Many years ago, our old dog needed total hip replacement surgery due to hip dysplasia. However, he needed to lose a fair amount of weight before the vet would do the surgery. We cut down his food to a ridiculously small amount in order to help him lose weight because exercise was too painful for him.

The dog was super friendly and loved to wander and visit the neighbours. My mum had to visit every single house in our street and ask if our dog visited them, and ask them, if he did, to please not feed him because he needed surgery. Most of the neighbours were understanding, if a little upset that they couldn’t give him treats anymore.

One set of neighbours, in particular, were sad they couldn’t give him [biscuits] because they were his favourite. Mum told them they would have to eat them instead because he really needed to lose weight.

They told her that they didn’t like [biscuits] at all; they only bought them for the dog because they had tested him with everything and figured out he liked them best.

He lost weight very quickly and the surgery was a success. Those neighbours continued to buy [biscuits] especially for him right up until he passed away a few years ago.

(I work at a swimming pool.)

Woman: “Can I leave my dog here?”

Me: “I’m afraid not, madam.”

Woman: “Why ever not? This is terrible service. I demand you tell me exactly why I cannot leave my dog here!”

Me: “This is a swimming pool.”

Woman: *after a pause* “He needs a bath!”

(As she left, she threw her dog in the pool and just left him. We called the police and they agreed to take the dog back to her. The owners of the pool felt the need to drain and refill it, and they forwarded the costs onto the woman. She apparently paid it while screeching that she’d be going to “different dog groomers” in future.)

(One morning, one of my fellow teachers comes into the office, starts rifling through her papers in her bag, and lets out a heavy sigh.)

Teacher: “I’m not sure how I’m going to explain this to my students.”

Me: “Explain what?”

Teacher: “You know that squid dissection lab?”

Me: “Not really?”

Teacher: “They dissect little market squid. I have them dissect out the squid’s ink sac and use it to sign their names.”

Me: *laughing* “That’s hilarious! Does it work?”

Teacher: “Oh, yeah! And it smells. Unfortunately. You won’t believe this, but my dog ate the labs.”

Me: “Wait, what? All of them?”

Teacher: “Yup. Or at least enough that I can’t grade them.”

(She sighs.)

Teacher: “Screw it. They’re all getting full credit.” *chuckles* “And at least they’ll get a laugh out of it!”

(My best friend in college is ADDICTED to hamsters and doesn’t deny it; she blames it on an incident in her childhood where she accidentally squeezed a hamster to death. She owns five or more at a time and buys the biggest, most elaborate cages and miles and miles of tubes for them. She insists they like variety, but switching out some tubes isn’t enough; she has to have enough tubes so that EVERY tube in each setup is different than those used in all other setups! She isn’t supposed to have this stuff on campus, but it is an open secret that many students have forbidden pets in their rooms — I suspect because it is an agricultural school. I am helping her load her car up for a visit to her hometown. We’ve just finished filling literally every inch of the car except for the driver’s seat with hamster cages and supplies when she asks:)

Friend: “Hey, why don’t you come with me?”

Me: *laughing because I’m sure she must be joking* “Your car is completely filled with hamster cages. Where am I supposed to sit, the roof?”

Friend: “Of course not; there’s room in the trunk.”

(I burst out laughing even harder, but the transformation I see come over her face as it cycles through confusion, realization, and embarrassment makes me realize she wasn’t joking.)

Friend: “I meant that we could move some of the cages into the trunk!”

(She’d just made a poor — but hilarious — choice of words. Okay, so she was not guilty of saying hamsters deserved to ride on the seats while people had to settle for riding in the trunk. Another time, we are getting into her car to go to the movies. I’ve just climbed into the front passenger seat and buckled my seatbelt when I notice a HUGE cardboard box on the backseat.)

Me: *groaning* “Please don’t tell me that’s another new hamster cage.”

Friend: *completely matter-of-fact, nonchalant, and sincere, with no hint of sarcasm or humor* “Of course not. That’s just the bottom half.”

(Fortunately, getting a Lhasa Poo she could lavish all her love and attention on after graduation enabled her to kick that habit.)

(My husband and I adopted a dog from a family who couldn’t care for him about six months ago. The dog is about a year old and has no visible testicles. The vet has advised waiting until he is past the “puppy stage” for further testing. This evening my husband is giving the dog a belly rub.)

Husband: “Buck, where are your balls?”

Buck: *gets up, goes to the kitchen, returns with his squeaky ball*

Me: “Good boy!” *to husband* “That’s the only ball he has.”

Husband: *laughs until he cries*