Peeping through the blinds like Mrs. Kravitz from Bewitched, I spotted my neighbor pushing a baby stroller up her driveway. She was an older lady, well past childbearing age and a little too eccentric for grandbaby sitting. My mind, as my husband likes to say, started to wander off the reservation.

What if this was some sort of Abraham/Sarah kind of Bible situation where the Good Lord gifted them with a baby when they were well into their nineties?

If my old lady neighbor was indeed with child, an actual child, imagine what a news story that would be! And as I was her neighbor, what harm would there be in alerting the National Enquirer? Folks make a lot of money off juicy stories like this. But, based on their past headlines, this story might not even be a big deal to them. I mean, there was no celebrity or royalty involved, no alien sighting, or no ape-boy who ate New York.

Maybe I could get some interest from a TV show like Jerry Springer. Oops, he passed a few years ago. I’d have to summon him from the grave, but the last time someone did that was with the prophet Samuel, and he was none too happy about it.

I got out my binoculars (conveniently kept on the windowsill) and noticed that her passenger was…her dog.

I closed the blinds, shook my head, and chuckled. Crazy old lady!

Fifteen years later, I live in a new neighborhood and am often greeted by neighbors as “that woman who walks her dog in a stroller.”

Yep. I am officially the crazy old lady, too old for kids, but I do push a yappy Maltese in the hot sun.

In my defense, many years ago I got my first pet stroller for my Mama’s cat, Missa Sadie. Mama had just a touch of dementia by then and worried constantly about her. I had been trying to get Mama out of the house for fresh air and exercise, and she insisted on taking the cat on walks. She reasoned that while she pushed her walker, Missa Sadie would ride on the seat.

Oh, what could go wrong? I tried to talk Mama out of it, but she insisted. Missa Sadie indulged us for about 10 steps before she jumped off and hid under a hydrangea bush. As I crawled on my belly in the dirt like an Army Ranger to rescue her, I looked behind me and saw Miss Sadie calmly sauntering towards the back door.

She violently refused to get back on the walker seat. Violently. Ask me how I know.

Mama persisted in her belief that Missa Sadie was lonely and needed to join us on our walks.

I remembered my crazy old lady neighbor with her dog. Maybe getting a pet stroller would solve our dilemma.

Come get Mah Mo-Nah again, Amazon.

Missa Sadie’s new stroller had a zip-in mesh hood so she couldn’t escape. However, she could howl. Loudly. And often.

And she could rock that stroller back and forth like a feral wildcat. Plastic mesh ain’t got nothing on cat claws. Mesh 0, Missa Sadie 1.

We used that stroller exactly once, and only made it to the end of Mama’s driveway.

A few months ago, Lola Pie was having ‘knee’ problems, which are common for her breed. A stroller seemed like a solution, but the old one was getting a little ragged.

Amazon, it is me again. No, I am not a stalker. So rude.

Queen Lola-Pie’s new stroller is way fancier, more befitting her status (and without jagged holes in the mesh). Lola took to it right away, and once she was seated on the satin pillows, she inspected the interior to ensure the ice packs were in place at the front and along the sides, close to her body but not touching. The Queen must be kept cool without getting her fur wet. She has standards, especially when appearing in public.

Lola watched from her stroller throne, scanning the horizon for danger. She looked for people, but mostly to see if there was a leash with a dog at the end.

Squirrels, meh. Rabbits, meh.

Dogs… kill, kill, kill. KILL.

Lola, Queen of Mean. The Maltese Beast.

Although Lola has glaucoma and her vision isn’t the greatest, her sniffer is doing just fine. One teensy whiff of another dog, and hysterical barking ensues.

It’s embarrassing. I tried lowering the shade on her stroller. Nope. I carried a small blanket to throw over the stroller when a dog was nearby. Nope. She could still smell them.

I resorted to making a U-turn as quickly as I could whenever I saw anyone walking their dog toward us.

That worked, except one of the neighbors got a little miffed. One woman was walking a beautiful Doodle-something that was as tall as a Great Dane and as friendly as a… Doodle-something. (Doodles, no matter the ‘mixed-withs’, are ridiculously friendly.) I waved hello politely while doing my standard U-turn.

The next day, I was at my mailbox, tearing up political ads. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Neighbor Lady and Big Friendly Fluffball almost sprinting towards me.

“Hey! I saw you turn around yesterday! My dog is not aggressive at all; he is super friendly, and you did NOT need to run from him!”

She leaned over, hugging her dog, and gave me the side-eye.

“My baby would NEVER hurt your dog!”

How do I explain that my teensy, innocent-looking Lola-Pie identifies as a Pit Bull? (And I can’t say she is a Chihuahua as an excuse…If you know, you know.) And my U-turn wasn’t some sort of doggy-diss, but was for Big Friendly Fluffball’s protection?? And my sanity? Sigh.

“Um…I wasn’t running from…you see, Lola is a little bit crazy…”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed.

“As IF!”

As Neighbor Lady and Big Friendly Fluffball walked past me, she raised her hand in a ‘talk to the hand’ gesture, huffing and puffing.

A few weeks later, I saw Neighbor Lady and Big Friendly Fluffball walking toward Lola and me again. Lola was out of her stroller and in the grass, as she had alerted me that her Royal Highness needed to, as Morgan Freeman said in Driving Miss Daisy, ‘make water.

Thankfully, Lola was wearing a harness and a leash that I held on to for dear life, since she also identifies as Secretariat and can bolt away like she has a bee on her butt.

As Big Friendly Fluffball and Neighbor Lady drew closer, Lola started sniffing the air. Where was this intruder? Who was this indolent peasant?

Big Friendly Fluffball, living up to her name, came bounding over, tail wagging and a joyously happy, hopeful expression on her smoochy-woo face.

Lola, living up to ALL of her names and a couple more I cannot say in polite company, spun and lunged. She went for the throat, but Reality, a cruel master, allowed her only to reach some curls dangling from Big Friendly Fluffball’s leg. Lola’s teensy mouth could not open wide enough to inflict any meaningful injury, and she dropped to the ground, defeated but snarling.

I scooped her up and flung her into her stroller, closing the shade. The stroller bumped from side to side violently as she continued her tirade.

My mind, unfortunately, picked that moment to go off the reservation again. All I could think of was the Tasmanian Devil in Bugs Bunny cartoons. I was doubled over with uncontrollable laughter as I held the stroller and Lola upright.

Neighbor Lady looked at me in disgust, shaking her head and pulling Big Friendly Fluffball away from us rednecks.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” I said, trying not to laugh and crossing my legs to keep from also making water. I did my best to look terribly regretful. Remorseful and apologetic.

It didn’t work.

Neighbor Lady did her own U-turn.

Big Friendly Fluffy was not, despite the name, going to be Lola’s BFF. Ever. And somehow, I don’t think I stand a chance at being on her Mama’s BFF list either. Sigh.