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DOG CREDIT
I believe that there are two types of people in the world: those who are bothered by telemarketers, and those who don't have telephones. I'm a member of the former group, though I've been especially clever and have had my phone "unlisted," which is about as effective at preventing sales calls as writing out a statement saying "I do not wish to have unsolicited phone calls," putting the statement in an envelope, and throwing the envelope in the trash.
I must also have signed up for a special service that notifies telemarketing companies when I am just sitting down to eat. When the phone rings on this particular evening, I am just getting ready to have a dinner of my specialty, a recipe I call "Some Kind of Chicken." I set my fork down with a sigh and answer, resolved that if it is a sales call, I'm going to hang up.
"I've got very good news for you," a woman greets me.
My pulse quickens; I've been expecting a call like this from the Nobel-Prize committee for some time. "Really?"
"You've been pre-approved for a $5000-credit-limit American Dog Club credit card," she informs me happily.
"Ah. Well, that is good news, but no thanks."
"Couldn't you use an extra $5000?" she wants to know, sounding hurt.
"Well sure, but the problem is, you credit-card people always seem to want your money back," I explain.
"But this is a very, very special credit card," she reports. "It has a picture of a dog on it."
"A dog."
"Yes!" she exults.
"What kind of dog?" I am unable to prevent myself from asking.
"That's what's so special. We have every kind of dog you can imagine!"
"Really? So, you have a Husky-Dachshund mix?"
"Um, let me check. Is that the kind that sits on the fire truck?" she wants to know.
"I don't think so."
"We've got the kind with a bird in its mouth," she advises helpfully.
"What kind of bird?" I parry.
"What kind would you like?"
I can see where this is heading, and try to fend her off. "If it were my dog, he would have one of my shoes in his mouth," I tell her.
"A shoe," she muses, searching her database.
"I'm actually not interested. I was just being extremely witty."
The silence on the other end suggests she doesn't agree.
"Look--" I start to say.
"Got it!" she interrupts triumphantly. "A Husky-Dachshund mix with a shoe in its mouth."
"Oh, come on."
"Well to tell you the truth, all the dogs look pretty much alike," she admits candidly.
"I don't even like dogs," I lie. I glance guiltily at my own canine, but he isn't paying attention; he is too busy staring at my dinner, waiting to see if the plate is going to fall off onto the floor.
"That's okay, you'll hardly notice the thing," she asserts. "I just need to get some information for your application."
"Application? I thought I was pre-approved!" I protest.
"Well yes, you are, but I just need a couple of things."
"Fine," I say irritably.
"Your name?" she asks officially.
"What? I'm pre-approved for a dog card and you don't even know who I am?" I give my dog a can-you-believe-this? look, but he seems much more amazed that a perfectly good dinner is going uneaten. He has one paw tentatively placed on my chair, as if getting ready to somehow evolve into a species that sits at the table and eats my chicken. I frown at him.
"It's not that I don't know who you are, I just need your name for the application," she explains reasonably.
There's a burst of motion. "Hey!" I shout at my canine, who is fleeing the table, Some Kind of Chicken clenched in his jaws. I give chase, shouting words I normally don't like my dog to hear. He manages to chew while he runs.
When I finally pick up the phone again, the telemarketer has hung up. I decide it doesn't matter--why do I need a picture of a dog with a bird in its mouth when I already have the real thing at home?
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