Oh, yes, it happened again. And this time I had to write about it. We've all read about it, it's probably happened to all of us, or if you are one of the few to whom it hasn't, be assured it will. Sometimes it's amusing, sometimes it's annoying and often it's repetitive. We hear it from old folks, children, street people, bankers, teenagers, cross-dressers, clerics and matriarchs. After the twentieth time, we formulate a stock answer, varied only as extraordinary circumstances warrant.

Therefore, Dear Reader, here is my most recent (and close to otherworldly) experience. I'd love for you to share yours with me.

Sure as Death and Taxes
Or
"Are those Whipples?"

Foster BeBe is still with us, so taking all five dogs for their walk is, for me, a frustrating exercise in logistics, manual dexterity, concentration and patience, none of which I have in abundance. But, it was close to 6am, the sun was just coming up, I could hear the birds of spring and the day looked beautifully promising. I had leashed everyone, meanderers in the right hand, pullers, sniffers and pee-ers in the left and we headed out to the mailbox, a mere five blocks away. Not quite crossing the Alps, I thought. Nevertheless, this walk would require a certain amount of vigilance on my part as we had three busy streets to cross and it was imperative I ensure the sanctity of other people's property. Plus there were five of them and one of me and even one determined doggie would be a hassle.

At the mailbox, Tessie decided to investigate a banana peel in the gutter and went under the box for closer inspection. BeBe, not one to miss out on anything of interest to anyone, proceeded around the left side of the box. Kelvin thought the grass looked greener up the street and pulled to get there, while Dash stood docilely behind me, eyeing me beseechingly with his "Can we go home now?" expression. However, I, in less than a minute, had become totally trussed to the mailbox. Further, my hands were still holding five leashes and three #10 envelopes and there was no way I could reach the little handle to open the door and deposit the mail. As there was nothing else I could do, I muttered "S**t, upon which Suzi immediately sat. So here I was on a lovely Tuesday morning at the corner of a busy street in Ocean City, New Jersey intimately embracing a blue metal mailbox, surrounded by five hounds of various colors and intentions, unable to move.

A nice-looking, perhaps fortyish man came walking up from the opposite direction. He was well dressed, wearing a suit and cross trainers and carried a briefcase and lunch tote. Smiling, he stopped and asked, "Are those Whipples?"

I had an immediate mental picture of a man in glasses squeezing toilet paper.

"Uh, no, they're greyhounds."

"Of course," he replied, patting the still-sitting Suzi, " the large ones that run, right? I've heard about the things that happen to them at the trek. Did all of these come from the trek?"

Trek? Trek? Another image, this one of several hundred greyhounds lugging tipis and dragging lodge poles along the Trail of Tears.

"Yes, they are all ex-racers." I had not been able to move anything but my mouth and eyes up to this point and was trying to concentrate on the several body parts I'd feared had fallen off and blown away.

"You don't often see them out and about without masks. These must be extraordinarily trustworthy dogs." Second story hounds? Cat burglars? An asbestos removal team? The Freddie Kruegers of the canine persuasion? Masks? What? What? "This is the first opportunity I've ever had," he continued, "to see their entire heads, their faces and eyes and lack of dewflaps. I guess they don't drool, do they?"

Dewflaps? Under other circumstances, this might be funny. "Drool? Not as a rule." I couldn't believe I said that. This whole scene was getting stranger. I will usually wax quite lyrical about the virtues of greyhounds as pets giving my own extra air time. But here I was, reticent and monosyllabic, wanting to end the conversation, free myself and go home.

"I believe they've been around quite a long time," he continued, "some longer than others." Was he talking about the different ages of my group, their relative body length or of greyhounds in general? What did "some longer than others" mean? He went on, "The midget Italian ones are fairly recent, I believe. Amazing how they can be bred to what people want in a pet, don't you think?"

"Mmmm.", was my pithy and eminently quotable reply. No way was I going there.

"Ah," the gentleman said, " let me give you a hand." Oh yes, please do. Silly me. I thought he was aware I was suffering a measure of distress and figured he'd help unwind the puppers. But no. He plucked the letters from my white-knuckled fingers, opened the mail chute door and deposited my mail with a flourish. The door squeaked, as I think the doors of all mailboxes everywhere do, catching BeBe's attention. The shortest route to the "mouse" as well as the only one her leash would allow was under the mailbox, which brought BeBe's head out between my knees while her middle stayed under the box and her rear remained in the street. The movement caught Kelvin's eye and he returned to stand with his head resting on BeBe's neck. Dasher had moved in closer to the man and was leaning, leaving short white hairs on his dark trousers. And finding no fruit left on the banana peel, Tess had diverted her attention to the dangling lunch tote. BeBe was blocking her initial route, so Tess had no choice but to come back around the right side of the mailbox. I was sure I looked like a federal offence just waiting to be caught.

"Oh, that's cute. They are very interesting, these greyhounds of yours. But Miss, I think you are mistaken. This little one," indicating Suzi, whose sit was degenerating downward, "must surely be a Whipple. Enjoy your day." And off up the street he went.

As sure in life as death and taxes, greyhounds will be misidentified. My dogs have been called many things: red brindled Kelvin is most often a tiger or a giraffe. Dasher, who is white and brown brindled parti, has been called a skinny cow and a small pony. Tess has been identified as a striped weimeraner with an undocked tail and Suzi, with her narrow, one-toothed jaw and uncharacteristic feathers, has been mistaken for a fox more than once. Several people have remarked that BeBe resembles an antelope. But a Whipple? Never before a Whipple.

It took a heck of a lot longer to untangle the Chinese Puzzle of dog leashes while maintaining peace among the pups and a modicum of decorum for myself than it should have. Once done, I stood there shaking the circulation back into my fingers and reviewing the recent conversation. Had it really happened? Was I perhaps somnambulating? No, I was awake, outdoors, dressed properly and holding five dog's leashes with dogs attached. I wanted to believe that this man had been having me on, attempting humor with his breed, locale and anatomical misnomers. Yeah, that was it. Hopefully, that was it. Maybe that was it.

Regardless, it was time to head home with my non-midget, off-the-trek, clean-dewflapped whipples for a much-needed, steaming hot cup of Jabba.