Thank You For Shopping

So I’ve committed to adopting a rescue dog I spotted on the Internet – a six-month-old, seven pound Chihuahua/Terrier mix (temporarily) named Bubbles, and I’m looking at the shopping list I’ve made – crate, bowls, lead, bed — things I’m certain we’re going to need.  I have another list of questions to ask friends with dogs – what are people feeding their canines these days, what sort of carrier do they use – and it occurs to me that I’m behaving like the expectant parent I never was.

I’m not filling some sad and secret need for a child by adopting a dog, and a rescue mutt is, of course, very different from a child; for one thing, I don’t need to start saving for college.  But there must be some parallels in this anticipation, this preoccupation, though maybe this is something closer to the experience of a foreign adoption in which prospective parents make a selection based solely on photos and an agency report and a leap of faith.  After all, despite whatever parameters you might set or imagine, doesn’t a decision like this often come down to a “gut” feeling, an intelligence or intuition that exists not in your head but somewhere in your core?

That’s what I’ve been feeling about this dog – a sense in my gut that this little guy, currently being fostered by a woman in Tennessee, is the dog that’s meant for me.  I feel more certain about this each day since making the call, despite the fact that there are dozens or hundreds of animals languishing in shelters much closer to home.

I made this decision a few days ago and my life feels richer already, though I’ll also admit to feeling a bit, well, distracted.  I wonder what Bubbles is doing right now, for example; is he napping?  Barking?  Chewing someone’s slippers?   I haven’t met this dog yet, but, wondering how long a life we’re likely to share, I waste some time doing Internet searches on the lifespan for a Chihauhau (10-18 years), a Jack Russel (13-16 years) and a Fox Terrier (13-15).   I use my fourth grade math skills to calculate the averages, and determine that my rescue mutt – an alleged combination of these three breeds – is likely to have a lifespan of between twelve and sixteen years.  For laughs, I then check the life expectancy of an American male born in 1963 (me) and am momentarily chilled by the result: it’s 66.6 years, or little more than sixteen years from now.  Statistically speaking, it would appear this dog and I were made for each other.

So I begin purchasing things for my life with a dog, pulling the trigger on that $67 lined and zippered Sherpa carrier I’ve been eyeing at Amazon.com, clicking the link to place it in my virtual basket (score – free shipping!).  While I’m here, I search “pee pee pads” but decide to hold off on this since Bubbles is reportedly doing well with his housebreaking.  When I search “poop bags” I’m confronted a page displaying the first twenty-four of 979 results.

Really?

You wouldn’t think this would be a complicated decision; for my twice daily walks with Bubbles I’ll certainly need a supply of these things dog owners carry in their pockets or in those bone-shaped dispensers attached on their leashes or key rings.  But the bags displayed for sale here are “earth friendly”, “antibacterial”, “biodegradable” and “lavender scented”; they are black and yellow and blue and pink and green; they have stripes and polka dots; they’re available in “starter” sets or in bulk rolls of seven hundred.  For a moment I think, “who on earth needs seven hundred poop bags?” then I realize, dividing by 365 days, that this box is not even a year’s supply.

I scroll down to the customer reviews thinking, “Who reviews poop bags?”  But nearly two hundred dog owners – or dog walkers – have made their voices heard with regard to the thousand-count poop bags with free EZ dispenser with its patented “pull and cut” feature:  “I’ve been through numerous kinds of poop bags,” writes Chase, “but these are thicker and more durable than most.”

Thick and durable, I think, are probably good features to have in a poop bag.

Reviewer “Chairman Tao” goes into greater – and for me, unnecessary detail about previous unhappy experiences with cheaper, thinner, smaller, “bargain bags,” explaining that his 30 lb dog “produces a cup or two of poop” and that the bags are large enough to accommodate this volume with enough headspace for tie-off.   The third review from a satisfied customer with “two large Dobermans who go out twice daily” convinced me.  For $16.99 I’m sold, and click to add the thousand count bags and dispenser to my cart.  Amazon instantly works the upsell angles, offering a “Gift Wrap” option and alerting me that “Customers who bought items in your cart also bought Petkin Tushie Wipes (pack of 4, 100-ct) for $28.57.

Who are those people? 

The first satisfied Tushie Wipe reviewer describes an “obese cat who has trouble cleaning her fur”, and another says the wipes are “a godsend” for his dog with “stomach problems.”  I was already thinking this was TMI before my eyes even landed on the word “dingle-berries,” but I became less incredulous when a reviewer in New York City said she used the wipes on her dog’s feet before they came in the house and on his “messy face.”

I refresh the screen and move on, though it turns out that Customers who looked at Petkin Tushie Wipes also looked at Flexi-Leash, at Nylabone Flexi Chew Bone (in Regular and Chicken Flavors) and at Folding, Collapsible Travel Food & Water Bowls.  They looked at bacon-flavored dog treats and cozy fleece beds.  They looked at exercise pens.  Dog toothbrushes.  Collars and coats and booties.

I add a rope chew toy to my cart, then a mini plush gorilla, some organic dog food and mini dog treats and as the total in my cart climbs toward $200, I realize I have spiraled down the rabbit hole of Internet shopping.  Luckily, since this is a virtual cart and no one is standing in line behind me, I decide to “park” the cart until later when I can edit its contents with Richard sitting beside me.  But not before adding a small, single door pet crate – which prompts Amazon to make another curious pitch:  “Add a bestselling DVD to your order” is displayed above “The Little Mermaid” and “The Die-Hard Collection, discs 1-5”

I wonder:  what algorithm decided these are the titles  most likely to appeal to shoppers of poop bags and dog toys?