You Shut Up!

No, YOU Shut Up!

Jumping in Barton Springs several times per week is very seriously a major part of my Mental Health Regimen. There’s the fact that, when I hit the water—I jump in, I don’t ease in—I am 100% fully present in the moment, unable to remember what I was worrying about the moment before. This is the gift of cold water: it demands full presence. 

I also find great comfort in the sounds of people jumping off the diving board, the uneven rhythm of jump, jump, jump and then—pause as a first-timer child hesitates, debates, and we all collectively hold our breath and then cheer wildly when the kid takes the plunge and the delayed splash occurs. And lately, I have begun to consciously register that I often receive my first smile of the day at the pool. I get an especially nice dopamine hit from exchanging these pleasantries with strangers, our shared knowledge regarding the joys of this magical place unspoken but clear, revealed by our grins.

One day last week as I was approaching my usual spot at the Springs, I heard from beyond the pool fence a very specific bark. I couldn’t see the dog responsible for the bark. That hardly mattered. It was a bark identical to that of Milo, who died in May, who—before he got too sick—often accompanied me to the Springs, where he was allowed because Milo was my psychiatric service dog. This bark from the beyond gave me pause.

Then, just as the bark registered in my ears and brought Milo momentarily back to life, a guy sitting alone on the wall looked at me and said, “Do you hear that dog?”

For a second, I thought we were about to enter into a wondrous moment together. He heard Milo, too! I said, “Yes, that sounds like my dog who died.”

“Somebody should kill that dog,” he said with great fury.

Because I have face blindness, I have come up with workarounds to try to remember people. One of these involves voices. I might not recognize someone by appearance, but if they have a distinctive voice there’s a chance I can recall a prior meeting. With this guy, it was less timbre and more tone that jogged my memory. 

“Hey,” I said, “Is it possible that a year ago when I was here you ran up to me and my dog and flipped out on me?”

He did not deny this. I remembered it so well. I had arrived early for a Sinead singalong a friend had organized to commemorate the recent untimely death of our songbird heroine. By then Milo was already very, very sick. It was a long struggle to get him to the pool, and later it would take two of us to half-carry him out with the aid of a sling designed for that purpose. In the moment, though, we were simply sitting very quietly, enjoying looking at the water, waiting for our friends. 

This guy came running up out of nowhere and started going off on me, screaming “NO DOGS! NO DOGS!” I was so triggered by his rapid approach, the way he got up in my space and his shouting. I tried to calmly say, “This is my service dog,” but that only set him off more as he further screamed I was lying. 

Despite my reputation for being a Gold Medalist Grudge Holder, honestly I forgot about him pretty quickly. Now, running into him again, I had a chance to tell him to fuck off. Instead, because I am currently deeply immersed in reading books to help me with my latest bout of C-PTSD struggles, I did something that kind of surprised me. I said to him, quite calmly, “Let me ask you something—were you ever attacked by a dog?”

”OF COURSE I WAS!” He yelled.

”Ah,” I said. “Well I’ve been attacked by a man. More than once. Which is why I need a service dog.” 

Pity I didn’t record this conversation, thus I am forced to paraphrase. But basically it went as follows. He next accused me, once again, of having a fake service dog, insisting that 99% of service dogs are “fake.” Though I’m convinced his estimate was a bit on the high side, and though his pugilistic attitude wasn’t exactly fostering a kumbaya moment, and though given Milo’s absence it was all totally moot, I conceded he had a point about people lying about their dogs being official service dogs. I had a ranch guest who did this. And once a guest at the museum. I knew, beyond any doubt on those occasions, that I was being lied to by entitled assholes, though I did not challenge them.

Without delving into a full-blown lecture on the topic, the truth is that laws around service animals are, indeed, very lax. The good news in this regard is that one need not spend $30,000-$60,000 to acquire a service dog, and yes, that’s the going range rate for professional training. You are allowed to do your own training. As long as the animal is compliant with service animal requirements and the human qualifies (I have a letter from my therapist about my PTSD), you’re within the law. When entering a public place with a service animal, legally speaking you can only be asked two questions: Is that a service animal? What tasks does s/he perform? (You only have to list two tasks, though these must be legitimate.)

Milo actually had some training. I paid some dude a lot of money—$2,000? $3,000?—to find a suitable shelter dog and train him. This “trainer” came recommended by a “friend.” Only later would I find out both were fraudulent. But Milo arrived just as the world shut down, so his training sessions stopped anyway and I took over the job, which I was decent at. Not that it mattered much. Save for trips to Costco to buy butter and eggs in bulk for my scone business, trips to the Long Center for evening roller skating sessions, and trips to Barton Springs to jump in, we mostly stayed home.

I had the same repeating experience at Costco and the Springs. More often than not, an employee—usually a guy—would see me coming and rudely announce, “You can’t bring a dog in here.” I would feign patience, explain Milo was a service dog, point to his identification collar (which, by the way, is not legally required), and then tell them the correct, legal way to talk to people with service dogs. Sometimes I would later send letters to management. I didn’t want anyone to get in trouble. I just wanted these idiots to stop getting up in my grill and using a shitty accusatory tone with me, because first of all, a shitty accusatory tone is never a nice thing, and secondly, such treatment would trigger me. (So yeah, ironic I guess.) 

Speaking of shitty accusatory tones, let’s get back to my recent exchange with Angry Man at Barton Springs. That guy just kept ranting. Saying things like he’d rather vote for Trump than see the animal shelter be expanded. Wishing Death to All Dogs. To my ongoing surprise, I continued to remain calm. In a fucked up way, he was doing me a very uncomfortable favor. In him I could see a version of myself when I am wound up and angry about something in the world that isn’t going the way I want it to go, far too angry and wound up to be able to see through to the fear driving my behavior, far too angry and wound up to have a rational discussion. 

Though we didn’t conclude our conversation with a hug, or even anything close to resolution, I counted it as a win that I didn’t flip out. At all. I mostly just felt bad for the guy, that some long ago dog traumatized him so very deeply that he continues to wish all dogs would die. More irony—I’d say, seriously, if he didn’t hate dogs so much he’d be an excellent candidate for a service dog. How I wish he could experience the comfort and healing dogs have brought me. I literally cannot imagine life without my dogs. 

I’m down to four now. Rosie and Bison live outside and guard the livestock and conduct glorious wrestling matches in the mornings and evenings when it is cool enough to roughhouse. Inside I have Louise and PoPo, who are, as I write this, snoring at my feet. I told the guy about these other dogs. “I don’t bring them here,” I said, “because they’re not service dogs.” Seems to me that gave him the briefest of pauses. 

Somewhere in all of this, I also said, very directly, “Look, I have some really serious mental health issues.”

This, too, netted further accusation. “Well you don’t present like that,” he said. Which is, in its way, kind of funny. There he was, thinking himself completely sane while ranting like a lunatic, and me, definitely aware of my fragile psyche, keeping my own inner lunatic in check. 

I failed to use this opportunity to remind him of something I wish everyone would remember, a message featured on a patch Milo had on his service vest: Not all disabilities are visible. Maybe I’ll run into him again next year and we can talk about it. 

NOTES:

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