You're just walking your dog through your neighborhood minding your own business, whistling "Sweet Home Alabama" and cracking poop jokes to your boxer-labrador mix while he looks for a good tree to mark, and you happen to look up and see the billowy purple silhouette of someone with plastic gloves as they pamper their shitzu towards you on the same side of the street.

As you glance around for an excuse to cross the street, you mutter breath, "Shit. It's California."