If there’s one born every minute, I’ve got a lot of company

“If I owned Texas and hell, I’d rent out Texas and live in hell.”
–Gen. P.H. Sheridan

I had to go shopping this week. At the mall. Despite years of conditioning, this is an exercise that still fills me with dread. I’m not lying or exaggerating when I say I’d much rather go to the dentist. (This may also be due in part to my deep and abiding affection for Dr. Tara Meyer. I mean Dr. Tara Tehab Kaur. On my next visit, I hope I get the gossipy hygienist so I can find out the reason for the name change.)

To me, shopping is less a pleasurable excursion or treasure hunt and more a problem to be solved. Problem: I need new shoes, soap, and some of the super-extravagant moisturizing cream my mom got me hooked on “because it’s never too early to start taking good care of your skin.” Solution: Go to Marshall Field’s. Problem #2: That store no longer exists. Solution: Settle for Dillard’s, a department store chain we don’t have in Minnesota but one that seems to resemble MF.

First stop was the Lancome counter. A woman with a matronly smile and a barracuda’s heart located what I needed, then proceeded to upsell me into some related skin care products; she went too far, though, when she tried to interest me in the motorized mascara. Undaunted by my backing away from the counter, she desperately waved a sample bottle of perfume–the kind of perfume worn by someone I once went on a date with (and, repelled by said perfume, vowed never to see again).

I finally escaped the Lancome black hole and wandered around until I found the shoe department. Those people seem to be paid per shoe. In the space of two minutes, I was accosted by four different salespeople who made it their personal mission to make sure I was finding everything I needed. Finally, just to put an end to it, I caught the attention of the nearest circling shark, held up a shoe, and said, “I’m looking for something like this, only more dressy.” She produced the perfect shoe and I was out of there within minutes.

But the ordeal wasn’t over. Turns out Bath & Bodyworks was at the opposite end of the mall, so I was forced to pass thousands of kiosks run by eager entrepreneurs calling out hopefully to promising-looking passersby. I tried not to look promising, but was still beseiged by offers of sunglasses, cookies, novelty tote bags, cell phone plans, and heaven knows what else. My Midwestern politeness always makes it hard for me to pretend I neither hear nor see those people waving and calling, but somehow I manage.

So I felt pretty beaten down by the time I got back to my apartment complex, which may have made it even less possible than usual for me to ignore the stray dog loitering by the mailboxes. She was terribly skinny and wore an old leather collar with no tags attached. The guy in the rental office said she’d been hanging around all day. She sat patiently next to the door, occasionally wandering up and down the sidewalk in front of the office. Emmett was, of course, strangling himself in an attempt to get to her so he could tell her who was the boss of our pack, but I picked him up, carried him back to my apartment, and cloistered him in the bathroom. Then I went back for the dog.

She came when called, sat, and deployed her best, most devastating puppydog looks. I clipped Emmett’s leash to her collar and took her home, watching her closely as we walked. She was very well-behaved on the leash–a welcome change from my usual dog-walking experiences–and didn’t hesitate when we went into my apartment. I got her settled on the porch with food, water, and blankets, then shut the glass door and drew the blinds in hopes that Emmett would forget she was there.

Long story short (shorter, at least), after twenty-four hours of hiding her from Emmett and the building managers, and generally feeling like I was trapped in an episode of Three’s Company, I found a rescue group to take her. All’s well that ends well.