(I am part of the education staff at a zoo, and when our story takes place, I am handling a friendly, relaxed little milk snake so that visitors can pet her. It’s been a pretty slow day, and the area I’m stationed in is mostly empty. Suddenly, this tiny old woman rounds the corner, dressed in a colorful suit and jaunty hat. She’s using a walker and has to be somewhere in her 80s. When she sees me, more specifically when she sees the milk snake wrapped around my arm, she hesitates.)

Me: “Would you like to pet her? She’s a milk snake so she’s non-venomous, and she’s very gentle.” 

Old Woman: “Will she hurt me?”

Me: “Well, she’s been handled and pet dozens of times and she’s never hurt anyone.”

Old Woman: “Okay… I’ll try it.”

(She proceeds to march up to me and listens very carefully as I explain the proper way to pet the snake. Then, ever so cautiously, she reaches out and gives the milk snake a pet. Her eyes light up. She tries again, more confidently this time. Then, she looks me straight in the eye.)

Old Woman: “I am eighty-three years old and this is the first time I’ve touched a snake.”

(She proceeded to do a victory fist-pump and went on her way. It’s always stuck with me because, in less than two minutes, her entire worldview on snakes seemed to shift. Job well done, little milk snake, job well done.)

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(I am a customer at my local pet store. I’m buying a dog harness, but it’s for my cat, who is just a little too big for the largest-sized cat harness and definitely too big for regular-sized cat carriers.)

Cashier: “So, what kind of dog do you have? A terrier?”

Me: “This is actually for my cat.”

Cashier: “We sell cat harnesses here. They’re across from the adoption center.”

Me: “I know, but even the extra-large size is too small for her.”

Cashier: “You must have a big cat. What breed is it?”

Me: “She’s a Maine Coon.”

Cashier: “Ah, yeah, those are pretty big cats.”

Customer: *behind me* “You’re buying that harness for a cat?”

Me: “Yes.”

Customer: “You can’t do that!”

Me: “Why? Cat harnesses don’t fit her.”

Customer: “It’s against the law to make a cat walk on a leash.”

Me: “I don’t think it is.”

Customer: “You just don’t know the law. Don’t you know you can’t walk a cat on a harness and leash? They’re too stupid for that.”

Me: “My cat is leash-trained and I can put her in a harness if I want to. It won’t hurt her.”

Customer: “It’s against the law! I’m calling the animal cops to report you! It’s cruelty to make a cat walk on a leash.”

Me: “You don’t know my cat, so…”

Customer: “I know how to care for cats, and I know what you’re doing is wrong! I’ll have your cat taken away from you.”

Me: “You do that.”

(The customer continues to rant about the law and why cats can’t be leashed-trained. While she’s talking, another customer enters the store walking a Siamese cat on a leash.)

Customer: “Does no one know the law? Cats can’t walk on leashes! I’ll report all of you!”

(I’m a face painter at a famous zoo in California. All of our face paints on our menus have text explaining what they are, i.e., a kid wearing a lion face paint will have text on the bottom saying “lion.” A family comes up to me first thing in the morning and looks at our face paint menus. The little girl chooses a dolphin and the aunt walks over to the register to pay for it.)

Aunt: “Which one did she pick?”

Mom: “The dolphin.”

(The aunt tries to find the picture of the dolphin on my display boards which is not pictured. She points to the elephant.)

Aunt: “This dolphin?”

(I show her the picture on the menu; she ignores me and then points to the shark.)

Aunt: “Oh! This is the dolphin, but does it have to have a horn? Can you paint a flower, instead?”

(I look at what she’s pointing at and see she’s talking about the dorsal fin — the top fin on the shark.)

Me: “Ma’am, that’s a shark. And that’s not a horn, it’s a dorsal fin.”

(I point out the dolphin.)

Me: “This is the dolphin.”

Aunt: “That one has a horn, too! Can you paint a flower, instead?”

Mom: “She knows what she’s doing. Just pay her so we can get started.”

(I ring her up and then go to the kid. While I’m painting, I hear the aunt and mom talking.)

Aunt: “I thought she wasn’t going to paint the horn.”

Mom: “It’s a dorsal fin.”

Aunt: “What’s a dorsal fin?”

Mom: “I don’t know; we haven’t learned about it on Octonauts yet.”

(This occurs shortly after David Bowie’s passing. We are playing his music over the speakers. A woman comes in and heads straight for the checkout.)

Me: “Hello! How can I help you?” 

Customer: “Turn that music off.”

Me: “Oh, is it not to your liking?” 

Customer: “It upsets the cats.”

Me: *looking around* “Cats? We only allow guide dogs in the store. You’ll have to leave if you have cats with you.”

Customer: “They’re at home.”

Me: “They aren’t with you?” 

Customer: “No.” 

Me: “How can they hear the music if they aren’t here, then?”

Customer: *narrows her eyes* “If my cats are upset when I get home, I’m complaining!”

(With that, she left. An hour before closing we did get a call from her. The manager listened to her for half a minute before bursting out laughing saying he hadn’t heard that one before, and he hung up. We haven’t heard anything from her or her cats since.)

(We are exhibiting our miniature horses at the Fort Worth Stock Show. We have nice horses and do pretty well. We occasionally bring horses to sell. I am sitting in my stall, prepping my little 32″-tall horse for his class. My friend is with me. The door is open because the little kids love to watch us. We like to talk to anyone who comes by; you never know who may buy a horse! An older “lady” sticks her head in the door.)

Old Lady: “They aren’t good for anything, are they?”

Me: “I beg your pardon?”

Old Lady: “Well, you can’t ride them. What good are they?”

Me: “Well, we drive ours and teach them to jump and do trail—”

Old Lady: *interrupts* “But you can’t ride them! They’re worthless!”

Me: *getting edgy* “You can do anything with them but ride them. We do parades and take them to nursing homes and—”

Old Lady: “YOU CAN’T RIDE THEM!”

(By this time I’m getting frustrated, but still being nice.)

Me: “No, you can’t ride them. Only little kids can ride them.”

Old Lady: “WORTHLESS!”

(My friend and I look at each other.)

Old Lady: “Do you ride him?”

Me: *resigned* “No, ma’am, I don’t ride him. My feet drag.”

Old Lady: “Oh, okay.”

(Her highly embarrassed friends drag her away. My friend and I look at each other again.)

Friend: “Really? What was that?!“

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