"I've come to see a man about a dog," you say.
"I am that man," replies the woman.
"Oh. Right. Sorry."
You look around the pound. There are dozens of dogs in there, yelping, barking, licking the splatches of skin rubbed raw against the bars of the cages. God, this is depressing.
You ask, "can I have a look around?"
"Are you with the S.P.C.A.? You have to tell me if you are..."
"Isn't this the S.P.C.A.?"
Safari Woman gives you another sneer. Perhaps you should leave this point alone. "This ain't a library," she says, "you either buy a dog or get out of my store."
Well, well. Someone is Miss Crankypants this morning, isn't she? And poor manners should never go unnoted.