LJ Idol Season 5 Week 8 - Leave the God damned Dog Alone, or I Am Not Your Child's Entertainment
o/` "There's something wrong with the world today
I don't know what it is
Something's wrong with our eyes
"We're seeing things in a different way
And God knows it ain't His
It sure ain't no surprise" o/`
----- "Livin' on the Edge" performed by Aerosmith
I had a pulmonary function test today, which necessitated my husband driving me to the appointment. Until we're able to afford the lift for my wheelchair, he will be accompanying me for the foreseeable future; I can't lift it from the back of the pick-up by myself. Even though gas prices have come down substantially, it's still a waste to drive both vehicles into the city so I asked him to set me up for the day in a nearby bookstore. Once he had my computer plugged in and my wireless card working, he left me to my own devices.
With my cup of pumpkin spice latte in one hand and the mouse in the other, I slid my headphones on and prepared to get some serious writing done on my novel project. Moments like these come to me rarely, as I seldom venture into the city. The windows of the cafe offered a great view of the cloudy afternoon skies with the wind ruffling the palms outside. I loved the cozy ambiance of this particular place, full of college students doing homework, men and women in suits conducting business meetings, and middle aged women meeting for a book club or to discuss crafting magazines.
However, I'd barely gotten started --- had typed only a few words, really --- before I heard that annoying screech which never fails to ruin public outings: "Doggie!"
Sighing, I took the headphones off. That utterance always meant that I had to stop whatever I was doing and defend my service dog from grasping hands. I couldn't do that if I couldn't hear the pitter-patter of those unwanted little feet so I couldn't listen to my music or watch the DVDs I'd brought with me. Casting a last longing glance at the frozen frame of James Arness as Matt Dillon riding across the prairie on his handsome buckskin horse, I turned my attention to the unwelcome visitor.
The first act of self defense is to move Freyja closer to the wheelchair. Normally, she lays on her side just a few inches beyond the wheels. When someone allows his or her child to run at her, I give her the command to stand and then reposition her under the table. Some people are smart enough to recognize this as a sign that I don't want my personal space or privacy invaded and will, however belatedly, drag their child away to a safe distance.
Unfortunately, this particular parent wasn't one of them.
The child reached; I made eye contact, said "No" firmly and nudged Freyja further under the table. I couldn't move us both out of the way because there was nowhere I could go in the wheelchair without abandoning my laptop.
The girl screwed up her face and began to bawl. "Daddy, the mean lady won't let me pet her doggy!"
The man who approached me was twice my height and used that to his advantage. He towered over me and demanded, "Why can't my kid pet your dog? It's not gonna hurt anything."
The next act of self defense involves trying to reason with a persistent parent. "Freyja is a working dog," I politely explained, "and if I allow your child to pet her when she's working then she won't pay attention to me. That could be dangerous for both of us."
Freyja does, in fact, know a command called say hello which allows her to greet someone who has asked politely if we're not busy. It lets her know she has been temporarily released from duties and is free to act like a normal dog. We rarely, however, use this command in public. The triggers for my epilepsy and anxiety are similar so she alerts to both. Since I'm more prone to anxiety attacks when out in public, especially if I haven't been into the city in a while, Freyja pays close attention to me.
The girl's father then tried to intimidate me. "I'm going to report you to the manager! They don't allow pets in here."
"Go right ahead," I said, fishing one of my ADA cards out of Freyja's backpack, "and give him this while you're at it."
He took the card away, grumbling, and I expected that to be the end of the encounter. This wasn't the first time I'd taken Freyja in here, and the manager was familiar with us.
The sun had begun to set and the glare blanched out my computer screen. I gave Freyja the command to pull the chair forward until I could reach the cord to the blind and began lowering it. I heard a grandmother excitedly point out to her grandchildren, as though I were an exhibit in the zoo, "Look, the handicapped lady has a working dog to help her. See how the dog helps pull the chair? Let's ask a few questions."
I groaned. People do this all the time. They use me as an educational example for their children. I don't mind answering questions about what the dog does but those don't seem to be the questions people ask. They want to know how I go to the bathroom and if they can take turns pushing the chair or riding in it with me (as though I were some sort of amusement park ride). They gush about how wonderfully blessed I am to have a dog to help me and they talk to me in loud, enunciated words as though I were incapable of understanding them. Sometimes, they ask the dog questions in an adult voice as if she could answer.
No, I didn't need any help. No, I didn't use my wheelchair as a race car. Yes, I pee like everyone else; I just have to use a wheelchair to get to the toilet stall. No, I'm not blind or deaf; my legs just don't work.
Satisfied that she'd done her educational task for the day, the grandmother and her grandchildren left.
I put my headphones back on and wrote a few more sentences before I again heard it: "Doggie! I wanna pet the doggie!"
Same cry, different parent. Off came the headphones again and I ground my teeth.
"Sure, darling, you can go play with the doggie while mommy waits in line."
WHAT?!
Lady, I'm not here to entertain your child. You wouldn't let me paw through your purse because I was bored, would you? Freyja isn't public property. She belongs to me. The least you could have done was asked.
The last ditch defense against these inconsiderate people is to pick Freyja up and put her in my lap. Since she's only a medium sized dog, this is just barely possible. I tucked her up under my arm and told the little girl, "Please leave me alone. The dog isn't yours and I don't want to be bothered." I said it loud enough that her mother could hear and so could several other customers.
"Put the dog down, I said she could play with it."
I'd had enough. I didn't care who heard me. "Leave the God damned dog alone. I am not your child's entertainment."
It wasn't me who ended up being embarrassed even though I'd been the one who shouted.
I don't know what it is
Something's wrong with our eyes
"We're seeing things in a different way
And God knows it ain't His
It sure ain't no surprise" o/`
----- "Livin' on the Edge" performed by Aerosmith
I had a pulmonary function test today, which necessitated my husband driving me to the appointment. Until we're able to afford the lift for my wheelchair, he will be accompanying me for the foreseeable future; I can't lift it from the back of the pick-up by myself. Even though gas prices have come down substantially, it's still a waste to drive both vehicles into the city so I asked him to set me up for the day in a nearby bookstore. Once he had my computer plugged in and my wireless card working, he left me to my own devices.
With my cup of pumpkin spice latte in one hand and the mouse in the other, I slid my headphones on and prepared to get some serious writing done on my novel project. Moments like these come to me rarely, as I seldom venture into the city. The windows of the cafe offered a great view of the cloudy afternoon skies with the wind ruffling the palms outside. I loved the cozy ambiance of this particular place, full of college students doing homework, men and women in suits conducting business meetings, and middle aged women meeting for a book club or to discuss crafting magazines.
However, I'd barely gotten started --- had typed only a few words, really --- before I heard that annoying screech which never fails to ruin public outings: "Doggie!"
Sighing, I took the headphones off. That utterance always meant that I had to stop whatever I was doing and defend my service dog from grasping hands. I couldn't do that if I couldn't hear the pitter-patter of those unwanted little feet so I couldn't listen to my music or watch the DVDs I'd brought with me. Casting a last longing glance at the frozen frame of James Arness as Matt Dillon riding across the prairie on his handsome buckskin horse, I turned my attention to the unwelcome visitor.
The first act of self defense is to move Freyja closer to the wheelchair. Normally, she lays on her side just a few inches beyond the wheels. When someone allows his or her child to run at her, I give her the command to stand and then reposition her under the table. Some people are smart enough to recognize this as a sign that I don't want my personal space or privacy invaded and will, however belatedly, drag their child away to a safe distance.
Unfortunately, this particular parent wasn't one of them.
The child reached; I made eye contact, said "No" firmly and nudged Freyja further under the table. I couldn't move us both out of the way because there was nowhere I could go in the wheelchair without abandoning my laptop.
The girl screwed up her face and began to bawl. "Daddy, the mean lady won't let me pet her doggy!"
The man who approached me was twice my height and used that to his advantage. He towered over me and demanded, "Why can't my kid pet your dog? It's not gonna hurt anything."
The next act of self defense involves trying to reason with a persistent parent. "Freyja is a working dog," I politely explained, "and if I allow your child to pet her when she's working then she won't pay attention to me. That could be dangerous for both of us."
Freyja does, in fact, know a command called say hello which allows her to greet someone who has asked politely if we're not busy. It lets her know she has been temporarily released from duties and is free to act like a normal dog. We rarely, however, use this command in public. The triggers for my epilepsy and anxiety are similar so she alerts to both. Since I'm more prone to anxiety attacks when out in public, especially if I haven't been into the city in a while, Freyja pays close attention to me.
The girl's father then tried to intimidate me. "I'm going to report you to the manager! They don't allow pets in here."
"Go right ahead," I said, fishing one of my ADA cards out of Freyja's backpack, "and give him this while you're at it."
He took the card away, grumbling, and I expected that to be the end of the encounter. This wasn't the first time I'd taken Freyja in here, and the manager was familiar with us.
The sun had begun to set and the glare blanched out my computer screen. I gave Freyja the command to pull the chair forward until I could reach the cord to the blind and began lowering it. I heard a grandmother excitedly point out to her grandchildren, as though I were an exhibit in the zoo, "Look, the handicapped lady has a working dog to help her. See how the dog helps pull the chair? Let's ask a few questions."
I groaned. People do this all the time. They use me as an educational example for their children. I don't mind answering questions about what the dog does but those don't seem to be the questions people ask. They want to know how I go to the bathroom and if they can take turns pushing the chair or riding in it with me (as though I were some sort of amusement park ride). They gush about how wonderfully blessed I am to have a dog to help me and they talk to me in loud, enunciated words as though I were incapable of understanding them. Sometimes, they ask the dog questions in an adult voice as if she could answer.
No, I didn't need any help. No, I didn't use my wheelchair as a race car. Yes, I pee like everyone else; I just have to use a wheelchair to get to the toilet stall. No, I'm not blind or deaf; my legs just don't work.
Satisfied that she'd done her educational task for the day, the grandmother and her grandchildren left.
I put my headphones back on and wrote a few more sentences before I again heard it: "Doggie! I wanna pet the doggie!"
Same cry, different parent. Off came the headphones again and I ground my teeth.
"Sure, darling, you can go play with the doggie while mommy waits in line."
WHAT?!
Lady, I'm not here to entertain your child. You wouldn't let me paw through your purse because I was bored, would you? Freyja isn't public property. She belongs to me. The least you could have done was asked.
The last ditch defense against these inconsiderate people is to pick Freyja up and put her in my lap. Since she's only a medium sized dog, this is just barely possible. I tucked her up under my arm and told the little girl, "Please leave me alone. The dog isn't yours and I don't want to be bothered." I said it loud enough that her mother could hear and so could several other customers.
"Put the dog down, I said she could play with it."
I'd had enough. I didn't care who heard me. "Leave the God damned dog alone. I am not your child's entertainment."
It wasn't me who ended up being embarrassed even though I'd been the one who shouted.