I'm the girl that pet store owners fear. I linger in front of the glass windows oogling the puppies, making kissing noises and talking in a high-pitched voice that can actually only be heard by dolphins, so that's one less offense.
If the puppies are sleeping peacefully, i knock on the glass. hard. if they still don't wake up and give me some attention, that's when i enter the store. ok, i go in anyways.
I make my way to the puppy houses (cages) and start sticking my fingers in, ignoring the "do not stick your fingers in" signs, pasted to the cages. They lick my fingers and gnaw on whatever they can fit in their mouths and i love it and so do they but our sweet bliss is interrupted when the man working there asks me to stop touching the puppies. I respond quickly: "they were touching me" because technically, they were. also, he is wearing a white lab coat and i'm like, dude, you ain't no doctor, you clean up poop and put puppy chow in a dish, how necessary is it that you appear sterile? i have trouble with authority in white coats when you're really just a fancy pooper scooper.
At this point, i begin my stay-as-long-as-you-possibly-can tactic. i pretend that i am ready to buy a pooch on the spot. I have no shame and i will visit your puppy shop repeatedly and perform some variation of this act. I have gotten very good at it, perhaps because i convince myself that i very well could walk out of the store with a 5lb doggie under my arm.
With my i-seriously-might-buy-this-shit face, I ask such questions as: "how much for this one here?" and "does this breed have many hereditary issues?" i follow up with: "if this dog is from a puppy mill, i am gonna cut you up so bad." ok, i don't say that last one because then i might get blacklisted from said pet store and that would be BAD news. At this juncture, I have the pet store worker in the palm of my hand and so i figure now is a good time to whip out my camera phone and start taking lots and lots of crappy photos to show my family and friends the little dog that could have been mine. As i'm snapping away, i say things like: "work it, work it," "show me some paw" and "what little teeth you have."
Now, i have really worn out my welcome that i never really had and the excess seratonin that my brain was producing when i first saw that baby bulldog has dwindled as reality sets in: i am not this baby's mama.
Here is when my act unravels, i announce: "a puppy is a big responsibility, thanks for your time! happy scooping!" As onlookers scowl at me, i gather myself and exit quickly.
When I have text messaged photos of the puppies with captions like "herro" and "rye ruv roo," to my mother and anyone else who finds my shameful little activities endearing and adorable, i set out in search of my next victim.
