&*(#$)(*#%^)#@)!!!!

I'M SO ANGRY.

That's why I'm yelling at you in capital letters.

I'll spare you too many gory details, but the situation went down like this:

I was at PetCo with Ryker, walking around so he could get in a few smells and I can recall with fondness the days when we could buy him the cute toys. The ones he destroys in 15 minutes. A lady walks up to me, and the conversation goes as follows.

Crazy lady: Oh. My. Gosh. A vizsla. Where did you get him? How old is he? He's adorable! Ohcomeandgimmesomekisses!

Ryker wiggles happily over. He's too young to sniff out the crazies.

Me: His name is Ryker. We got him from a breeder in North Alabama.

Concern creases her face in an instant. She stops petting Ryker and looks at me in anxiety.

Crazy lady: Which one?

I tell her, and she stands up.

Crazy lady: You're going to have health problems. And have you fixed him? Yep you have. That was wrong, you shouldn't have. You should have waited until 18 months. You're a first time owner, aren't you? I can tell. This is why you need a Vizsla contact like me. You've done things wrong. But you didn't know.

Stunned, I stare at her and try to answer.

Me: Really?

Crazy lady: Aren't they great to train? The six month rescue I just took in, I've only had for a week and a half, and she's already squared away and totally obedient. It's just that easy, you know, when you know what you're doing like I do. Do you run him? How far?

Me: Sometimes on leash, mostly off leash. If it's on leash, only 2-3 miles. But that's not very often.

Crazy Lady: You're running him too much. You're going to damage his growth plates. I know, I have six Vizsla's and a rescue. They call me the crazy Vizsla lady around here, isn't that right Ed? (She yells at an employee walking by. He nods politely and continues on his business because HE can sniff out the crazies.) I've had them my whole life. Let me give you my information, I'll hook you up with every single Vizsla owner or breeder in the business around the world. That's what happens when you've been in the business as long as I have. Ask Ed, he knows. I'm here all the time. That energy he's got is pretty typical of Vizslas, can you handle it?

At this point my blood is bubbling in my skin, and I can't take it anymore. I unleash on her all the fury of a first time mom to a stranger who dared educate her on how to raise her perfect child.

Me: Excuse me, but who are you to question if I am qualified to take care of this dog? This is MY dog, and I have done a damn fine job of raising him, and I'll continue to do a damn fine job of raising him without your contacts or help with it, thank you very much. Don't you dare tell me there is something wrong with him. He's a perfect dog, from an excellent breeder I plan on buying from again despite your incredibly rude reference to them. Who are you to know anything about me and my dog? I hope you realize you have just pissed off the wrong unemployed woman with a lot of time to raise hell in your life. You're lucky there's not a lake around, or I'd throw you and your narcissistic self love into it you southern biddy!

The woman stares, flabbergasted. Then, with tears in her eyes, she profusely apologizes and takes her leave with her metaphorical tail between her legs. Ed strolls by and gives me a high five, whistling as he goes and disappearing at the end of the aisle.

OK FINE.
It didn't exactly end like that.

More like me excusing myself after she handed me a paper with her facebook, her email, her phone number, her social security number and the library of congress reference number to the book she wrote about how great she is. In my passive-aggressive rage I crumpled it up in my fist once outside and threw it in my car with a cry of rage and the wish that Husband had been around to open his can of Army Infantry kick ass.

Then I did the only thing there was left to do.

I called my mom.