No way! I can’t believe you got out! Listen to this one, seriously. This guy comes in dressed in a gorgeous Prada suit, comes over to look at us and he’s all, “Oh-my-gosh I can’t decide,” and we’re all, “We’re not just a bunch of hallmark cards or made-in-china toys. I mean, you don’t just choose one. You’re supposed to have a connection with one of us, like one-true-love or whatever.” So he’s getting all touchy-feely and oochy-goochy-goo with Georgie Boy, and all of a sudden, Georgie Boy wets himself. He sprays it all over the guy, who proceeds to freak out like my ex-trainer—oh-my-gosh—do not let me forget to tell you another crazy story about my ex before you go. I used to be nothing but trouble. Anyway, the guy’s spazzing out, yelling at the staff, yelling at Rhoda, giving Gonzo dirty looks. And we’re all standing around like, “Haven’t you ever picked up a nervous dog before?” Poor Georgie Boy knows he’s just ruined his last chance of getting out of this place—we all know what they do with the unfavorable ones. The guy storms off, comes back after twenty minutes—or like three hours—new suit—Giorgio—fresh smile, apologies all around. Everybody’s all forgiveness and cheerful and hopeful and Obama and everything’s cool. The guy comes by, looks us over, reaches down and picks up Fred! He’s all, “Come here, cutie-pie, you are just a cute little puppy and I forgive you.” We’re all barking and barking and pointing our paws at Georgie Boy, who’s howling and whining in the corner. The guy pays for Fred and walks out. Georgie Boy’s destroyed. He’s crushed. But, you know, there’s a lesson here.
Jeremy Scheuer 