wine and cheap perfume

About five months ago, when I was walking my dog, a portly 50-something woman in a hemp poncho stopped me on the street and excitedly started massaging Louis' perfect little rumpus. Then she noticed his mange.
"Oh my God! Poor thing!" she exclaimed. "He must be so uncomfortable!"
I have this conversation with at least thirty strangers a day. "Yeah. The vet gave me this chemical dip to treat it but it doesn't work," I began, launching into a speech I am so tired of giving I'm sure it's on par with the woman on Broadway who had to sing the song "Memories" in Cats for seventeen years. "But it's supposedly like acne," I continued, "and he's an adolescent, and he'll outgrow it."
And there I stood, in all of my 26-year-old glory, with a face decorated in zits. I didn't outgrow my acne. It stuck with me like a bad habit, so who's to say Louie will ever outgrow his mange? That aside, telling strangers that you dip your adorable white french bulldog in chemicals is a surefire way to garner death glares, which are, for the most part, unpleasant.
"Oh, no!" she cried. "Listen. Give me your number. My father is a vet, and he can talk to you about your dog's mange."
Figuring I had nothing to lose, I gave this queer, kindly stranger my number, and promptly forgot all about it. FIVE MONTHS PASS. Then yesterday, as I'm sitting outside the cafeteria at school with Lucy and Megan, talking about how much we love ourselves for being in grad school, I get a call.
"Hello!" I hear a man's gravelly old voice shout. "This is Dr. Vitka. Amy's father!"
"I'm sorry." I said. "I think you have the wrong number."
"No. You met my daughter on the street last week, and she said that your dog has mange."
I racked my brain, and dimly remembered the Jew fro, the chapped fingers, the poncho. "If by last week you mean last year, then yes. You're a vet, right?"
"Yes I am. I am going to tell you two types of medication you can put your dog on that with cure his demodectitus. Your first option is Mitoban. If you put him on Mitoban, which, in my opinion, is a better choice, his mange will clear up in just a few weeks. A side effect of this drug is that he will suffer a loss of balance. In other words, he won't be able to walk. Your other option is Ivarsibyn. This is gentler on your wallet, but is slower to produce results and has more side effects, which may include nausea, loss of appetite, anxiety, coma, and death."
"They both sound great," I ventured, not really knowing why THE HELL this man was contacting me. His daughter didn't seem like a dyke, and if her roundabout way of snagging a date with a girl was by taking her number, waiting five months, and then forking it over to her ancient vet dad so that he could dispense disturbing and unuseful medical advice for her pet, then she's the weirdest fucking person alive. But I didn't think this was the case.
"But," I continued, "I kind of need my dog to be able to walk. And, you know, not die. So I don't think either option is gonna work. Thanks for the advice, though."
"As you wish," the vet replied. "You now have my number in your phone, so if you ever have any questions or wanna chat about your dog, feel free to call me. What's your dog's name, by the way?"
"Louis," I said.
"Oh. Do you have a nickname? 'Louie' is cuter than Louis."
Was he kidding? No, he wasn't. FUCKING WEIRD. "Yeah, I call him Louie, too, sometimes."
"Okay. Good. I hope Louie gets well soon. Best of luck to you."
"You too. Bye."

What?