right to tell my daughter what to do!”

Me: “And what happens if [Dog] does decide to lash out?”

Mother: “Why would you bring an a**hole dog to a public place?”

Me: “She’s not an a**hole; she’s old. F*** off.”

(I move to pass the two, keeping myself between my dog and the child. Just as we pass them, I turn to look back and see the girl reaching out to pet my dog.)

Me: “STOP!”

(My dog, as predicted, turns and growls at the girl, who recoils and starts crying.)

Mother: “Do not yell at my daughter!”

Me: “How many times do I have to say, ‘Do not pet my dog,’ before it sinks in?”

Mother: “She’s just trying to say hello!”

Me: “And I’m saying it’s not a good idea.”

Mother: “Well, [Store Manager] is a good friend of mine. I’m going to have you and your g**d*** dog banned!”

Me: “Okay, you do that.”

(I paid for my dog’s grooming and left the store. We’ve been back multiple times since, so I guess the woman wasn’t as high and mighty as she thought she was.)

This story is part of our Golden Retriever roundup!

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