Sick 'em, Fido.
This afternoon, as I was walking to the subway on my way to work, a man with two dogs passed me on the sidewalk. The dogs were a giant bulldog and a corgi-type puppy. Very cute. They jumped on me, as dogs tend to do, and as a dog-lover, I let them. It makes my day when neighorhood dogs get all jumpy and slobbery and they let me pet them and squish their faces. I love it. Judge me if you must. I still love it. I can't have dogs in my apartment, so I must satisfy this jones like every other addict in this city: on the street.
Usually when this happens, the pet owner will try to pull the dogs off me, and they always, always apologize. I always say, "It's okay! I don't mind!" because I don't. And they relax that I'm not barking at them to keep their animals in check or bitching that their pets shed all over my clothes (see what I did there? bark and bitch? so clever!). They let me play with their dogs for a minute, and then we part ways, and I thank them for indulging me. The dogs have done their duty of smothering love on an unassuming stranger and the owner let it happen, as they should. And the world keeps spinning on its axis because in that moment, everything worked properly and in accord with the laws of nature.
"Chill, Stanley! Chill! Chill!" this particular dog-owner said as he strained to pull the bulldog off of me.
"It's okay! I don't mind," I said, rubbing the corgi-thing's head.
"NO," he said (to me! not to the dog! and with anger and hostility!). "I decide how my dogs should behave, not you."
I was completely floored. "Um. Stanley. That's a cute name," I said, and walked away. What I should have said was, "I hope Stanley rips your balls off while you sleep, as he's apparently trying to flee your care, you fucked-up little man." That would have been much more satisfying.
"Wow," Lisa said when I told her the story. "I think I just would have looked at him and said, 'You're just a prick.'"
Ultimately, he wasn't wrong: It is up to him how his dogs behave. Yes, that's true. But a) I wasn't trying to train or otherwise influence the behavior of his dogs, I was just telling him I didn't mind that they were going berserk on me, and b) his tone of voice was so condescending. He spoke to me as if I were a five-year-old. I know I can behave all five-like sometimes, but he doesn't know that. So then I walked along, making all these assumptions about him and his ridiculous woolly hat and unfortunate complexion and his need for pets to fill his life in the obvious void of people. (Says the woman who just adopted two cats.) Also, his use of the word chill as a disciplinary device.
More than anything, I walked away thinking, "Don't make me a party to your own social awkwardness." Which, if he's socially awkward, he can't help. The whole scene just reeked of bad playground etiquette. Maybe I should have backed off when he tried to tame Stanley, but his smackdown just made me want to get hold of Stanley's collar, unlatch the leash and let the dog go to town on this guy.
I think Stanley's on my side.
Usually when this happens, the pet owner will try to pull the dogs off me, and they always, always apologize. I always say, "It's okay! I don't mind!" because I don't. And they relax that I'm not barking at them to keep their animals in check or bitching that their pets shed all over my clothes (see what I did there? bark and bitch? so clever!). They let me play with their dogs for a minute, and then we part ways, and I thank them for indulging me. The dogs have done their duty of smothering love on an unassuming stranger and the owner let it happen, as they should. And the world keeps spinning on its axis because in that moment, everything worked properly and in accord with the laws of nature.
"Chill, Stanley! Chill! Chill!" this particular dog-owner said as he strained to pull the bulldog off of me.
"It's okay! I don't mind," I said, rubbing the corgi-thing's head.
"NO," he said (to me! not to the dog! and with anger and hostility!). "I decide how my dogs should behave, not you."
I was completely floored. "Um. Stanley. That's a cute name," I said, and walked away. What I should have said was, "I hope Stanley rips your balls off while you sleep, as he's apparently trying to flee your care, you fucked-up little man." That would have been much more satisfying.
"Wow," Lisa said when I told her the story. "I think I just would have looked at him and said, 'You're just a prick.'"
Ultimately, he wasn't wrong: It is up to him how his dogs behave. Yes, that's true. But a) I wasn't trying to train or otherwise influence the behavior of his dogs, I was just telling him I didn't mind that they were going berserk on me, and b) his tone of voice was so condescending. He spoke to me as if I were a five-year-old. I know I can behave all five-like sometimes, but he doesn't know that. So then I walked along, making all these assumptions about him and his ridiculous woolly hat and unfortunate complexion and his need for pets to fill his life in the obvious void of people. (Says the woman who just adopted two cats.) Also, his use of the word chill as a disciplinary device.
More than anything, I walked away thinking, "Don't make me a party to your own social awkwardness." Which, if he's socially awkward, he can't help. The whole scene just reeked of bad playground etiquette. Maybe I should have backed off when he tried to tame Stanley, but his smackdown just made me want to get hold of Stanley's collar, unlatch the leash and let the dog go to town on this guy.
I think Stanley's on my side.
Labels: New York, pets, philosophical whatnots
posted by Marla at 3:44 PM
2 Comments:
I have someone I'd definitely like to sic Stanley on.
Last week I was on the subway platform and I started experiencing poor circulation in my hands (it happens from time to time). So I put on my gloves.
Some dude in a random security uniform has the audacity to bark (aha! I did it too!) at me, "It's not cold!!!!"
I turned to him and said, "Mind your own business, thank you."
He, in turn, decided to revert to a 10-year-old and proceeded to make that gesture that is supposed to signify that I was crazy (he pointed his finger to his head and began winding the finger around and around).
All the while he kept saying, "It's not cold! It's not cold!"
Oh, Stanley, where art thou?
If the dude can't exercise his right to decide how his dogs behave before they jump on strangers, that's his own damn problem, say I. The best response might have been, "And I decide whether or not to bitch you out because you're doing a shitty job managing your dog's behavior, asshat."
This reminds me of the time I was on the (relatively crowded morning rush-hour) subway, and an old-ish lady got on and politely and asked this younger (but old enough to know better) businessman who was crowding the pole if he could move over just a bit, to make room for her hand. And he snapped, "I was here first." It was positively breathtaking. Maybe you met the same guy? Can there be two men walking around NYC with such misplaced senses of persecution and unmotivated hostility?
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