(A young woman walks into our vet’s office with a German Shepherd.)

Me: “Good afternoon, ma’am. Do you have an appointment?”

Lady: “Yes, my name is [Lady] and this is Cupcake.”

Me: “I see he is here for his rabies and distemper shots.”

Lady: “That’s correct.”

Me: “I don’t want to sound condescending, but the distemper shot won’t make him nicer.”

Lady: “Oh, I know that… Do people actually believe that?”

(I’m a little shocked by this.)

Me: “Unfortunately, you’re one of the few people I’ve met that hasn’t said, ‘When will it make my pet nicer?’”

Lady: “I’m sorry you guys have to deal with knuckleheads like that.”

Me: “It’s okay. Every job has its risks.”

(I wish I could’ve given her a discount. I found out later that she is a service dog trainer. My niece is blind, and Cupcake became her service dog after she learned how to use a cane.)

(This happens back in the mid-2000s when I work at a computer store that will later go belly-up. I am a service tech, meaning all I do is check in computers. There are actual techs who work on the machines, and I flat-out make a point to explain that I am not technically proficient to give advice on how to fix machines.)

Customer: “My laptop won’t stay on, even with the battery, anymore. It won’t hold a charge. What do you think I should do?”

Me: “It’s hard to say… It could be the battery, or it could be the laptop. We can check it in for testing. It’s initially $19, and if there’s anything wrong with it, the techs can advise you from there.”

Customer: “Hmm… $19 to get it looked at? I mean… couldn’t it just be the battery? Maybe I should just get another battery.”

Me: “Maybe. I’m not a tech, so I can’t say if it is or not, and it’s not been tested. Besides, batteries run over $100 in some cases, so it may be cheaper to have the tech look at it. If the laptop is under warranty, it may be something easily fixed for free.”

Customer: “Yeah, but I don’t have that long. I have to travel this weekend, and I need to take it with me. What kind of batteries do you have for [Model]?”

Me: *shows him the different ones, none of which match his model laptop, as it’s an older computer* “I really wouldn’t suggest buying one of these unless you know it works with your computer, though. Since you didn’t bring it with you, choosing one blindly wouldn’t be wise. We don’t accept batteries back once they’ve been opened.”

Customer: “That’s okay. I’m sure it’s this one.”

(The model version is for a newer type of laptop than what he has. I suggest again that he bring his laptop with him to try them out, but he decides to buy it all the same. Cue a month later…)

Customer: *red in the face* “You sold me the wrong battery! I want my money back, now!“

Me: “Sir, all returns are at the returns desk. And I hate to tell you that we don’t take batteries back.”

Customer: “Yes, you did! You flat-out told me to buy this one!”

(I hadn’t remembered the man at first, but it finally clicks when he shows me the battery in question.)

Me: “Ah… Yes, it didn’t fit, did it? I did warn you to bring your laptop up here. We’re not able to take the battery back, just because it didn’t fit. We could only take it back if it was malfunctioning.”

Customer: “TAKE IT BACK!”

(He threw his plastic bag at me, which did nothing but float to the ground. By this time, our tech manager wa at the desk talking to him and backing up what I’d said. The general manager was then called and she told him word for word what I had told him. He started screaming and throwing such a tantrum that she told him to leave the store or she would call the police. He went outside and started slamming the battery against the brick column outside the store, then tried to come back in and claim that the battery was malfunctioning. Such a waste. He could have sold that and gotten most of his money back elsewhere.)

(I am a volunteer at a no-kill pet shelter. A few weeks ago, a couple came in with the angriest cat we had ever seen. Along with a severe case of mange, he was also missing his right eye. The couple explained that their neighbors had moved and left the cat locked inside a junker car parked behind their house. Even with every volunteer working to rehabilitate him, “One-Eyed Willy” proves to be a difficult case; he bites and scratches, yowls constantly, and does not get along with other male cats. We resign to having him as a permanent resident. One week, I arrive to find that One-Eyed Willy is missing from the cat room. A fellow volunteer explains that he’s been adopted over the weekend. The general consensus is that he has been taken in as a charity case and will be returned when the new owner finds him too difficult to handle. Terrified that whoever this person is will ruin a month of hard work, I can do nothing but wait until they return for his neutering appointment in two weeks. I am working the front desk when a young woman approaches me. She does not have a kennel, but has a cat tucked into her jacket.)

Woman: “Hi! I’m here to drop off Creampuff for his appointment?”

(As any adopted cats are referred to by their new names, it takes me a second to realize that she’s holding One-Eyed Willy! He is purring up a storm, curled up in her arms like a baby. While we go over the paperwork, I notice that he is wearing a hand-knit vest to cover his mange spots. With my heart already melting, I get talking to her.)

Me: “So, has he been behaving himself?”

Woman: “Oh, he’s the best cat in the world! I have a teensy bit of trouble sometimes when I need to go to the store, though.”

(She unzips her jacket and sets One-Eyed Willy on the counter. Immediately, he begins to whine like a baby. She picks him up and he stops.)

Woman: *while giggling and smothering him in kisses* “It’s a good thing I work from home, or I’d be evicted!”

(It isn’t easy working at a shelter, but times like this make it all worth it!)

(I am pregnant with my firstborn. After a great deal of reading up on the subject and a conversation with my uncle, a prominent obstetrician, we decide to use a certified nurse-midwife and a birthing center. Unfortunately, the due date comes and goes, despite multiple efforts at bringing on labor naturally, including walks, cohosh, and cod-liver oil. Finally, the midwife sets it up for us to go to the nearby hospital for some Pitocin to be applied topically. By this point, I’ve been lying on a table in a cubicle for several hours and am already stressed out because of the overdue baby and because I’ve had to go to the hospital. I am sure they will make me stay, and I don’t want that. Finally, a resident walks in. He pokes around for a bit.)

Resident #1: “How many days past due are you?”

Me: “Nine days.”

Resident #1: “You know, the fetal mortality rate spikes after fourteen days.”

(The resident walks out. Later, a different, female resident comes in. She pokes around for a while. Then:)

Resident #2: “Your cervix is off to the side.”

(The resident walks out. By now, I’m hysterical. Thankfully, the midwife phones right that minute to check on me. I blubber out what the resident said about the cervix.)

Midwife: “She just means that it’s off to the side right now. It will move into position as part of labor.”

(I still think that the first resident’s completely gratuitous information was because he was annoyed that he wouldn’t get to do a delivery. The kicker? My contractions started the minute we were in the parking deck on our way out of there. Our son was born about nine hours later, in the birthing center, with the midwife.)

(My dad and I are driving to the store to pick up stuff for dinner when my dad notices a motorcycle in a disabled parking bay, which means he can’t use the tag in the car to park there.)

Dad: “Now, that’s just ridiculous. You can’t get handicap tags for a motorcycle. They don’t even have a license plate!”

Me: *turns and spots the license plate, admittedly not very easy to see* “Oh, there it is. And it is a handicap one, so they’re okay to be there.”

Dad: “Yeah, well, disabled people shouldn’t be riding around on two wheels.”

Me: “Don’t you have a motorcycle?”

Dad: “Yeah, but this tag belongs to your mom, not me. She has it because of [medical reason]. Besides, I’m probably more disabled than her, because my ankles swell up when I walk, so I should have one, too.”

(The hypocrisy was lost on him. I’d try to push it more, but even if he came to the realization that he was wrong, all he’d do is yell at me and then pretend it never happened.)