The trainers and their kids, as we played games and licked ice cream cones and walked and talked and relaxed a bit, tried to 'steal' our dogs -- with some success. One girl, Jennifer, a teenager, was playing air jockey with her mom in the loud game room. She had Buster in a downstay, her foot on the leash, but reached forward to slap the puck, leaned off the leash, and when she came down, it wasn't there... and one of the trainer's nine year old kids (following instructions) had made off with Buster.
She wigged out a bit and they brought Busterboy back... but the lesson was clear. Michele, in fact, says she gets two emails a week on average, about service dogs stolen -- and it's in a public place nearly every time. They are well trained non-biting dogs, worth a lot of money. She has been stern -- and we have been non-believing: People WILL try to take your dog, touch your dog, step on your dog. They will be pissed you have it in a public place; they will ask you why, since you're "not blind." They will deny you your federal civil rights -- try to keep you out of this place and that.
And, they will pick up a not-held leash, and walk away. Which is why the dogs are trained to stay, even if being pulled, unless you give a command. It is the hardest thing for them to learn -- to stay even when being dragged. But they're supposed to plant their feet, not move, like a cartoon Fred Flinstone trying to stop his car -- supposed to BE, in fact, dragged... and never break, never walk with the dogthief.
So, that lesson was instilled.
They tried to steal every dog, successful sometimes. They targeted Chewie but I got the game and had her in my sights as I played skeeball and dealornodeal, that crazy in the groove! dance game, some shoot em up stuff. Chewie was great -- she looks at me when approached by someone else, her eyes lasering in on me, wondering, quizzical, waiting for me to speak, which I do, to listening ears.
They did manage to 'steal' her, at the very end, when we were sitting in a large laughey group eating hamburgers and drinking sodas. I went up to get more tomatoes, and said, I'm watching. Don't take her unless you wanna pick up her poop. (It's always about poop, isn't it?)
Spooning diced redfruit on my angus, I watched as they did, in fact, swipe her, and hustled her off somewhere I couldn't see.... so, i had a few minutes of Chewielessness.
I did not enjoy it.. though i must admit there was a wee bit of freedom.
Yes, i was playing tough, by not going after her, not doing the freakout that everyone else had done -- i'd learned my lesson, our lessons were instilled... and i was annoyed and didn't go after her. Ate. Cleaned. Packed up. Walked out to go home. Stood by my car until they walked Chewie happily over. I wasn't playing their childish games (and acted a bit childish by not, i know).... though i was happy they DID say she wouldn't budge, had to be dragged, and resisted the way she is supposed to.
Good girl.
I went and got a haircut last night, in the mall... and Chewster was perfect. I hardly even thought anything of it... just walked to the mall, as i'll do in the real world, walking anywhere... brought her inside, laid her down until my name was called, as she watched me with her big brown eyes, walked her (as people stared and stared and stared -- if you hate being gazed upon, you'll dislike your service dog handler status) to our station, and out her down to my left, away from the swaths of human hair (ick) on the ground, most of it the deep browns and black colors of Chew herself. I sat down, not holding the leash. It didn't reach. I looked. She was staring at me, waiting for instructions. I got her up, swept a hairless path away with my sneaker, and put her under the stylist's counter, holding the leash in my lap. She was perfect throughout, sniffing a bit (and told No), watching me closely, and checking out the stylist swing her long dark-and-maroon-streaked hair about, looking back at me, and laying chin-in-paws.
Real worldy, that was, though we're not quite there.
On the way, I heard not one, not two, not three, not four, not five, but six -- six! -- little kids start crying because they wanted to 'pet the doggie.' Some parents look at us and know -- "You can't!" they till their little tiny kid. "That's a working dog!" ... Good Mommy! God Daddy! ... and if the parents look as if they're gonna ask, "Can Junior pet your pooch?" i jump in first, say, "Hi!" and then, to MY girl, "Heel!" while miving briskly yonder, knowing eyes are on my back.
I can't stop for everyone. Some people walk straight up to you and ask about them. Some people walk right up and put their hands out for the dogs to sniff; I pull her back and say something to the effect of, 'Please don't touch her. She's working.' -- though I do it as nicely as possible.
I was walking down the hotel hallway one night, grabbing my forgotten notebook, and walked past the father of one of the kids in our class. Another child, parentless, sprinted past the both of us... and when I got to my door, he came up behind me -- he's a fellow White Sox fan, and I thought maybe he was gonna give me a baseball score -- and said, Just so you know... that kid just petted Chewie as he walked past... he got past YOU, and put his hand on Chewie's shoulders, and patted all the way down her back to her tail as he ran past.
Just so you know.
Not that it's a huge deal, though if it happened fifty times a day I'd have to takes some steps to avoid or correct. But, it's gonna happen. My eyes (especially MY eyes) cannot be everywhere. But my sharp tongue will not, will never, hold back.
I think we'll be okay, on Monday, heading to a newsroom off a city bus or train, zipping around downtown, buying coffee and lunch, then groceries and such. Living. Having a day. Then an evening. Then, if blessed, doing it again, again, and again again.
I do, I do, I do think she'll be good, watching me, while we walk and live, play and work, being watched constantly, being seen and recognized, by many eyes. It'll be me doing my thing, as ever, and Chewie, listening best she can with that bright little pulsing doggy brain, over and again, one day at a time.
SOTP: "These Eyes" by The Guess Who.
No comments:
Post a Comment