Wossamotta?

Eenie meenie chili beanie, the spirits are about to speak.

I'm not even at the end of my driveway and there she is, that lady with the big dogs. They're going wild, barking and lunging forward, and she's yelling at me. "Hi!" she calls from across the street.  "Does your dog wanna play with my dogs?" And now Sir Blakey is going wild, barking and lunging forward. "Uh, no," I say.  Sir Blakey gives me a look. What's wrong with me? Of course he wants to play. He's a dog. He doesn't care if things get out of hand. "Why not?" the lady calls. There's so much barking and growling, I can barely hear her.  I can't think of a good answer, other than, "Go away," so I say nothing. Maybe she'll get the message. She doesn't. "Wossamotta?" she asks. "Why doesn't your dog wanna play with my dogs?" "It's, just..." my voice trails off.  Hers revs up again. "You know, they played with your neighbor's dog the other day and they all had a good time." What is the etiquette here? Do I tell her, nicely, she's a pain in the butt, stop guilting me, stop asking me the same thing every time I see her? Do I tell her I'm not letting her dogs anywhere near my Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage, a beast that strongly believes the entire neighborhood belongs to him, and only him? I don't. I try this, instead, courtesy of my brother John. "He's bad with other dogs." With that, I hurry down the street, tugging on Sir Blakey's leash, hoping that settles it, and she'll never bother us again. But I know she will.  I know there's another "Wossamotta?" in my near future.