I was at the vet’s office with Sandy, who I was pretty sure had an ear infection. She’d been scratching at her left ear and after about the third scratch, she’s start to groan. Not that, “Oh man, this feels good” groan, but a “Boy, this really hurts but I can’t stop” cry, a mix that’s about 20 percent pleasure and 80 percent pain.

My son Bryson and I arrived about 10 minutes before the appointment, taking a bench section near the back of the office. Small partitions blocked off sections, allowing you to sit with your ill pet in semi-privacy, so dogs didn’t start barking at cats or at each other. Not a bad arrangement.

Every now and then Sandy would peek around the corner of our partition. She’s a small Australian Kelpie, a breed I had no idea existed until the guy at the Humane Society said, “She’s an Australian Kelpie.” All Bryson and I knew at the time was that she was a very timid 28-pound dog with dark brown fun, a wide black stripe running down her spine.

When we had entered, I noticed a man at the counter filling out a form. He’d apparently just asked a question because one of the clerks said, “Let me show you.” I signed Sandy in as she reached under the counter and retrieved a small ceramic jar, with the word “Cremains” below a brass plaque.

“You’ll get one of these in a couple weeks,” the clerk said. “And you engrave the plaque.”

“And how much is that?” the man asked. I walked away before she answered.

The vet was running late. We were about 15 minutes past our appointment time when Sandy yipped and strained at the leash. A large dog of indeterminate breed approached, a woman of indeterminate breeding at the other end of his leash. The dog leaned down and gave Sandy a lick with a large pink tongue, his tail wagging excitedly.

“Look at that, he’s always so friendly,” the woman said. “Some people are put off by his size but he’d never hurt a fly.”

That was plain to see. The dog looked at Bryson and me, his tail going into double time. There was a sparkle in his eye and I am sure if I had a ball in my hand, he’d sit patiently at my feet waiting for me to throw it. If he were human, I’d want to go have a beer with him.

“I got another one like him at home,” the woman said. “Blue Labrador. Not many people heard a blue labs, but they’re real good dogs.”

“What’s his name?” I asked. I would regret it later.

“Royce,” she said. At the sound of his name, the dog looked up and lifted his front legs a few inches off the floor, wanting to jump on his master but knowing while this was an expression of love, it was always greeted with, “Down!” one of the bad words. So he hopped, and hopped again.

I came over and kneeled in front of him, cupping my right hand and scratching his neck. His tongue darted out and licked my forearm.

“So what’s he in for?” I said. “Something wrong? Or just a checkup?”

“Well, uh, we’re doing a little down time, if you know what I mean.”

I look at Bryson, hoping he didn’t know what she meant. But he’s not stupid.

“How old is he?” I said, thinking maybe I was missing something here.

“He’s 6, around there. Seven. No, 6.”

“Just 6?”

“Well, yeah, but he’s been real sick. We just can’t keep up with it anymore.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Allergies. And look at this.” She grabbed the dog’s tail and lifts, yanking it but the dog only looked back in curiosity. “See that? How it’s all swollen?” She dropped the dog’s tail.

His anus was red and swollen, but it didn’t seem to bother him.

I returned to my seat and tried not to look at Royce, whose name I wish I didn’t know.

“And it’s a little bit more,” she continued, knowing the whole “something not right about this” was plainly apparent. “We’re moving soon and we just don’t have the room anymore. So we had to make a decision about them.”

“Them?”

“Yeah, that’s my husband over there with the Weimariner. I remember when we got him several years ago that no one ever heard of them, now they’re real popular. We got another one at home. And another blue Lab too.”

“How old is the Weimariner?” I didn’t ask his name.

“He’s about maybe 12 or so. Doesn’t get along very good, not like he used to.”

I wondered, where is the line here? What can I say that will get her to change her mind but won’t be so incredibly rude as to have her stalk away thinking I am being the unreasonable one?

This is what I wanted to say: “It’s too bad people don’t have to meet minimum qualifications to own a pet, like being at least 10 percent human with shades of compassion mixed with a vague feelings of responsibility. Because if we did that, you’d be forbidden to care for any living thing beyond a fern, and even then you’d only get supervised visits.”

This is what I said: “You know you can take him to the shelter” – I am careful not to say “pound” – “and they’ll take him off your hands.”

“I know, but then he’s only got 30 days and you’re just putting it off.”

“But he has 30 days for someone to take him home. He’ll have a chance.”

“I did that once. Took a dog down there and two years later I get a phone call cause I guess the people never changed his license or something, and they tell me he died in a car accident. That just ripped out my heart. No, I’m not going to go through that again.”

I had nothing to say in the face of such ignorance. Logic was not something she was going to grasp. I looked down and muttered, “Hmm, well,” in that “We’re pretty much done here” way.

But she wasn’t done.

“You want him?”

Now her conscious was clean. It wasn’t her fault after all. She made an attempt to give the dog away. It didn’t work. This was the only alternative.

She had just granted herself absolution in her Holy Church of Only I Really Matter.

“I’ve already got two dogs,” I said, as if I were already doing my share but taking on a little bit of her guilt, though she didn’t deserve it.

“Yeah, well, guess we’ll get back and wait.”

A few minutes later they were called in. Bryson and I didn’t watch them walk past. He leaned over and gave Sandy a hug. I didn’t take my eyes off the two of them.