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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The Beginning – and End – of My Fishing Fancy

Ah, serenity! Well... almost.
Photo source

My parents are nutty about camping. Seriously, I don’t know how I ended up with such distaste for sleeping, cooking, eating and bathing in the out-of-doors, considering my parents are such fanatics. Here’s just a sampling of phrases you’ll never hear come out of my mouth:

Bring on the mosquitoes!

Mmmm... hot dog on a stick!

A thin layer of nylon is all I need between me and the elements – and the bears!

Unfortunately, my parents were as adamant about exposing their offspring to the wilderness as I am about staying out of it. Clearly, there was a major conflict of interest and opinion in regard to how my childhood vacations should be spent.

That difference of opinion is how I ended up stuffed into a tent in an eastern Washington campground while it rained for something just shy of the fabled forty days and nights. I think I was about nine years old at the time, though I could swear I was six when we began the trip. When the rain stopped falling, Dad asked if I wanted to go fishing with him. “Heck, yes!” I shouted. At that point, I would have followed him into a sewage treatment facility, if it meant getting out of that tent.

Dad grabbed the poles and led my brother and me approximately eleventy million soggy miles (on foot) to “this fishin’ hole I know about.” It turned out to be a secluded waterfall, with a wide pool at the foot. My brother and I half-heartedly cast into the pool, while Dad headed closer to the waterfall, expertly landing a cast at the base.

A near-eternity passed, with none of us getting so much as a bite. I didn’t mind much – it was better than being cooped up in a tent the size of my closet. The sun warmed my shoulders and danced on the water, sending blazing starbursts of light in every direction. The waterfall crashed into the pool, its song echoing off the rock walls.

Ah, sweet serenity.

“Hey... Hey! I got a bite!” The peaceful scene was shattered by Dad’s yell. He was pulling hard on his fishing pole, reeling and straining for all he was worth. Below the falls, the tail of a massive salmon breached the surface of the pool, fighting and twisting in an effort to escape.

It was a battle of endurance, and I wasn’t laying money on either one as the clear favorite – man and fish appeared evenly matched. Dad struggled for several more suspenseful minutes, then landed the monstrosity.

Well... almost.

“Sonofabeaver! He spit the hook!”

Leave it to Dad to teach his progeny the ever-important vocabulary of fishing. I believe that particular phrase is actually mandated by federal law – and enforced by game wardens – anytime a nice catch spits the hook.

“No, Dad — LOOK!” My brother pointed to a cluster of rocks a mere yard from Dad’s feet. The fish’s thought stream must have read something like this:

Puh-toooie! Yeah! I’m off the hook! I’m flying... flying... Look out, water! Heeeere I COME! Yeah, baby! Oh, crap.. SONOFABEAVER! I’m gonna fall, headfirst, into those rocks!

The fish landed, head wedged between two large stones. For a moment we all stared, dumbfounded, at the furiously wriggling salmon, which was determined to squirm its way back to the pool.

“EEEEEEEIIIIIIYAAAAAAAAAAH!” Dad’s battle cry could have splintered wood. He launched from the ground—head lifted, arms and legs spread, leaping toward the fish. (For a moment, he resembled a five-pointed star, flying through the air, surrounded by golden glimmering starbursts darting off the water’s surface.) With both hands, he reached for the fish tail as his feet hit the ground. With puma-like instincts, Dad bent down to get more leverage and...

RIIIIIIP!

Jeans split from zipper to back belt buckle, but Dad didn’t let the phenomena of his underwear suddenly becoming outerwear deter him. He yanked the fish from the rocks and hefted it backward, over his shoulder. The salmon smacked the rock wall. I expected it to be stunned or killed, but the battle only seemed to make it stronger.

For a nanosecond, I wondered exactly how far we were from the Hanford nuclear facility, and if the government knew about the radioactive, mutant-powered salmon running amok in the area.

Dad, too, seemed to draw strength from the war, and he spun around, pouncing on top of the flailing fish. He pinned his opponent for a full three counts, proving once and for all who the champ was.

Talk about poor sportsmanship... Instead of graciously accepting his belt and title, Dad drew his hunting knife and began thwacking the fish’s head with the heavy handle end. Over and over — thwack thwack, thwack... thwack... until there was no more fight in the enemy.

Then, all was silent. Well... almost. One angry, horrified little girl sobbed and hiccupped and cried out through the quivering fingers held over her mouth, “Dad? How COULD you? How could you DO that? How could you beat that POOR FISH like that?”

The girl turned and ran in the direction of camp, followed by a small giggling boy and a bewildered man who muttered, “Poor fish? Are you kidding me?” as his boxer shorts flapped behind him in the breeze.

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Ignorance is Dangerous. So is Standing Up Against It.

This is the second post in a row that I've started with a disclaimer. That seriously has to stop.

Nonetheless, here we go.

I'm going to post some photos in here that might be disturbing to some. If you don't think you can handle the image of a man's face that appears to have another (purple) face protruding from it, do not scroll down. Go read my entries on travel or politics or even general chaos, but do NOT scroll down.

My fellow Motherhood: From Egg to Zine mama, Tanya Ruckstuhl-Valenti, was in the middle of reading her piece at the Hugo House during our performance in January when she realized she had a major f-bomb (the dirty, dirty kind) in her essay... and someone had brought their kids to the show. "I'm going to edit this word," she explained, "because I see there are children in the room. Instead, I'll say 'FIRETRUCK.'"

Thank you for that substitution, Tanya. It will come in handy as I write this post. I have some very nice readers, and I wouldn't want to drive them off with my firetrucking language. I will be dropping that other, homophobic f-bomb again, as well. You've been warned.

If you are still reading, you are ready to see what Mr. Wright's face looked like this morning. Witness:

Oh, but the front view is even better!

What is that? What is that huge swelling on the side of his face? Is it another face? Has he morphed into the Elephant Man? He calls it a "mouse." I call it "firetrucking awful to look at."

Needless to say, I am not happy about this; especially since this post was supposed to be about the fabulous new shoes that Mr. Wright got me for our anniversary. Shoes, however, will have to wait.

I alluded to this drama in my last post, but I didn't want to write it all out until we talked with the police, lest it interfere with the investigation. The report has now been filed.

By the way, I hesitated to post this, because I was afraid of what YOU (#1) would do with it. However, I refuse to allow your presence to dictate my First Amendment rights. I can't dictate your behavior, and if you can't act like an adult by now, that's too bad.

Last night, Mr. Wright and I went to a place we'd never been for a drink and dancing. One drink, and a little dancing. I noticed, from the dancefloor, that there was a creepy Lurker Dude watching me from the DJ booth. He had a friend with him in the booth; a Ballcap Loser. They had another friend, Tattooed Necklace Punk.

Anyway, Lurker Dude just kept staring and staring at me while we were dancing. I mean, yucky staring. Leering. I finally just turned around and danced with my back to him.

Mr. Wright looked hawt in his suit, as always, and I was looking pretty good in my funky retro dress. I must say, we were a little out of place among the ratty jeans and tattered t-shirts, but we got our groove thang on and tore up the dancefloor.

About an hour after we arrived, we made our way outside to the curb, where our rig was parked. A nice Asian guy followed us out and asked us where we were from. He showed us pictures of his kid and we chatted for a few moments. I fetched a copy of Gonzo Parenting for him to take home with him. About that time, Tattooed Necklace Guy came out. Nice Asian Guy stopped him and said, "Hey, you should take a look at this zine. She publishes it, and she has a website and stuff."

Tattooed Necklace Guy took the zine, saw the cover, and said, "Can I have this?"

"Well, I just gave it to Nice Asian Guy," I said. "It's his." Tattooed Necklace Guy took it anyway, and started to walk off.

Pay attention, now, because things moved really fast from here on out.

Lurker Dude came out, walking quickly to catch up with Tattooed Necklace Guy. As he passed me, he said, "I can't believe you're going home with that faggot."

"Hey!" I called after him. "Seriously. Dude. Don't use that word. That's not cool."

He stopped, turned, and headed toward me. "You got a problem with me calling this guy a firetrucking faggot?"

Honestly, I thought the guy was a douchebag. I didn't know he was dangerous. I just thought he was a drunken douchebag. "Don't talk to me like that," I said, "and don't use that word. It makes you sound like an ignorant firetrucking douchebag."

By this time, Mr. Wright was standing protectively by my side. Lurker Dude said, "What? Is your GUY going to do something about it?"

And then, he hit Mr. Wright. He hit Mr. Wright's beautiful face. As if that wasn't enough, Tattooed Necklace Guy grabbed Mr. Wright from behind, around his neck, and held him while Lurker Dude hit him again and again in the face.

Mr. Wright started to get away, and Ballcap Loser showed up from nowhere and beat him in the chest, hard. When Mr. Wright tried to get away again, Tattooed Necklace Guy hit him from behind.

I want to tell you this, readers: Mr. Wright is not a pussy. Mr. Wright is a strong, strong man; and I don't mean that in that Rick Astley kind of way. But, seriously? Three guys on one? Hitting from behind? Holding a guy so other guys can beat his face in?

WHY?

Why did Mr. Wright's neat, clean appearance so enrage these guys? Why did his professional dress qualify him, in the minds of the ignorant losers, as a "faggot" that needed to be beaten?

It's called HATE CRIME, people. Hurting someone because they are gay, because you think they are gay, or because you think they appear gay, is a HATE CRIME. It's illegal, and it's wrong.

The police officer assigned to our case is following up on the information he's received. The guys, it is believed, immediately after proving their masculinity by acting like firetrucking cowards in a three-on-one fight, went to a casino, where video survellience is used.

I sincerely hope that the prosecutor will push this forward as what it is - a hate crime - if the guys are located and arrested. Hate crimes in Washington State are a class C felony, and prosecuted as a crime separate from any other crime arising from the incident.

As I was writing this entry, I received a notice that one of my email subscribers unsubscribed after reading my last post. Meh. Some people are uncomfortable with seeing those who would take another's freedom or happiness confronted.

I get that. If you must leave, I wish you well.

In other news, did I mention I got new shoes?

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.