Your Fake Service Dog is Ruining It for Legit Ones

This is Teddy. Services he provides include: licking sticky
fingers, assertive snuggling, and eating
rejected crusts of toast.

Fourth of July Weekend is a big thing in my hometown. Like, ridiculously big. The locals in the town which, nine months out of the year, is a small, closely-knit community brace themselves for the onslaught of tourists who really do act as if they own the place.

We locals do our shopping on Wednesday, and stock up, because going to Safeway on the holiday weekend is the stuff of crazy-making. Standing in line behind an entitled doofus who is outraged over the lack of gluten-free beer selection is never high on my list of "good times."

Unfortunately, Curlytop needed a pair of sunglasses because hers went missing or got broken or were stolen by faeries, so I had to brave the variety store.

Standing at the spinning display of kids' shades while Curlytop tried on every... single... pair (because, you know, they have to feel right, and if they smell different than the others, that's noteworthy, too), we were nearly knocked over by a dog.

A big one.

A Great Dane.

I nearly lit into the handler, but then I noticed the vest.

The dog was wearing a blue vest which read, "Service Animal." It had pockets on it, and it was filthy. I could hardly make out the words, for all the dirt and grime on the vest.

I hesitated, thinking maybe the dog was just so big, it had a hard time getting through the narrow walkways between the display racks, but then I saw the dog was literally pulling its handler along, and bounding down the aisles, stopping to sniff at every passerby and end-cap.

I hope I don't have to tell you that this is not how service dogs behave.

I know, because I have clients who train service dogs. I have a daughter in vet school who occasionally fosters and works with service dogs in training. I have spent time around many a service dog, and this dog was doing it wrong.

See, it's become pretty easy to "authenticate" a fake service dog, and people are doing it in droves. Seriously, I can go to eBay right now, and get a "service dog" vest with authentic-looking information cards with an official-looking seal, telling all about the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) -- for less than twenty bucks for either Teddy or Kipper. Neither of them has had any training, save for learning to tolerate Curlytop and Snugglebug dressing them up in doll clothes and costume jewelry.

To be clear, I am not talking about Emotional Support Animals (ESAs), which have a much lower standard to meet, as regards a public access test. ESAs need generally only be able to follow simple commands, behave on-leash, and not show aggression toward other animals or humans. I have friends who gain comfort and assistance from ESAs, and that is not what I'm talking about, here. (ESAs are NOT protected under federal law, by the way.)

I'm talking about service animals, which, by definition, must have accessory training beyond standard obedience courses, and must provide particular assistance to their humans. The assistance might be seizure detection, boundary protection to an autistic individual, support for the hearing- or sight-impaired, carrying of medical equipment, or any other number of support duties performed by service animals.

These animals and their owners, rightly, are protected by federal law.

Having a legitimate service animal means the owner is saying, "I have a disability, and this animal is necessary for my day-to-day functioning." Of course, federal law prohibits asking what that disability is, but but it does allow establishments to ask two things:

• Is the dog required because of a disability? (Again, establishments cannot ask what the disability is)
• What specific service or task is the dog trained to provide?

But, here's the rub... Businesses are often afraid to ask, because they either aren't aware of what they can ask, or they aren't informed as what to ask. Some businesses aren't even aware that they can ask the animal to leave, if it becomes disruptive or a danger or threat to the health of others. If they ask the wrong thing, or ask the dog to be removed improperly, they can get sued. Further, they have to take the answers to the two allowed questions at face value, because even legitimate service dogs don't have to be certified, by law.

And so, we have an onslaught of fake "service dogs" jumping up on people, knocking things over in stores, sniffing crotches, toileting in public venues and acting like general -- well, animals. And not well-trained ones.

How does this hurt anyone? Well, the service animal owner in this article says she's questioned more and more about the status of her seeing eye dog. This article shares the many ways fake service dogs harm business, legitimate service dog handlers, the dogs themselves, and the owners. 

In short, these fake "service dogs" are making the real ones look bad, and it's calling into question the legitimacy of much-needed companions for those with disabilities.

You may think your dog is well-behaved enough to pass a rigorous behavior test, and it may be. You may have the best-behaved dog, most well-trained dog on the planet. However, you devalue the legitimacy of disabilities suffered by real people when you fake a disability of your own.

My daughters are autistic. They may, someday, require a service dog. Currently, we are looking into how to appropriately and legally provide them with access to an ESA, which we know won't cover all the bases, but we are hoping it can help them to cope with certain high-stress situations which provide common triggers for them. I've discussed it with their therapist, and together, as a team, we are analyzing whether or not it would be appropriate for them, and how best to proceed.

When and if it does become necessary for us to seek service dog for them, I would hope that they and their service companions will not be subjected to doubt, disrespect, or denial of the legitimacy of their needs. 

There are plenty of businesses which are pet-friendly, and the list is growing. Rather than "faking it," I'm asking those of you who love your pets to please show support of those businesses in your area which have opened their doors to your pet, by shopping and enjoying those spaces with your buddy... without a "service animal" vest and fake "certification" from a sketchy website.

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“My Dog Ate It” and Other Weird Explanations

I made the earth-friendly choice, and qualified for a full-body search.

As you might imagine, seven kids, two adults, three dogs and two cats generate a lot of trips to the grocery store. In an effort to make my appointment to our city’s sustainability steering committee a slightly less laughable matter, I’ve been trying to “green up” my family’s shopping habits by reducing the number of plastic and paper bags we tote out of stores, and increasing the amount of items we buy in bulk in order to consume less packaging.

Last week I picked up a few baggies of dried culinary herbs and spices at our local natural foods store. At the register, I tossed the small bulk packages into my oversized purse instead of accepting a paper bag. When I got home, I refilled each and every spice jar in my pantry, except one. One of the herbs was missing.

Fortunately, the rogue baggie was located in a corner of my purse a few days later by a security guard at the county clerk’s office during my bag check. He was extremely interested in the cut green herb inside.

It was oregano. I swear!

It’s not the first time I’ve been mistakenly suspected of “holding.” A few years ago, I went through a period of passionate green tea consumption. While driving solo through another state in the wee hours of the morning, I accidentally floated slightly over the fog line and was pulled over on suspicion of driving under the influence. Knowing I hadn’t consumed any alcohol, I confidently rolled down my window to speak with the trooper.

He caught one whiff of my breath, called for backup, and asked me to step out of the car.

He confiscated my travel mug, took a hearty sniff of it, and requested permission to search my vehicle as three additional patrol cars pulled in behind me, and I stood, bawling and shivering, on the side of the highway while red and blue lights whirled around my head.

Green tea, my friends, has a very “grassy” smell.

I’m not the only one in my family who finds herself in uncomfortable situations with harmless or ironic explanations. Pepper recently found herself facing a library fine for a book she misplaced. “I don’t know what I did with it,” she said. “I put it… somewhere… and now I can’t find it. I’ve looked everywhere!”

The book’s title? “Airhead.”

When our black Lab, Perseus, was a puppy, he had a chewing habit. A big one. Our friend, Bullet Bob, kept Persey for a few days while we were out of town. A frantic cross-country telephone call from Bob informed us that the pup had chewed through a bag of grass seed and followed with a bag of concrete mix for dessert. Persey lived, but the week that followed caused me to view topiary yard ornaments in an entirely new way.

Not long afterward, Princess brought me a book, chewed to pieces. It was no mystery who the culprit was, and as Perseus slunk into the back yard, it was evident that even our budding veterinarian daughter was beginning to lose her patience with our canine’s insatiable appetite for non-food items.

That book’s subject, of course, was dog obedience training.

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/axis/101184905/

Sins of the Mother: When Animals Attack

I’m hanging all of my hopes for absolution on my daughter’s future career as a veterinarian. Perhaps, through Princess’s dedication to helping and saving animals, I will be forgiven by the animal kingdom for whatever sins I have committed in my previous lives.

I’ve always clung to the belief that animals know, instinctually, who is out to get them and who, conversely, is truly an animal lover that means them no harm. Why, then, has my life been littered with random attacks by wild and quasi-wild animals? I’m a vegan. I don’t eat animals. I try not to wear animals. I don’t steal their eggs, don’t subject them to naked humiliation by shaving them to spin their wool…

Obviously, in some previous incarnation, I was a hunter. Or a trapper. Or, simply, an animal hater.

How else to explain the unprovoked attack by a swan when I was three? That’s right – a swan. I was walking in the park with my mom and brother when a swan charged me and bit me. Perhaps my pre-vegan toddler breath smelled of chicken nuggets or eggs. Whatever the reason, the swan found my presence offensive and targeted me.

When I was five, I was attacked by a swarm of bees. In the bees’ defense, I did tromp over their home, but it was an accident that occurred during a rousing game of Follow the Leader through the woods near my friend’s house. She led, I followed… right over the top of a nest of bees. Her feet shook the bees up; mine angered them so thoroughly that they attacked, en masse, the little child attached to the intruding feet. The neighbors stripped my clothing down to my underwear to get the bees off while I screamed. My mother arrived in short order and, without access to a car, called the hospital instead of rushing me to the emergency room. She was told to pull the stingers out with tweezers (she stopped counting at 50), give me Tylenol, and watch for any alarming symptoms, such as a temperature over 105 degrees, paralysis, or death. Should any of those symptoms occur, she was to call 911 immediately. That’s right… if I died, she learned, someone should call 911.

At the age of six, I was bit by a ferret. Ferrets are interesting creatures in that they don’t bite and then let go. Instead, they bite and hold on, chewing the meat free. My six-year old screams were heard throughout the neighborhood, and the fingerprint of my right middle finger is permanently altered by a V-shaped scar through it.

In junior high, my face was scarred by Bambi. Not the real Bambi, of course, but a relative closely resembling the original friendly forest creature. Family friends had been feeding a little deer that visited their home, and I was fascinated by how tame he appeared. The sweet little guy was so cute, with his little budding antlers and big eyes. I fed him a carrot, and then wandered off to talk to my parents. Suddenly, I heard my name called, along with a loud “Look out!” warning. Alarmed, I turned around to see what the danger was, and found myself facing Bambi, reared up on his hind legs, hooves raised, ready to beat on my head. Instead, his hooves gouged down the middle of my face. As I raised my hands to my bloody face in pain and disbelief, someone explained to me that young male deer “play” with one another by beating each other on the heads with their hooves. How delightful.

Equally delightful was the experience of actually having to tell my friends at school that the deep, scabby trenches down my face were caused by the real-life version of a Disney character.

I fully expect, once Princess graduates from vet school and begins saving the animal world, whatever sins I’ve committed against nature will be fully atoned for. In my opinion, raising a veterinarian is a small price to pay for being able to walk out my front door without fear of being jumped by a gang of angry squirrels.