Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Dog IDing

So a weird thing happened. We are walking Sammy along the East Coast Greenway in Simsbury. Or rather, Sammy was walking us along the East Coast Greenway in Simsbury. But that's a whole separate story.

Sammy was doing her usual yanking and pulling at another dog wanting desperately to sniff it up and down and nuzzle it to say hello. It's always a toss up whether to let her approach the dog and requires some feeling out of the owner and assessing the scariness level of the dog. This was a very, very old bassett hound. I was more worried about Sammy exciting it to death with her powerful sniffing snout. But the owner encouraged us to bring her over to say hello. "It's ok. She's old," she said. All the more reason to keep rambuncious Sammy away I thought .... but Craig walked her over.

Then the woman looks at Sammy and asks the usual: "how old is she?" with that undertone of ... "Isn't she old enough to be under control by now?" We answer with the usual, "a year-and-a-half, we think ... she's an adopted rescue dog." As if that meant we can't claim responsibility for her anti-leash demeanor and outrageously strong lunging muscles.

Then she starts looking underneath Sammy's belly, poking her face between her legs. Craig and I look at each other, both instinctively wanting to cover our own "private areas" from her searching eyes. This woman was actually looking to see if our dog had girl parts or boy parts. "So does he .... she .... is she?" We're both taken aback and ultra protective of Sammy's privates. Couldn't she just ask us if she was male or female? What if people want around pulling aside baby's diapers to check for a penis, though of course it would be helpful because honestly who can tell if a baby is a boy or girl anyway without a giveaway bow in the hair (but even that's not always a safe assumption). I opt for gender ID avoidance.

I wanted to answer, "yes, she's a bitch." Or maybe, "you're a bitch. stop violating my dog."

But we smiled, led (yanked) her away and recapped deciding that yes, that just happened, and burst out laughing. I don't think we'll ever be searching for a dog penis when we meet a new Sammy friend ... who really wants to see that anyway? We already spend so much time telling Sammy to keep her legs closed. Gross.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

O Wallet, Where Art Thou?

Today my wallet was stolen --- either right from my office desk, or perhaps worse, swiped from my purse just feet away from me while I clamored to get a photo opp. Either way, it makes you think. It doesn't make me angry. It doesn't make me vengeful. I work in the center of one of the poorest cities in the nation, in one of the wealthiest states in the nation, it's not surprising.

However, what it does make me is curious. Who is it that is walking around with my tan leather Ralph Lauren wallet ... full of many, many random receipts, lots of store credit cards that were never used, but merely fill up the spaces designed for holding cards because I thought it looked cooler. It has the usual suspects of course --- my license, which means I can look forward to a beautiful afternoon at the DMV to replace it, my medical and dental cards which I literally just received, random business cards and other administrative randomness. It has my college ID, which I use, and would have continued to use, as long as I could pass for an 18-year-old college student (not a difficult task) to get the college discount wherever offered. Damn. My ID from Queensland University of Technology, a back up if the UNH ID didn't fly for student train or movie tix. Damn.

Though I'm sure Mr. (or Ms.) thief was much more concerned with the plastic cards with the Visa logos, there were also some other treasures in there that they'll never even appreciate. A $2 bill from my Gramma that I've had in my wallet for many years to bring me good luck. Okay, maybe I spent the one she gave me many years ago in a desperate coffee fiend moment, but she did give me another last Christmas and the meaning of luck still remains. A $20 bill from the Easter Bunny I just got Sunday. Yes, I'm 26 years old and the Easter Bunny---a.ka. Mom---still gives me an Easter basket. I was saving that for a delicous Friday night artichoke pizza. C'est la vie I suppose. But no matter what, the thought of someone walking around with my IDs, my photos, my bizarre ticket stubs and receipts I hold onto gives me the creeps. Where is my wallet now? Picked through and tossed in a Hartford curbside gutter? Being pawned off to gain an illegal immigrant a life in the states?

I'd like to think that my $20 and $2 bills went to help a father feed his hungry kids or buy a young girl a new collared shirt to wear to a job interview she just landed. However, when the maliscious charge came through for $154 at Smokers' Depot on Asylum Ave all hopes for that went down the tubes, or rather, up in smoke?

Maybe it'll turn up. Maybe not. But what I wouldn't do to roll back the security tapes and see what kind of journey this little piece of me is on ...