Of vets, pets and pet peeves
View(s):Mistaken identity can be a very funny thing. I phoned up a famous vet’s office just the other day. To make an appointment. With the doctor. For a dog. Which the otherwise polite young receptionist thought he – or I – had made some sort of a mistake about.
Me: “Good morning, is that A Famous Vet’s Office?”
He: “Speaking.”
Me: “Eh, what? Oh, I see.”
He: “Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?”
Me: “I’d like to see Dr. (A. Name…) some time next week, please.”
He: “Yes, sir. Sure thing!”
Me: “Good… So, when can I come?”
He: “Er. You, sir?”
Me: “Yes, I heard that Dr. (A. Name…) is a good doctor. I’d like to see her.”
He: “Er. Yes, sir! You (hesitation) ARE bringing a (pause) DOG, no, sir?”
Me: “Yes. She’s a vet, no?” (Puzzled.)
He: “Of course she is, sir.” (Polite.)
Me: “Ok, then… he’s a Labrador crossed with a ridgeback.”
He: “Who?”
Me: “Er, the dog!”
He: “Oh, I see, sir! (Obvious relief. Caller not a doggone loony after all.) Yes, you can come. Name, please?”
Me: “Frodo Baggins.”
He: “No, sir. The DOG’s name…” (Exasperated?)
Me: “The dog’s name IS Frodo!” (Explaining!)
Okay sir, so who’s the cotton-picking mutt here, then… me or we, naturally – naming a poor helpless innocent critter (the dog) after a semi-mythical literary creature (the hobbit). Well, dears, it takes all types of dogs and doctor’s assistants to make a creation (the world).
Mistaken identity can be a very frustrating thing, too. Just the other day I went down to a famous seaside spa town. Armed with my camera. To take some photographs. Of lovely passing trains. Which made three oddly dressed men walking along the tracks very suspicious indeed. Of me, that is. Although in those sartorially assorted kits of theirs, it was that lot which stood out like the sore thumb in the well known simile.
One was tall and (as they say) “fully kitted up” in the heat of the afternoon. The other was taller and had a moustache and eyebrows like a South Indian film star. The third was as broad as a house and wore track bottoms, trainers, and a tight-fitting T-shirt. They were the only type of persons who could loiter without being conspicuous by drawing attention to the absurdity of their outfits. An incongruous triad, to say the least.
Me, in my shutterbug mode, was minding my own business when they perambulated past on the down track, in the direction of the railway station round the bend. And when the trio returned, an hour or so later, along the up line, I was still there. Armed with camera, primed by the diesel fumes of passing locomotives, crowned by my helmet which yours truly had neglected to doff… which made the not so natty sartorially curious trinity distinctly inquisitive.
One casually sauntered by several times, peering nonchalantly through my visor. Another sat down on a rocky promontory and ignored me entirely. The third watched me so surreptitiously out of the corner of his eye that he probably was not aware that I was staring at him all the time. I smiled to myself under the helmet. But I stopped smiling when, two hoots of a loco’s triple air-horn klaxon later, the uniformed branch showed up and insisted I take off my armour and explain my equipment. Someone had evidently phoned in for backup.
Plod: “Your helmet remove, great soul!”
Paparazzo: “Why?”
Plod: “The face to see.”
Paparazzo: “It’s me.”
Plod: “You who?”
Paparazzo: “Who my ID says.”
Plod: “That giving to see.”
Paparazzo: “Here, take and see.”
Plod: “Where working?”
Paparazzo: “A newspaper.”
Plod: “Sorry, great soul, just making sure it’s you.”
Paparazzo: “Thank you, I’m glad we sorted that out.”
Plod: “Can go now, please, no problem okay…”
Okay… Indeed. I’m glad that Goon, out and about on the prowl in his tight T, and the laddies from the local constabularies all over the land, are on the lookout. Checking up on lost souls to make sure they are they. Keeps the world safe from the likes of pimps, drug pedlars, and other pushers of dubious ilk. However, I am puzzled who they thought I might be: A notorious beachcomber? The marathon bomber’s younger brother? Frodo Baggins in search of Mordor and more trouble?
Don’t get me wrong, dears. Law and order is well and good. As long as we are all expected to keep it. And while we’re on about asking hapless helmeted hangabouts to uncrown themselves, can we extend the same courtesy to shadowy mask-wearers in our society? Face off, folks! Let’s start with the nameless faceless peeps who posted innocent protestors’ details on a social media website recently in the aftermath of a candlelit vigil that never quite was. And if the rapists and killers who went on a spree in a southern hamlet some years ago are asked to identify themselves, maybe we won’t need so many long arm of the law types in mufti?
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