Yesterday, I made the brilliant decision of taking Goblin with me to pick up my laundry. She needed to walk, I needed to walk . . . it was a match made in heaven. Or someplace that starts with an "h." Cut to me attempting to walk down the street wrangling with a twenty-pound bag of clothes and an excitable Boston terrier.

As we waited to cross Columbus Avenue, an old man wandered over and began petting Goblin without my permission. Rule number one is not to pet my dog without my permission. (Rule number two is not to ask my dog why she is not wearing a coat while giving me a significant look.) The old man encouraged Goblin to jump up and put his paws on his leg, further upsetting my precarious hold on the laundry bag. Luckily, she had earlier peed on her own feet; watching her smear it on his pants made me feel a little better.

"Do you know her breeding?" the man asked me.

"Yes," I said. "She’s a Boston terrier."

"Not her breed, her breeding! Do you know her pedigree?" He looked like an evil version of the grandfather from Jurassic Park. I hated him.

"She's registered," I replied. "It has been a few years since I looked at the papers, but I think I remember."

He gave me an expectant look that went on for too long, and I realized that he was waiting for me to tell him who my dog's ancestors were.

"We're from Maryland. You wouldn't know them."

At this, he puffed himself up and said that he was a breeder of Boston terriers and knew of lines from all over the country. "I'm also a veterinarian," he volunteered confidentially, as if someone were Out to Get Him.

I sighed and named Goblin's parents: Smile-and-Be-Happy Annie and Krakmont's Mighty Mischief. It was funny naming other people, since she calls me Daddy. Also, I have to mention that the light had changed two times during this exchange, and I was on the verge of spilling my clean clothes all over the filthy wet street. Goblin, traitorous creature, was licking the man's pant cuffs.

He had not heard of Smile-and-Be-Happy Annie or Krakmont's Mighty Mischief. That was made clear by the slight wrinkle in his nose. He then asked me for the name of Goblin's breeder, which he also did not recognize. He did not recognize these names in a way that made it clear that they were not worth recognizing. I turned away and waited for a break in traffic so I could cross the street and be done with him.

"How old is she?" he persisted.

I sighed. "Almost three." And because it is my habit whenever people (thinking she is a puppy) ask me Goblin’s age, I added, "I know she's small for her breed."

"My bitch is smaller than she is," he said, phrasing that made me throw caution to the wind and dart across the street in advance of an approaching bus.

This is what I get for talking to strangers.