It was time to take Ali to the vet for her first annual booster shots and looking at my 70 pound best friend it was hard to remember this was the same 7 pound rescue puppy that I brought home a year ago.
The waiting room at the vet’s office was almost empty and I hoped this meant we could get in and out quickly. After we checked in I turned around and saw that there was only one other person waiting, but when I saw it was Marcia I almost turned around and walked back out.
Marcia is a neighbor whom I actively dislike. She walks Clarence, her big, floppy dog, on our street and he regards my front lawn as his personal latrine. Most neighbors clean up after their pets. Marcia does not.
She’s an unpleasant woman who complains about everything. On our first meeting she complained about the tuition at her daughter’s private elementary school, the impossibility of finding honest household help, how her property taxes had skyrocketed after she and her husband built the “huge addition” onto their house and how she regretted trading in her Lexus for a Mercedes. Interestingly, she neglected to tell me that her husband rents an efficiency apartment on the beach where he sleeps with his personal trainer. I learned that from another neighbor.
Ali and I sat as far away from Marcia and Clarence as we could. I nodded at her without enthusiasm. “Hello,” I said without inflection.
Marcia got right to the point. “What kind of dog is that?” Marcia asked.
“She’s a rescue dog,” I told her, as Ali went nose to nose with Clarence. “Mainly yellow Lab and German shepherd.”
“Oh,” said Marcia. “A mix.” She pulled Clarence back as though “mixed breed” were contagious. “Well, at least you didn’t spend much money for her, I’m sure,” she said. I was not playing this game and I stayed silent but I pulled Ali back as though “bitch” were contagious.
“Clarence was $1100,” Marcia said smugly.
I couldn’t resist. “What is Clarence, exactly?” I asked.
“Clarence is a Labradoodle,” said Marcia. I didn’t respond to her; instead I looked up “Labradoodle” on my smart phone and startled, looked at Marcia.
“So Clarence is a mixed breed too?” I said.
Marcia turned red. “No,” she corrected me. “Clarence is a purebred Labradoodle. That’s a selective cross between a Lab and a Poodle,” she continued patronizingly.
I sighed; I was remembering that one of my brother’s middle wives lived in a double-wide and used to get really sniffy if you called it a “trailer.” It is a “manufactured home” she would say. That may be true but as far as I’m concerned if your house has axles it’s a trailer; a high-end trailer perhaps, but still a trailer: No matter what Marcia said, Clarence was nothing but a high end mixed breed dog. As I pondered this I decided to take the high road and stay silent but then I saw Marcia glaring at Ali with pure contempt and I decided not to.
“Clarence is a mix, just like Ali,” I told her. “Do the math: Two different purebreds produce a mixed breed.” Marcia started to sputter but I cut her off. “Besides,” I said, “by your standards I can say that Ali is a purebred German Retriever.”
I was unreasonably angry: I was thinking that while animal shelters are filled with great puppies waiting to be euthanized some idiot is willfully breeding more mixed breed dogs so other idiots can pay $1100 for them. I would have said more but the tech called us in to see the doctor.
“Well you must feel very noble for rescuing that mutt,” said Marcia and in a flash I remembered that we adopted Ali the week before my mom had her last, bad fall. I remembered that during Mom’s last illness caring for Ali saved my sanity. I remembered that on the day Mom died, when I sat in my chair for hours staring into space, Ali crawled onto my lap and stayed there, looking at me anxiously and occasionally licking my face. I recalled those first awful weeks after Mom passed away when Ali could do what no one else could: make me smile.
I spun around on Marcia. “I did not rescue Ali,” I told her. “Ali rescued me,” and we walked in to see the doctor.
