I figure if I keep waiting to blog about the last day of my trip to England (which ended, HELLO, 3 months ago), I’ll never blog again. So I’m just going to skip that one entry. I’ll just have to forgive myself, hope you do too and get on with things.

So anyway, Joe and I were walking Dobby last night. We usually do one of two paths, known to us as “the short one” and “the long one” because, well, you can figure that one out for yourself. We decided on “the short one” because we had gotten home from rehearsal not long before and we were tired. Dobby doesn’t care…as long as she gets to go outside with her pack, she’s happy. Anyway, the short path essentially takes us around our block, which is officially labeled as a circle, although it really only is more of a squared-off right parenthesis.

As we walked on “the short one,” we suddenly heard a bunch of high-pitched yelping and saw the shadows of 2 local “little dogs” across the street but trying to run towards us. They might be Pomeranians but I’m not sure because I never actually see those dogs outside…I only hear them barking like crazy whenever Dobby and I go past their house on daytime walks and I always get this feeling of superiority because MY dog doesn’t bark like that anytime someone goes past OUR house (the fact that our LAST dog, Pippi, would bark her fool head off if a leaf fell off a tree 2 counties over, never mind to announce that someone dared to go past her house, is conveniently lost to time). The owner of the Poms-or-whatevers, asked her two dogs, “WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE YOU BARKING AT?”, in a voice that was something of a cross between a southern belle and a fishmonger. Seeing that Joe, Dobby and I the source of their loud excitement, she then said to us “THEY’RE ON LEASHES!” It was at that time that I saw a black Labrador Retriever lumbering up to us. Unleashed.

Crap.

Now, I know most of the dogs on our two paths. I know which ones who will always be indoors and which will one be outdoors. I know who will be friendly and who might try to eat Dobby for a meal. I know the barkers and the kissers and yes, the one biter who drew blood on my shin once (that’s how I found out she was a biter). I also know the ones on leashes and the ones with irresponsible “parents” who don’t leash their dogs, which is against the law here but they apparently don’t give a crap about the laws or poor unsuspecting children or people who are afraid of dogs, or owners of small dogs who want to make sure that their animals remain safe. But I didn’t know this Black Lab and he was coming right towards us, so I picked up Dobby and stood there. I didn’t know what I was going to do if the Lab attacked us or anything but I also knew I wasn’t going to run because all (s)he’d do is chase us. So I just stood there. And the southern fishmonger is yelling at us, “I SAYED THEY ARE ON LEASHES. GO AHAYED AND WALK SO MAHN WILL STOP BARKIN’.” Sorry lady, but I wasn’t going anywhere until I knew what the Lab’s plans were.

It eventually became evident that the Lab seemed to have little interest in us, or at least in attacking, so Joe suggested we keep walking. I kept Dobby in my arms (just to make sure. By this point she was alternatively whining and play growling…all she wanted was to be let down and say HI to the 3 other dogs. Fat chance, kiddo.) and we continued on “the short one,” the Lab following us and staying about 10 feet behind. Meanwhile, the southern fishmonger’s neighbor came outside in her robe and, since the two little dogs were still barking nonstop, asked what all the noise was about. And the Poms’ owner said, “They’re walkin’ their little bitty dawg and they saw ma two so they picked him up an’ jest stood there. Ah told them they’re on leashes but they must be afrayed that mah little dogs ahre gonna eat theirs or sumpthin’.” This was all within earshot so I shot back, “It has nothing to do with your dogs on leashes. But there’s a big black Lab over there who is not on a leash and who I don’t know and I have a little dog so I was being careful.”

And suddenly the southern fishmonger yells, “MADAME, BE QUIET!”

Well, let me tell you that I was livid. Absolutely LIVID! I mean, how DARE she? SO rude! My usually-suppressed “Native New Yorker” quickly came up to the surface and it was all I could do to not scream back “Fuck you!” but I kept my composure and only said it under my breath.

We kept walking, the Lab went into its house (apparently he belonged to the next-door neighbor who wanted to know what all of the commotion was) so I put Dobby back on the ground and as I calmed down, Joe and I processed the whole situation as we continued on the walk. She should have her little dogs trained better, maybe I shouldn’t be so over protective, etc. I started making fun of the lady as a way to let off some of the steam, mocking her “Madame, be quiet!” By this point Joe and I were giggling about the whole thing.

We finally got back to the house and a few minutes later, still not quite ready to let it go, I once again mockingly said, “‘Madame, be quiet!’ I still can’t believe she said that to me!” Joe, who had been working at his computer, turned to me and said, “You DO realize that she was talking to her dog when she said that, right?” I looked at him blankly. Huh?  “She was looking at her dog when she said it. The dog’s name is Madame. The dogs were still barking and she was telling her dog, named Madame, to be quiet.”

Really? You’re sure? Oh.

Oops.

Good thing I didn’t tell her “Fuck you.”

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