(An old woman comes into the clinic in the evening, not long before we close. The vet determines that her dog has a skin condition, and instructs me to give him a medicated dip before the client comes back to pick him up. I soak the dog in the medication, let it sit, and then rinse him thoroughly, and since it’s winter and now dark outside, I make sure to spend some extra time blow-drying him so he doesn’t get a chill on the way home. I think everything is fine, but soon after she picks her dog up, the client calls to complain that we “didn’t do anything” for him. My coworker assures her that we treated him, and we think it’s over, until the next day when the phone rings. It’s the client again, this time furious and insisting that her dog “never even got wet.” The vet gives the phone to me.)

Client: “You lied to me! You’re cheating me! You never did anything for my dog!”

Me: “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I definitely did.”

Client: “No, you didn’t! He was completely dry! You never even got him wet!”

Me: “I blow-dried him before sending him home, ma’am. I didn’t want him to be cold.”

Client: “You’re lying! He had some dirt stuck to his paw when I brought him in, and it was still there when I picked him up! You didn’t give him a bath at all!”

Me: “I didn’t scrub him. That’s not what he was here for. A medicated dip is not that sort of bath; it is just a way to get the medication to soak into your dog’s skin. I was treating him, not cleaning him.”

Client: “You didn’t do anything! There was still dirt on his paw! You’re lying to me to get my money!”

Me: “As I said, ma’am, he was not here for a bath. I wasn’t trying to wash him. But I promise you, he received the treatment.”

Client: “No, no, no, you didn’t do anything. I can’t believe you would lie to me like this.”

Me: “I’m sorry there seems to have been a misunderstanding, but if you like, we could certainly give your dog a bath, no charge. It wouldn’t have to be done by me, if you don’t trust me. One of my coworkers could do it.”

Client: “No! All I want is for you to admit you lied!“

Me: “Then I’m sorry, ma’am, but I can’t help you. I won’t tell you I didn’t do my job when I know I did.”

(This goes on for days, with the woman constantly calling back, us offering her different services for free, and her insisting that the only thing she wants is for us to admit we’re liars. This is how my last conversation with her ends.)

Client: “I can’t believe any of you. This is just terrible. I have to do it! I’m calling the better business bureau!

Me: *so very tired* “Go ahead, ma’am.”

Client: *stunned silence, before she sputters something and hangs up*

(I didn’t hear anything more and thought it was over, until my coworker came up to me a few days later and confessed that she’d heard the vet, my boss, talking to the woman on the phone and telling her that she was right, that I was a liar, and that I would be punished. He had her come in for that free bath, on my day off, so I wouldn’t see her and find out! But the part that really stung? My boss has cameras set up all throughout the clinic so that he can watch us from his office or at home, and review the footage after he’s gone out. There’s one right over the tub where I gave the dog the treatment… so my boss knew full well I had been telling the truth the entire time!)

When I was ten years old, my parents decided we were going to the beach the following weekend. Mom and I went shopping for toys to take with us and I wound up getting my first ever boogie board. I’d seen other kids use them at the beach on a previous trip and I was super excited to finally have one of my own.

We got to the beach, set up our spots, and I hit the water, paddling on my brand-new boogie board. In my excitement, I wound up going further than I normally would and turned back to the shore where Mom was, to see how far out I had gotten. It turns out I was far enough to not to be able to hear Mom yelling at me, but close enough to make out what she was doing. I saw her waving at me. I waved back, thinking Mom was saying, “Hi.” She kept waving, and so did I; I wasn’t a very bright ten-year-old, apparently.

Then she pointed in my direction.  

I turned around to see a series of fins circling behind me. I knew what that meant, and swam as fast as I could back to shore.

(I work at an aquarium. A woman walks up to me while I am tending to the fish. She looks slightly troubled.)

Customer: “Excuse me. Can you help me with something?”

Me: “Sure, what can I do for you?”

Customer: “Well, I see that you take care of all these fish, so you must know what you’re doing. I have never kept fish before, and I’m a little out of my depth.”

Me: “All right. I can help you out with that.”

Customer: “Great! See, my son just got sent to prison, but he had a fish tank. I was hoping that, if I show you a picture of the fish, you could identify them and tell me how to care for them.”

Me: “I’m sorry to hear about your son, but I will certainly look at the fish.”

(The customer pulls out her phone and shows me a photo of a tank filled with large striped fish. I identify them instantly but am anxious about offending this nice woman.)

Me: “Those are… uh… Honduran red-point convict cichlids.”

Customer: *slowly smiling* “That’s perfect!” *bursts into laughter*

(We then happily discussed the proper care of her new inmates.)

One day our house — mostly the laundry room — started to smell really bad. My brother and I had our bedrooms right next to the laundry room, so we noticed it a lot more. Dad looked every chance he got, but could not find the source of the smell. It only continued to get worse as time went on.

About three days later, my brother had one of his friends over, and he mentioned that our laundry room smelled like “cat piss.” I was pretty confused, since we didn’t own a cat; we had a very unfriendly little dog, and my dad was allergic to and hated cats.

That night, around midnight, I was finishing up with my computer and getting ready to go to bed. All of a sudden, my brother came running upstairs screaming that he saw something moving in the laundry room. I headed down there to check, and sure enough, the tube connecting our air exchanger to the outside was moving; there was something in there. My mom refused to come downstairs; she was terrified that it might have been a skunk, no matter how many times I told her that skunks smell completely different.

My dad then spent the next hour climbing the shelves stacked with cleaning products like a monkey, slowly and carefully detaching the tube, all the while wearing the thick gloves he always put on whenever he was working with tools. My brother and I watched, not really having anything we could do in that situation. Eventually, he got the thing loose and brought it outside. My mom finally came out to see what was going on, still terrified.

With all of us watching, he turned the tube inside out and out popped a cat, which he caught. The little guy had probably climbed in there looking for a warm place and gotten stuck. He then bit my dad through the gloves, wriggled loose, and tried to jump back through the vent. The problem was that the tube wasn’t there for him to hide in anymore.

My dad managed to grab the cat by the hind legs and slowly pull him back out, me watching the whole time. I wish I’d gone inside like my brother did; according to him, he got back into the laundry room and saw the front half of the cat just dangling in mid-air, looking completely shocked.

We kept him in the shed for a few days — we couldn’t keep him in the house for the reasons mentioned above — while my mom and I did everything we could to try and find the owner. All the while, my mom took care of feeding him regularly, checked up on him constantly, and even named him; she grew up on a farm surrounded by barn cats. We had no luck, so Mom ended up driving him all the way to the closest animal shelter, an hour and a half away, all by herself, even though she hates driving. Even after that, she kept checking their website constantly until he finally found a home.

(I’m the idiot in this story. My husband and I are at a museum featuring an oceanic exhibit. In one hall there is a large touch tank. Being the wuss I am, I am very nervous to touch anything, but my husband convinces me to try. I pick a smooth-looking creature close to the edge of the tank, and carefully stroke it with one finger. The girl supervising the tank smiles at me.)

Worker: “Doesn’t that one feel like a rock?”

Me: *with excitement and wonder* “Yeah! It really does!”

Worker: “That’s because it is.”