Our Breed?

I joined my parents and my dog yesterday for their bi-monthly trek to the neighborhood K-Mart to restock on wee-wee pads.  The wee-wee pads are for my black-and-tan dachshund who is weather-sensitive because of her small dimensions, and belly proximity to the cold and unforgiving concrete.  She, Billie, often likes to do her business indoors during inclement weather, which are all months, save for September, October, April, and May, or at the very least have the option of wee-wee-ing in the comforting confines of her home. 

I'm sure you'll want to know where I'm going with this, and I'm about to tell you.  K-Mart like other similarly-run outfits with excessive amounts of florescent, and rows of  "bargain" products that never seem to be under-stocked, have a dog policy very unlike the one at Bergdorf Goodman.  Here, at the Mart, dogs are allowed; if they're carried.  While Billie is no great dane, she is no feather either.  And, so, in the interest of saving all our backs, I stayed with her at the front of the store, right beyond the security sensors, while my parents foraged for spreadable diapers.  It was a picture perfect moment, as often happens with dogs; Billie was looking very cute propped up on a ledge, head out of her Sherpa bag, surveying the scene.  All things come to an end however.  The security sensors were working overtime, and apparently gave every other paying customer an audible accusatory "ding" when they passed through.  "The back-up" which manifested itself as an on-duty security guard, and there were a few rotating in the space of fifteen minutes (Why is there so much security at the Mart?) stopped each customer, procured their receipt, and nodded approvingly when a product matched the number on a receipt.  The "ding" was shrill, and I thought it would tear into Billie's sensitive canine ear canal, so I pressed her long luxurious ear flaps down, to close out the terrible noise.  A disgruntled customer, who for some reason was not stopped by the gestapo sensor, was even more disgruntled when he discovered the Billie ear flap scenario.  "Don't you know your own breed?" he exclaimed.  "...Yours, is a dog bred to deal with gun-shot noises," he continued.  And, while I tried to add, rather unsuccessfully, that she is a domesticated animal, and no longer hunting for badgers in the rolling hills of the German countryside, he shook his head abruptly, and said again rather powerfully, "Don't you know your breed?"  

I acknowledge that he was a nut, but I also acknowledge that his message was not entirely to be overlooked.  I clearly do not know my breed.  Or, cannot come to terms with knowing my breed.  My breed is one to look out and help one another, at least sometimes...Right?  This has not been the case for me in the last two years.  In fact, my breed has shown themselves to be mostly lazy, disaffected, disengaged, and unresponsive.  My breed, my brethren, are my fellow New Yorkers, my hometown players, my neighbors, my family.  They're my mates.  We are of the same stock, a commonality.  So why can't we be of more service to each other?  We all exist on the same water, over-priced living, and congested apartments, streets, and subways.  We survived the tragedy of 9/11 as a collective, and yet now, a lot of us are suffering at not only the hands of a bad economy, but at the hands of our compatriots.  I need people to be responsive to me, I need my fellow New Yorkers to acknowledge that I am living, that I am here, that I am mortal like them, that I am of their breed.