We had a yard sale this morning.
Apparently this is the weekend for this type of thing. We got out there early – really early and had people all morning.
Our neighborhood has great walking paths – there’s always folks out with their babies or dogs or both.
Now…before I begin the rest of this post…let me be clear. There’s one thing that I usually don’t discuss with people. No, not religion or politics or money – I have no problem talking about that stuff (as long as you’re a grown-up and not secretly angry).
What I’m talking about is a subject near and dear to many people’s hearts. I’m talking about pets. Pets. Specifically, my non-love for/of them. My complete un-need for pets. I know. I’m a monster. I don’t stroke, coo, or otherwise touch them. Do I wish them harm? No! NO! I love that you love pets. Dogs, cats, birds, whatever. Good for you. It’s just not my thang.
My husband is a cat person. He’s had and loved cats his whole life. He’s made our children cat people too. And we have one. Lexi, a very pretty Calico. Before her we had a very street smart, rat-turned-cat that my husband found behind a dumpster in the Bronx named Virgo. I’ve posted pics before. I offer this not as an excuse, but merely as part of my history.
Back to the yard sale.
As I said, we set up early for all the hardcore “buyers” who troll the neighborhood at 6am. During the course of the morning, we met many of our near and far neighbors. Some were curt and all business – nodding and forging ahead. But many were super friendly. Stopping to chat and look around.
Many of the awesome folks that stopped had dogs. And inevitably, I felt deep guilt when I didn’t acknowledge the dog. Because you see I know you love that dog. And I think that dog is awful cute. But here’s what happens, when I say something about the dog, like, “oh how cute” or “what a sweetie” or something – all of which I mean sincerely – you immediately loosen the harness so the dog can come closer and I can pet said dog.
And then….nothing. You get nothing from me. I start stuffing my hands in my pockets. I start fixing my hair. I do anything but pet/stroke/touch the dog.
Because what you don’t know is that I don’t even pet the animals that live in my house.
I blame my parents. We never had pets – until I went away to school – then my family had a pet revolution. Everywhere you looked there was a big, fluffy dog. I missed out.
So you see I appreciate you and your love for the dog/cat/bird/fish – but I’d rather not touch it.
Is that ok?
Am I still a good person?
I’d rather kiss a 100 snotty babies than rub a dog’s belly. I’m a freak.