Back when I was a uni student, I went home to my parents each summer and worked in my hometown. 

On the morning of Midsummer Eve, one of the biggest holidays here in Sweden, our neighbour rang the doorbell and asked me if I could look after her cat over the weekend as she was going away. 

As soon as I had agreed, she dropped her key in my hand and ran off to her car. This was before cell phones and I had no way of contacting her. Oh, well, it was just over the weekend.

When I went over to feed the cat, I found one can of cat food on the counter. I checked the fridge and cupboards for more food but that was it. Well, it should last over the weekend, at least.

Monday came and no neighbour. 

Nor Tuesday and Wednesday. 

She came back three weeks later and we ended up in a huge argument as she refused to reimburse me for the cat food I had bought. She had left food, she insisted. Somehow one can should have lasted three weeks.

(My family owns a ranch that is secluded but is a well-known tourist attraction for our Halloween and Christmas attractions. From January to June, we offer free tours and shows for schools, all about how we work together with animals. My family is also known for rehabilitating animals, and those who cannot be released back into the wild act as our “animal ambassadors.” My youngest son is sixteen at the time of this incident when we are putting on one of our outdoor shows for a school. Several of our animals are animal actors and have been trained from a young age, and that includes the animal in this story: our timber wolf named Sitka. Sitka is in his show harness, which we hold onto when we show him. My son brings Sitka out from his holding pen and into the outdoor ring we use for shows and goes through the safety spiel.)

Son: “This is Sitka. He was brought to us from the illegal pet trade. His former owners claimed that they didn’t know he was a wolf and tried to pass him off as a Malamute, instead. He came to us when he was about a year and a half old; unfortunately, he had already been habituated to living with people by then. So now, he works in the movies and here as one of our animal ambassadors.”

Nine-Year-Old Student: *raises hand* “Can I pet him?”

Son: “No, I don’t think he’d be comfortable with someone other than myself, my dad, or my brother handling him or touching him.”

Nine-Year-Old Student: *dejectedly* “Why not?”

Son: “Because he could bite you. He doesn’t know you and could become scared and bite you. His bite is much worse than his bark.”

Nine-Year-Old Student: *stands up and starts walking to the ring* “But he’s just a big dog!” *starts trying to climb over the fence between the seats and the ring*

(At this moment, Sitka’s attention turns to the student, who stops when he notices the wolf looking at him. This is when I arrive with one of our other animal ambassadors and notice what is going on. I try to flag down the teacher, who seems to be absorbed in her phone instead of keeping an eye on her students. I walk over to the fence, looking down to the student.)

Me: “If you want to pet the wolf, it’ll be the last thing you do. Stay on the other side and you can maybe pet the snake; is that a good trade-off?”

Student: *thinks for a moment before climbing back to his seat*

(I’m amazed that the teacher didn’t notice anything that was going on during the entire show, and only addressed her students when it was time to move onto the next activity.)

My husband is a subcontractor for a rental management company. He’s been working for the same office group for about fifteen years. 

He has been working on renovating a house for the company. The carpets have been replaced, and my husband has repainted the interior and trim, fixed both toilets, repaired and repainted the exterior, and replaced all light fixtures. He has saved repainting the deck and patio for last. From the living room, there is a sliding glass door that leads into the outside patio, surrounded by screening, and then there is a screen door that leads to a deck, kind of an L shape. My husband has replaced all of the screening around the patio and replaced the screen door, and has now started to paint the railings around the deck. Then, it starts to storm, so he has to stop.

The next day, he goes back to finish what he couldn’t do the day before. I’ve tagged along to help where I can. He starts at the steps of the deck and works his way towards the sliding doors in the patio. As soon as he crosses the threshold into the — covered — patio, we hear thunder. Within minutes, the heavens have opened up and it is pouring. Soon, all of the paint on the still-wet deck has washed away, and I’m watching a taupe-colored river cross into the neighbor’s yard. The deck now looks as it did when we began. He finishes what he can, but the rain never lets up.

Day 3: It doesn’t rain. He gets the deck painted. He goes inside to do a final run-through and make sure everything is as it should be. Then, he looks through the sliding glass door; there are two dogs on the deck… walking over the paint, leaving footprints. One is female, in heat, and bleeding… all over the deck. The other dog is male, and obviously answering the call of nature with the female. My husband goes out to the screened patio with a broom to shoo them away. The male starts barking and growling at him. Then, he places his paint-covered paws up on the new screen door. Neither dog leaves all afternoon.

At this, my husband snaps a few pictures of the deck and the dogs and sends them to the rental management company, along with a description of the last three days. The management company group simply laughs and asks when the job will be done. I’ve never seen him look so dead inside.

(I work at a grooming salon corporation and I try daily to get enough information about different products; that way I can offer help and solutions to customers who are having problems beyond their grooming experience. A customer comes in dragging her dog, an Afghan. She has a harness on her dog and an “animal stretcher,” which is basically a rag with two handles on the short ends, underneath the dog’s belly. The handles and the leash are in the same hand. I have just came out of the back.)

Me: “Hello! What can we do for you?”

Customer: “I’m here for [Coworker].”

(My coworker comes up and begins talking to the woman about the haircut she wants for her dog.)

Customer: “I don’t want him bathed, and I don’t want that stupid slip lead leash around his neck. It’ll snap his neck. And I don’t want him on the table. He pulls so much; you really need to be careful with him.”

Me: “If he pulls a lot, I can suggest a Halty. It just goes around his nose and behind his ears and the leash attaches to this part.”

Customer: “Oh, no, no! He would snap his neck! He would break his neck! He’d slip out of that and get hit by a car! He is too smart for that!”

Me: “Oh, it’s specifically designed to keep dogs from slipping out, and it would be very hard for him to break his neck if used properly.”

Customer: “Oh, no! He is so stupid. I mean they are the smartest dogs in the world but they are so stupid!”

Me: “Uh…”

Customer: “He would rather starve than eat anything that he doesn’t like! I only feed him [Fast Food Place known for roast beef sandwiches] and steak! He would rather starve! He is so stupid. I mean, they are so stupid, they can’t even have sex by themselves! That’s why they have breeders!”

Me: *looking at my coworkers* “I’m sorry. I have to leave this planet.”

(I have two dogs: a cocker spaniel and a lab/pit mix. The lab/pit mix is also my service dog but isn’t wearing her vest at this time. My cocker spaniel isn’t my service dog but he reacts when I have low blood-sugar or am about to pass out. We have been driving to the beach and my cocker spaniel begins to alert me that my blood sugar is low. He starts with gentle nudges then goes to full-blown barks as I began to feel extremely faint. I pull into a parking lot. The restaurant is pet-friendly and I have brought my cocker spaniel here before. I sit down at the bottom patio near the door where it is empty. There are no other guests. The cocker spaniel is quiet at first, only occasionally pawing at me in a concerned way as my condition worsens. The waitress comes out to greet me.)

Waitress: “Hi, thanks for coming. I’ll get you a menu.”

Me: *feeling very faint and dizzy* “Yeah, thanks. Can I get a Coke?”

Waitress: “Sure!”

(She walks back inside and I hear her say something about my two dogs, but I am so dizzy I don’t understand. She comes back with a soda for me and water for the dogs which they graciously lap up.)

Me: “Thank you.”

(I guzzle down almost all of the soda at once knowing that the sugar in the soda should help a little. The waitress comes back and I order food. While waiting, the soda hasn’t really done anything and I am getting worse. My cocker spaniel begins barking frantically at anyone who passes by trying to alert them to the fact that I am beginning to pass out. I feel my body shaking but I keep trying to calm my dog down and tell him that I am okay. Finally, the waitress brings my food, and once I begin eating and finally my blood sugar begins to rise, my dog quiets down and just sits at the table, wagging his tail and keeping an eye on me. As I am eating, the owner comes out and looks disgusted at the small dog sitting across from me. This restaurant is advertised as being dog-friendly.)

Owner: “Ma’am, if you can’t control your dog he will have to leave.”

Me: *confused* “He isn’t aggressive. He’s just alerting me that I had low blood sug—”

Owner: “I don’t care about that. I have to think about the other guests and we’ve gotten complaints.”

Me: *looks around seeing no one but me and my two dogs* “Sir, there’s no one here.”

Owner: “Well, for one—“ *gestures to my small cocker spaniel who is now smiling and wagging his tail* “—this one won’t shut up and that one—” *points to my lab mix* “—scares the guests. We don’t allow aggressive dogs here.”

(I feel pretty offended at this point. I feel my bigger dog lean against me as she is sensing my anxiety going through the roof. I don’t like confrontation, especially with men. But anxiety be d***ed.)

Me: “She—” *gesturing to my lab mix* “—is my service dog; she not only helps with my anxiety but also helps me keep balance when I walk. And he—” *gestures to my cocker spaniel* “—was trying to alert anyone in earshot that I needed help.”

Owner: “You know there’s a hefty fine for lying about a service animal, correct? I’d suggest you take your mutts to the car before I call the police and say that your dogs tried attacking patrons.”

(He says this in a serious tone with a smug smile. I quickly whip out my lab’s identification card and registration.)

Me: “I would like my check, please, and if you say one more word about how I should put my dogs in a car where temperatures reach up to 113 degrees, I will call the police and call my lawyer. I’m sure both will have a field day with a restaurant discriminating against a disabled person.”

(The waitress came and handed me my check. I paid and left quickly before I lost my s***. Mind you, I had brought just my cocker spaniel here when it was busier and he had barked due to my low blood sugar, but no one complained. I found out later that it was more my lab/pit mix who was quietly laying next to me that was complained about. So, a couple of takeaways. If a dog is persistently barking, check with the owner, especially if the owner looks distressed; the dog may be trying to tell you that something’s wrong. Also, don’t judge a dog by their breed. Pit mixes are not inherently bad dogs. They make amazing loyal dogs and are excellent judges of character.)

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