Anxiety plays a huge role in my life. At times, it is completely debilitating and leaves me in bed for days at a time or having panic attacks in school parking lots.* On February 14th, 2010, I became partners with my service dog, Liberty, for PTSD and general anxiety issues.
I have problems with people harassing me about keeping Liberty with me when I enter restaurants, grocery stores, or Disneyland. But today’s shopping trip at Pavilions had to have been the single most ridiculous and offensive experience I’ve had with Liberty.
Everything was great, up until the grocery store. I had rediscovered that the song Pop by N*SYNC was on my iPod, was nibbling on Chipotle’s delicious lime and salt tortilla chips, and the wind was in my hair. I walked into Pavilions with confidence, grabbed my milk, grape juice and Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, then found my way to the nearest checkstand. The middle aged, blonde woman checking my groceries out gave me a friendly smile and asked if I had found everything okay.
“Absolutely. We’re here all the time,” I smiled back, sliding my card.
“Oh, what a lovely dog you have.”
“Thanks very much,” I replied. Then, turning to Liberty I said, “You hear that, girl? You’re lovely.”
She smiled, and I prepped myself for the usual next question. “Is it hard to give them up?”
“I don’t actually have to. She works with me,” I reply, not looking up from entering my phone number to the scanner. Usually people understand that, so I’m surprised when she keeps talking.
“Oh, so people just rent you and the dog?
My brain stopped working for a second, there. Rent me? Rent the dog? What the hell are you talking about, lady? I look her dead in the eye and say, “Um, no. She works for me.”
And then it happens. “Huh. But you don’t look disabled.”
My stomach lurches and I feel like I’m going to throw up. I literally start shaking with rage, completely forgetting that I have to select ‘credit’ and sign for my ice cream. The only thing I can think of to say is: “Oh. Well, I am,” with the bitchiest tone in my voice.
I leave the store with tears stinging my eyes and wondering if this company offers any sort of sensitivity training, debating whether or not to report her for such an offensive comment, or let it go because I know she’s just uneducated.
Which brings me to my point: I do not have to educate you. I do not walk through the grocery store for your entertainment. I do not have extra time to stop for every person who has a question about my dog, nor do I even like people to begin with. It is rude to assume that I am training my dog and it is rude to ask why I have her. If you make an assumption to my face, I will correct you. But do not push my patience. I am accosted by people every time I leave my house and my tolerance is wearing thin for ignorance. If you have questions about service animals - look them up. Do not assume I am willing (or even able) to stop and talk to you. The information is readily available without harassing me.
--x
Do any oth EF contributors have a service animal? Do you experience harassment because your disability is invisible? And, to tie this all back to sex, how does your animal react when you get intimate with a partner?
I have problems with people harassing me about keeping Liberty with me when I enter restaurants, grocery stores, or Disneyland. But today’s shopping trip at Pavilions had to have been the single most ridiculous and offensive experience I’ve had with Liberty.
Everything was great, up until the grocery store. I had rediscovered that the song Pop by N*SYNC was on my iPod, was nibbling on Chipotle’s delicious lime and salt tortilla chips, and the wind was in my hair. I walked into Pavilions with confidence, grabbed my milk, grape juice and Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, then found my way to the nearest checkstand. The middle aged, blonde woman checking my groceries out gave me a friendly smile and asked if I had found everything okay.
“Absolutely. We’re here all the time,” I smiled back, sliding my card.
“Oh, what a lovely dog you have.”
“Thanks very much,” I replied. Then, turning to Liberty I said, “You hear that, girl? You’re lovely.”
She smiled, and I prepped myself for the usual next question. “Is it hard to give them up?”
“I don’t actually have to. She works with me,” I reply, not looking up from entering my phone number to the scanner. Usually people understand that, so I’m surprised when she keeps talking.
“Oh, so people just rent you and the dog?
My brain stopped working for a second, there. Rent me? Rent the dog? What the hell are you talking about, lady? I look her dead in the eye and say, “Um, no. She works for me.”
And then it happens. “Huh. But you don’t look disabled.”
My stomach lurches and I feel like I’m going to throw up. I literally start shaking with rage, completely forgetting that I have to select ‘credit’ and sign for my ice cream. The only thing I can think of to say is: “Oh. Well, I am,” with the bitchiest tone in my voice.
I leave the store with tears stinging my eyes and wondering if this company offers any sort of sensitivity training, debating whether or not to report her for such an offensive comment, or let it go because I know she’s just uneducated.
Which brings me to my point: I do not have to educate you. I do not walk through the grocery store for your entertainment. I do not have extra time to stop for every person who has a question about my dog, nor do I even like people to begin with. It is rude to assume that I am training my dog and it is rude to ask why I have her. If you make an assumption to my face, I will correct you. But do not push my patience. I am accosted by people every time I leave my house and my tolerance is wearing thin for ignorance. If you have questions about service animals - look them up. Do not assume I am willing (or even able) to stop and talk to you. The information is readily available without harassing me.
--x
Do any oth EF contributors have a service animal? Do you experience harassment because your disability is invisible? And, to tie this all back to sex, how does your animal react when you get intimate with a partner?
