...is "Something Fishy"

There was something fishy going down at the dog park this evening.  I was sitting in my blue, collapsible lawn chair and chatting with a pleasant lady from Poland, named Agnes, whose Cavalier had a hankering for Fonzie's backside.  A young man, probably in his mid- to late-twenties and nicely dressed in a sage green dress shirt and black dress pants, approached us.  He carried a tiny, pale tan-colored Chihuahua.  "Do you know anyone who wants a Chihuahua?" he asked. 

Huh? I'm a semi-regular at this particular dog park and I’d never seen this man before in my life.  "Who is this guy?" I thought, "And, what’s the story with the d..." Before I could even finish formulating the thought in my mind, he started to speak again.  In quite a jumbled rush of words, he told us his tale of woe and urgency.

“Blah, blah, my kid’s allergic, blah, blah, blah, has all his shots, blah, got the papers here, blah, blah, blah, about twelve weeks old, blah, blah, only a hundred bucks, blah, blah, doctor’s office, blah, blah, gotta get rid of him tonight, blah, can’t bring him into the house, blah, blah, blah, thought we’d try here first, blah, blah, just a hundred bucks, that’s practically giving him away, blah, blah, blah," he said.

A couple of blahs into this man’s story, I couldn’t help but think of the rescue dog I adopted last fall.  When I got him home and started through my door, Fonzie’s hyper-excitement scared the little Pomeranian nearly to death.  He put on the breaks and, like a greased pig, slid right out of the harness and collar he was wearing and took off to beat hell, never to be seen again.  Good job, Trace.  Rescue a dog from a perfectly comfortable and safe shelter, drive him miles and miles away, and put him out on the streets to fend for himself.  Despite this ding to my personal sense of worthiness as a pet owner and caretaker, I still harbor a desire for another dog.  I sometimes wonder if Fonzie would be a happier dog if he had a playmate.  So, for a split-second, I found myself actually considering the notion of adopting the little guy.  Fortunately, reason took over and quickly put the idea out of my mind. 

I had no connection to this man, no obligation to assist, no responsibility for the puppy.  But, I did sense a feeble urge to help in some way, if for no other reason than to prevent the puppy from being abandoned.  I ran a scan of my mental database of contacts for dog-lovers.  Some names popped up, but none of them were in the market for a new pet.  

I was about to give him the name of the shelter where I bought my ill-fated Pomeranian when he got to the part of his speech where he said, "just a hundred bucks, that’s practically giving him away."  Suddenly, I felt no further interest in this man nor his dog nor his story.  I said, "No, thank you, I can only have the one dog" and pointed to Fonzie.  The kindly Polish lady also politely declined his offer while she tried in vain to stop her dog from humping poor Fonzie.  He walked a few yards away, toward where another group of park-goers was gathered on the lawn, and I overheard him begin his pitch anew.

I resumed my chat with Agnes.  She talked about her work and the economy’s affect on her profession.  We discussed our respective degrees and educational experiences.  We shared our dogs’ histories with each other.  We chatted as people do in the park. All the while, though, I couldn’t help but keep one ear trained in the direction of the man with the Chihuahua.  

After about twenty minutes of struggling to tame her unneutered puppy’s lust for Fonzie, Agnes gave up and went home.  I went back to alternately reading H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine on my phone’s book-reading App and people- and dog-watching.  I intermittently glanced over at Chihuahua Man, who, by that time, had apparently found a taker. 

A bit later on, I noticed that Chihuahua Man’s significant other (wife...girlfriend...friend...partner...baby-mama...whatever they were to each other) had arrived sometime earlier and was standing next to him.  She was a cute, petit blond wearing denim short-shorts and a red tank top.  Chihuahua Girl drank a clear, yellowish, foamy-headed beverage from a translucent, hot-pink plastic cup and said very little to anyone other than Chihuahua Man.

Although I couldn’t put a finger on it right away, I was getting a sense of déjà vu watching Chihuahua Couple.  For about two weeks one summer while in college, I had a so-called "job" selling knock-off designer perfume and cologne.  The so-called "training" for this job consisted of a two-hour crash course in high-volume, high-pressure sales followed by a few hours of practice in the field with an experienced salesperson.  Then, we were sent out to canvas the region and sucker anyone we could into paying us cash for our wares.  It was not for me.  It was just not my style and I was no good at it.  Yet, all was not lost because the experience taught me to recognize the tactics of the modern-day traveling salesperson, the lowest of the low, the borderline scam artist.  

There was something fishy about Chihuahua Couple.  There was something fishy about their story.  There was definitely something fishy about them showing up at a dog park after dark and asking for help to find a home for their dog, but needing to do so urgently, immediately, and for the specific and seemingly non-negotiable price of $100.

I don’t know what truly happened at the dog park tonight.  It’s possible that I met a sweet couple who were forced to sell the family dog in order to protect their child’s health.  And, it’s possible that a couple of shysters preyed upon an animal-lover’s natural inclination to protect the life of an innocent animal.  Whatever the case may be, I left the park with a funny feeling in my gut and a fishy odor lingering in my nostrils.