Saturday, December 13, 2008

My letter to PJs Pet Store shoppers/browsers (inspired by my wonderful Manager, SB)

Dear PJs Pet Store Shoppers/ Browsers,

My name is Sarah Bertrand, and I am a kennel worker at the Scarborough Town Centre PJs Pet Store location.

Since it is Christmas time, in the spirit of giving, I will no longer repress the three years of constant abuse and subjection to complete and utter stupidity I have endured; here is a piece of my mind.

To the woman with the attitude who sauntered through the dog department in brisk fall weather, sporting a beautiful cloak of death draped over her tacky, oblivious shoulders; really? A full length fur coat, in a pet store? Really? Although you did look utterly glamorous, and as though you had an obscene amount of class and money, traipsing through Scarborough Town Centre during a week day afternoon, when you should most undoubtedly be either at work or at home taking care of the plethora of children you've forsakenly spawned.

You made sure you stopped infront of every single kennel to appraise all of the "merchandise" we had, and I can assure you Miss; not only were the dogs all judging you as harshly as all the staff in the store, but in addition make no mistake: all those titters and jeers were definately directed at you, the woman with the carcass keeping her warm, who we affectionately had labelled Cruella Deville.

To the woman who gawked at me like I was a fantastic feces cleaning phenomenon? You were crouched down with your son, watching me in the bottom kennel for the entire duration I was cleaning and disinfecting, doing the job that I choose to have for the time being so I can pay my rent; I can read lips. Even though it looked like I was having an impressive and paramount day already, you know, with the obvious vomit that had already encrusted my scrub shirt, I appreciated seeing you mouth to your overweight underachieving son, "See what happens when you don't get an education?", as a warning, and then point at me. At first I was upset, trying to blink back tears because on top of everything else that I had been dealing with, I was being unabashedly insulted at my place of work. Then I actually smiled to myself, when the prudent hilarity of the situation swept over me like the overwhelming stench of the rash inducing "perfume" you were wearing: you are not better than me. If anything, the frumpy, gaudy shoulder padded mess of an ensemble you were wearing gave me hope, that whatever warning you gave your son about what path not to follow in life, he would rebel against you and your obnoxious ignorance. Just so you know, I have three jobs, as well as a college degree.

To the countless people who think it's hilarious to come in and look through the kennel window we're in there cleaning, minding our own business; it will never be funny to ask, "How much for you?" and then start killing yourself laughing. We don't smile because we hear it at least ten times a day. The answer will always be the same: Too much for you too afford. Just like our overpriced animals.

To the legions of saints who come in almost daily and tell us how sorry you feel for the animals, and what horrible people we are and that we should be ashamed of ourselves: you're right. I get paid so much money, that I don't care what I'm asked to do. I have no self respect, no conscience, and for minimum wage I would gladly come in a few times a week from downtown Toronto, just so I can abuse animals. You are incredibly accurate in assuming you have the right to come in and degrade complete strangers in an obviously uninformed manner, and you should all pat yourselves on the back. Calm down; you're not a hero, and your annoying grievances don't make a shred of a difference.

To the amusing teenagers who constantly attempt to make their deadbeat friends giggle, and ruffle some feathers at the store: no, we do not kill the animals if we can't sell them right away. We always sell them. If they happen to not go immediately, we transfer them to a store where they will get a home immediately. It's not funny, nor will it ever be, because that "joke" has been done too many times before for anyone to care that you're trying to be witty.

To the man and his sister/impregnated girlfriend who came into the store and attempted to buy our sweet, beautiful rottweiler; thank you. Although we do not believe you, no matter how many times you tell the story about how you had a "half" rottweiler, "half" pitbull, and "half" timberwolf... your story still manages to put a smile on all of our faces, and a gaggle of laughter in our hearts. You were absolutely insane, and no dog has ever reached 450 pounds, so even if you say it in a voice with authority, and make awkward excited eye contact in the process, it still doesn't make it true. You weren't not approved for the puppy because of your credit; it was because you are certifiably insane, and we were worried you would try and ride her home, out of the store, to freedom, if we let you purchase her.

Lastly, but certainly not least, to all the people who stick their fingers in the kitten cage, and act aggressively towards us when we tell you not to. We don't care if you have "gentle" fingers. We don't care that you're going through the trouble of tangling us in your web of lies that you just washed your hands, or funnier still, that you're "not" (if we call you on it, chances are you've been caught, and it's just embarassing for you to deny it). We don't care if you think you're "qualified" to touch them because you have 13 cats waiting for you at home; first of all, that's illegal, and secondly, it doesn't even make sense. We especially don't care if you try and tell us that "you didn't touch the kittens, they were touching you." Are you a five year old fighting with your sibling in the back of your parents car on the way to Disney World? You are all responsible for me contemplating actually exposing myself to rabies, just so I can run out and bite your dishonest, moronic fingers, like I pray to God the kittens will do every time I see you trying to unscrupulously sneak in a grab or poke as you pass them. There is a special place in hell for you all.

Three years working at PJs with the lowest grade of human beings that exist has taken it's toll, but now I can breathe. I hope every single one of your Christmases this year is ruined, like you consistantly ruin my day. Think of me as you pass PJs Pet Stores everywhere, especially at Scarborough Town Centre. I'll be the glaring girl in the window, with tattoos and stretched ears, judging you silently, and mentally making notes for my next scriptual middle finger.


Sarah Bertrand

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