Can I Touch Your Baby? No, Not Her. The Cute One.

I am in possession of an unreasoning prejudice. Actually, I don't know of many prejudices that are, in fact, based on reason, come to think of it, but all the same here it is: I think parents who ask permission for their children to touch my dogs and who then insist that it "not be the black one" are pox ridden sociopaths who will poison my family if they follow me home. 

It's not that I don't have a deep understanding of the fear a big black dog can generate, on a societal level. On the contrary, I know that sometimes the appearance of any dark beast may cause the ape inside us to scream and wave it's broken branch from the treetops as warning to the tribe at the waterhole to grab the younglings and make for the hills. It is this instinct that has kept us alive long enough, as a species, to invent calculator watches and Manolo Blahniks and the ISS. But, and I cannot stress this enough, none of those creatures is currently asleep on their back in my living room, with their privates fashionably on display.

I used to feel pity for these poor souls who feared and avoided my beautiful Jesse because of her black fur. Obviously something tragic must have happened to them, for them to refuse the heaven that is scratching Jesse's ample rump while it is pressed lovingly against your shin. Used to, that is, until with increasing frequency, that fear is taught to their little ones who take one look at Jesse's beautiful face and scream until their mothers scoop them up, glower at me and stomp away muttering "don't worry, the mean, black dog won't hurt you."

I am just going to start refusing to allow children to touch Meeker, who couldn't care less in any case, until they pat Jesse first. 

Either that or I get to scream in their child's face until someone takes the bad, pink toddler away.

Give me all your pats and no one gets hurt.