I can't stand people who make their children's happiness my responsibility. When this happens I usually just get a nasty look after I've told their little angel that they can't pet my dog, but there was one mother whom I met last May who was rude enough that I've decided to post about her.
Poodleface and I were walking through what passes for downtown in a place as small as this. We were on our way to the bookstore and were almost there when a mother down the street started excitedly telling her daughter to look at the dog. I feel a little strange whenever parents do that, but whatever. It's no big deal.
I went into the bookstore and started reading the back cover of a book on the front table, but before I'd read more than the first sentence the door opened and the mother came through leading her daughter by the hand and talking happily to her about going to see the dog. I shook my head at her and moved farther down the table, but she still came over to me and asked me brightly if her daughter could pet my dog. "No," I said, a bit weirded out that she'd followed me into the store. She stared at me like I'd done something shocking, and I put the book down and headed for the back of the store because I really hate having to justify the no petting rule to sulking mothers.
I noticed a book on the bottom shelf that looked interesting so I sat on the floor and started looking through it. I'd been there a few minutes when I heard someone clear their throat above me and I looked up to see that the same mother had once again followed me, and she did not look happy. I started to stand up but she held up her hands and told me to stop; she didn't want me to run away again. I'd actually just wanted to be on the same level as her, but whatever. I stayed on the ground and waited as she told me how I'd made her daughter cry with my rudeness and how disappointed she was that I wasn't even willing to speak to a small child.
I waited until she was done, then got to my feet and told her that I wasn't very happy either; I didn't like being treated like a museum exhibit and if I didn't want to talk to her daughter I didn't have to.
She looked at me like she couldn't believe there were people like me in the world, then said huffily, "Well, I guess we both learned something today. And now my daughter knows not to touch strange dogs." She stormed off and I stood there wishing I wasn't a teenager so she might have taken me a little more seriously.
Friday, September 30, 2011
What's wrong with me? I mean, besides the whole peanut thing...
I really hated myself for a while.
Whenever I mentioned my allergies at school people would groan and roll their eyes and ask me if I could please just drop it, just stop, why did I keep doing this? Whenever I got up and left a classroom the teacher would ask me if it was really necessary and the whole class would start whispering about me. Not to mention the death threats and the teasing and the way people liked to shout "PEANUT!" as I passed in the hallway.
There was this one day, about three weeks before I left school, that made me so mad I literally did see red. Poodleface and I were going to lunch along with a third of the school. Everyone, myself included, was wearing a really heavy backpack because the school issued us laptops, and backpacks to go with those laptops, and we were required to use them so that the laptops would stay protected. But the bottom of the bag was reinforced and wouldn't bend and was too big to fit in a locker, so we had to carry them everywhere for the whole day. There was also a rule that said that we couldn't take them into the cafeteria, so we tossed them in a pile at the door, which pissed the teachers off but it wasn't like we had a choice. At the beginning of the year someone had figured out that if you grabbed the handle of someone's backpack and gave it a light tug it would overbalance them and they would fall over. When I first felt my center of gravity shift dramatically backwards that's what I thought was happening, but the boy who'd yanked my bag caught me before I fell. So there I was, in his arms, unable to see who it was because he was behind me, wondering what the hell he was doing and why he was holding me so gently. We stood like that for a few seconds, and then he leaned forward and whispered in my ear, "peanut." Then he set me back on my feet and when I turned around he was gone, thus completing the most intimate insult I have ever gotten.
What really pissed me off is that no other boy had ever held me like that. Other girls who share my social standing get sexually harassed, but all anyone ever shouted at me was "peanut." I wasn't even a girl anymore, they hated me so much.
They hated me for being allergic to peanuts, and they acted like I was doing it deliberately and they wished I'd just stop.
So why didn't I stop? Why didn't I just stop it? I wanted to stop, I really did. I wanted to cry and lay on the ground and say I was sorry, I was really sorry, I hadn't meant to do it, it just happened, I couldn't stop it, I was so, so sorry and I understood that they hated me and wanted to hurt me, I hated myself too.
I left school because my only other alternative was to start harming myself.
Whenever I mentioned my allergies at school people would groan and roll their eyes and ask me if I could please just drop it, just stop, why did I keep doing this? Whenever I got up and left a classroom the teacher would ask me if it was really necessary and the whole class would start whispering about me. Not to mention the death threats and the teasing and the way people liked to shout "PEANUT!" as I passed in the hallway.
There was this one day, about three weeks before I left school, that made me so mad I literally did see red. Poodleface and I were going to lunch along with a third of the school. Everyone, myself included, was wearing a really heavy backpack because the school issued us laptops, and backpacks to go with those laptops, and we were required to use them so that the laptops would stay protected. But the bottom of the bag was reinforced and wouldn't bend and was too big to fit in a locker, so we had to carry them everywhere for the whole day. There was also a rule that said that we couldn't take them into the cafeteria, so we tossed them in a pile at the door, which pissed the teachers off but it wasn't like we had a choice. At the beginning of the year someone had figured out that if you grabbed the handle of someone's backpack and gave it a light tug it would overbalance them and they would fall over. When I first felt my center of gravity shift dramatically backwards that's what I thought was happening, but the boy who'd yanked my bag caught me before I fell. So there I was, in his arms, unable to see who it was because he was behind me, wondering what the hell he was doing and why he was holding me so gently. We stood like that for a few seconds, and then he leaned forward and whispered in my ear, "peanut." Then he set me back on my feet and when I turned around he was gone, thus completing the most intimate insult I have ever gotten.
What really pissed me off is that no other boy had ever held me like that. Other girls who share my social standing get sexually harassed, but all anyone ever shouted at me was "peanut." I wasn't even a girl anymore, they hated me so much.
They hated me for being allergic to peanuts, and they acted like I was doing it deliberately and they wished I'd just stop.
So why didn't I stop? Why didn't I just stop it? I wanted to stop, I really did. I wanted to cry and lay on the ground and say I was sorry, I was really sorry, I hadn't meant to do it, it just happened, I couldn't stop it, I was so, so sorry and I understood that they hated me and wanted to hurt me, I hated myself too.
I left school because my only other alternative was to start harming myself.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
There ought to be a manual
If you or someone you know has a food allergy, that's okay. There are about a hundred sites that'll tell you what to do. They'll give you recipes and activities and ideas that'll work for everyone, and they'll explain in detail exactly why all of that is necessary.
If you or someone you know has a service dog, that's a bit problematic. There aren't any rules for that.
Okay, so there are a lot of different kinds of service dog and a lot of different kinds of training and no two dogs are alike, but surely we all have some things in common? Like small children. We should be told how to keep a small child from touching our service dog. Or, there could be a chapter on restaurants. Restaurants are fraught with peril for service dog owners. Table or booth, which has more room for a dog? Do you let your dog eat the food on the floor or does that look unprofessional? Should you wait in an awkward silence while the waitstaff coos over your dog or is it okay to ask them to knock it off and pay attention to their customer? What if someone at a table near you starts complaining about unsanitary dogs? Do you ignore them or defend yourself? And what if there's a hyperactive child?
Or, there could be a list of tactics for diffusing a situation where someone won't let you in because they don't know about service dog laws. That's always a horrible situation and I'd love some tips on how to get through it.
There could be a chapter on traveling! It could give advice about flying with a service dog, and about hotels, and playing tourist. It could help you plan for your dog's needs, like how to get dog food through airport security or keeping your dog calm on a long bus ride.
Seriously, why isn't there a manual? I know I could have used one. For about a month after I got Poodleface I was playing it by ear and desperately trying to remember the few days of instruction I'd had from his trainer. A manual would have been a wonderful lifeline.
If you or someone you know has a service dog, that's a bit problematic. There aren't any rules for that.
Okay, so there are a lot of different kinds of service dog and a lot of different kinds of training and no two dogs are alike, but surely we all have some things in common? Like small children. We should be told how to keep a small child from touching our service dog. Or, there could be a chapter on restaurants. Restaurants are fraught with peril for service dog owners. Table or booth, which has more room for a dog? Do you let your dog eat the food on the floor or does that look unprofessional? Should you wait in an awkward silence while the waitstaff coos over your dog or is it okay to ask them to knock it off and pay attention to their customer? What if someone at a table near you starts complaining about unsanitary dogs? Do you ignore them or defend yourself? And what if there's a hyperactive child?
Or, there could be a list of tactics for diffusing a situation where someone won't let you in because they don't know about service dog laws. That's always a horrible situation and I'd love some tips on how to get through it.
There could be a chapter on traveling! It could give advice about flying with a service dog, and about hotels, and playing tourist. It could help you plan for your dog's needs, like how to get dog food through airport security or keeping your dog calm on a long bus ride.
Seriously, why isn't there a manual? I know I could have used one. For about a month after I got Poodleface I was playing it by ear and desperately trying to remember the few days of instruction I'd had from his trainer. A manual would have been a wonderful lifeline.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
I'm dreaming of a white poodle
As previously mentioned, I pretty much live in the middle of nowhere and so have only crossed paths with three other people who have service dogs. One man I passed on the sidewalk. From the design of his dog's harness I guessed that he was blind, and because I was too shy to say anything to him (and, really, what would I say? "Hi there, I've also got a service dog! We should be friends!"?) he probably doesn't know I exist.
The second woman I met outside my friend's apartment when her dog ran up to me and began to bark at Poodleface before I could get inside. She caught the dog and clipped it back onto her leash and told me she was sorry, her dog is usually a lot better behaved and it's actually a registered seizure alert dog but it knows it's not on duty now. I pointed out Poodleface's jacket and we had about a minute of service dog-related conversation before I had to go up and meet my friend. Since then I've seen her from a distance going into a store my father and I were driving past, but we haven't had another chance to talk.
The third woman I met in the candy aisle of WalGreens, and she and her psychotic dog nearly got Poodleface and I thrown out of the store. I was sitting on the floor, minding my own business and reading the ingredients list of a new kind of candy I wanted to try, when I heard growling. I looked up and saw that Poodleface was shifting from foot to foot, looking uncertain but remaining polite as a brown dog in a bright orange vest growled nastily at him. On the other end of the leash was an older woman in a flowery dress, who strangely didn't seem to care that her dog was opening both of us to possible legal action. The general public doesn't actually like it when service dogs threaten to brawl in aisle five, you see.
I dropped the candy and got to my feet, positioning the leash in my hands so that I was ensured complete control over my dog, although at the moment he wasn't actually doing anything besides shuffling and making uncertain little woofs. I asked the woman if we should maybe go to different aisles, and she smiled at me and said, "They need to learn."
Yeah, that's great, lady, your dog definitely needs to learn, so maybe you should, I dunno, teach it something? She had it on an extendable leash and was letting it have as much slack as it wanted, hadn't positioned her arm so that she would be able to pull against it if it decided to lunge, and it wasn't even wearing any kind of prong or choke collar. Not that a service dog should need one for everyday use, but they're good insurance in case something unexpected happens, like if someone decides they want to lure your dog over with a steak, or if you're face-to-face with a very irresponsible service dog owner who may or may not be about to let her dog attack your dog. Especially if you're a teenage girl and said dog is half your body weight. You can see how they would come in handy.
I started to back away, and the dog picked that moment to lunge. Poodleface started to jump toward it, and I can't really blame him; it was clearly challenging him, but, since he was wearing his prong collar (hint hint) as soon as I started moving backwards he gave up and came with me. We got to the end of the aisle, at which point the manager came hurrying over and told me to take my dog outside. I showed him Poodleface's service dog license and explained that my dog hadn't been the aggressor. He seemed a little upset about that, but he couldn't legally make either of us leave the store, so he just ordered me to stay away from the old lady, which I did, but whenever her dog caught a glimpse of me on the other end of an aisle it would start to growl again. She never seemed bothered by it and just kept smiling, so I left the store as quickly as I could and never got a chance to really talk to her.
In short, I don't know anyone else with a service dog with whom I can sit down and chat. If I thought there were enough people I'd probably try to start a support group, but this town is so small that, given two to three hours and some cool weather, I can actually walk from one end to the other. So I don't have anyone I can talk things over with and I have no idea if my experiences are common or unique, but I'm curious and I'd like to know. The thing I'd most like to talk about is my dreams.
Poodleface shows up in my dreams.
For almost two years after I got him I'd go to sleep and forget he existed, but one night, when I believe I was dreaming about jogging across a wavering foot bridge that sank abruptly into the water and necessitated me to jump, there he was beside me. A joyous white poodle leaping into the air, connected to me by our familiar leash; exactly six feet of leather that used to be red but has been worn to a supple dark brown by almost constant use.
The next night I was wandering around a beautiful museum that seemed to be part construction zone, and as I was crawling beneath scaffolding and lying on my back on a mosaic marble floor to see the paintings on the domed ceiling, Poodleface was right there beside me. I remember, I even decided to take the stairs rather than climb out a window and down a ladder because I knew he wouldn't be able to follow me.
For the past year he's been in almost all my dreams. He came with me up the stairs of the bus when the police chased and arrested me in the middle of the desert, I threw his leash away so that he wouldn't fall with me when I lost my footing on a narrow bridge, and I took him out into the river in a canoe, and then under the surface of the dark water and into a secret passage to explore with me. I've had dreams where he guided me, dreams where I lost him and panicked, dreams where he could speak and where I could send him on errands. He died once in my dreams, drowning in a swimming pool when I selfishly left him alone, and I cried myself awake and then called him over so I could hug him.
He twitches in his sleep and whimpers and snuffles, and I wonder if I'm in his dreams as often as he's in mine.
I have no idea if anyone else dreams about their service dog, and I'm really curious but have no idea who to ask. It's not like there's a manual for this kind of thing. (Which, come to think of it, there really should be. )
Maybe someone who's reading this could tell me?
The second woman I met outside my friend's apartment when her dog ran up to me and began to bark at Poodleface before I could get inside. She caught the dog and clipped it back onto her leash and told me she was sorry, her dog is usually a lot better behaved and it's actually a registered seizure alert dog but it knows it's not on duty now. I pointed out Poodleface's jacket and we had about a minute of service dog-related conversation before I had to go up and meet my friend. Since then I've seen her from a distance going into a store my father and I were driving past, but we haven't had another chance to talk.
The third woman I met in the candy aisle of WalGreens, and she and her psychotic dog nearly got Poodleface and I thrown out of the store. I was sitting on the floor, minding my own business and reading the ingredients list of a new kind of candy I wanted to try, when I heard growling. I looked up and saw that Poodleface was shifting from foot to foot, looking uncertain but remaining polite as a brown dog in a bright orange vest growled nastily at him. On the other end of the leash was an older woman in a flowery dress, who strangely didn't seem to care that her dog was opening both of us to possible legal action. The general public doesn't actually like it when service dogs threaten to brawl in aisle five, you see.
I dropped the candy and got to my feet, positioning the leash in my hands so that I was ensured complete control over my dog, although at the moment he wasn't actually doing anything besides shuffling and making uncertain little woofs. I asked the woman if we should maybe go to different aisles, and she smiled at me and said, "They need to learn."
Yeah, that's great, lady, your dog definitely needs to learn, so maybe you should, I dunno, teach it something? She had it on an extendable leash and was letting it have as much slack as it wanted, hadn't positioned her arm so that she would be able to pull against it if it decided to lunge, and it wasn't even wearing any kind of prong or choke collar. Not that a service dog should need one for everyday use, but they're good insurance in case something unexpected happens, like if someone decides they want to lure your dog over with a steak, or if you're face-to-face with a very irresponsible service dog owner who may or may not be about to let her dog attack your dog. Especially if you're a teenage girl and said dog is half your body weight. You can see how they would come in handy.
I started to back away, and the dog picked that moment to lunge. Poodleface started to jump toward it, and I can't really blame him; it was clearly challenging him, but, since he was wearing his prong collar (hint hint) as soon as I started moving backwards he gave up and came with me. We got to the end of the aisle, at which point the manager came hurrying over and told me to take my dog outside. I showed him Poodleface's service dog license and explained that my dog hadn't been the aggressor. He seemed a little upset about that, but he couldn't legally make either of us leave the store, so he just ordered me to stay away from the old lady, which I did, but whenever her dog caught a glimpse of me on the other end of an aisle it would start to growl again. She never seemed bothered by it and just kept smiling, so I left the store as quickly as I could and never got a chance to really talk to her.
In short, I don't know anyone else with a service dog with whom I can sit down and chat. If I thought there were enough people I'd probably try to start a support group, but this town is so small that, given two to three hours and some cool weather, I can actually walk from one end to the other. So I don't have anyone I can talk things over with and I have no idea if my experiences are common or unique, but I'm curious and I'd like to know. The thing I'd most like to talk about is my dreams.
Poodleface shows up in my dreams.
For almost two years after I got him I'd go to sleep and forget he existed, but one night, when I believe I was dreaming about jogging across a wavering foot bridge that sank abruptly into the water and necessitated me to jump, there he was beside me. A joyous white poodle leaping into the air, connected to me by our familiar leash; exactly six feet of leather that used to be red but has been worn to a supple dark brown by almost constant use.
The next night I was wandering around a beautiful museum that seemed to be part construction zone, and as I was crawling beneath scaffolding and lying on my back on a mosaic marble floor to see the paintings on the domed ceiling, Poodleface was right there beside me. I remember, I even decided to take the stairs rather than climb out a window and down a ladder because I knew he wouldn't be able to follow me.
For the past year he's been in almost all my dreams. He came with me up the stairs of the bus when the police chased and arrested me in the middle of the desert, I threw his leash away so that he wouldn't fall with me when I lost my footing on a narrow bridge, and I took him out into the river in a canoe, and then under the surface of the dark water and into a secret passage to explore with me. I've had dreams where he guided me, dreams where I lost him and panicked, dreams where he could speak and where I could send him on errands. He died once in my dreams, drowning in a swimming pool when I selfishly left him alone, and I cried myself awake and then called him over so I could hug him.
He twitches in his sleep and whimpers and snuffles, and I wonder if I'm in his dreams as often as he's in mine.
I have no idea if anyone else dreams about their service dog, and I'm really curious but have no idea who to ask. It's not like there's a manual for this kind of thing. (Which, come to think of it, there really should be. )
Maybe someone who's reading this could tell me?
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
How I (metaphorically) singed my nose hair
Poodleface and I went to a Renaissance Festival with my parents earlier this year. It was great; I saw performances and musicians and wonderful costumes, I bought a wooden sword I later accidentally rolled onto in my sleep and a Sky Chair that we'll probably never install, I was referred to as a 'fair maiden' with absolutely no sarcasm, and I successfully escaped the vendor who wanted to sell me a dog kilt, whatever the heck that is.
I also learned what happens when I walk past a stall selling roasted peanuts; Poodleface signals with more enthusiasm than I've ever seen, and I grab my nose and wonder if it's possible my nostrils have managed to spontaneously combust.
One of my many trivia books once told me that most kinds of sneezing powder are just finely ground pepper in a jar. So, since I was eleven and had no idea the kind of power that household pepper wields, I got some out of the spice cabinet and inhaled it. Walking past the peanut vendor was like that, only the burning was more intense and my eyes didn't immediately start to water. I kept walking, sneezed about five times, and felt a lot better. Not to sound like a mad scientist, but it was an interesting experience. Most of my peanut reactions center around my throat or my skin, but I'd just happened to be breathing through my nose this time.
After getting far away from the peanut vendor, I enjoyed the rest of my time at the Renaissance Festival, and I think Poodleface did too. It was a nice vacation. Well, except for the bit where I impaled myself on my own sword.
I also learned what happens when I walk past a stall selling roasted peanuts; Poodleface signals with more enthusiasm than I've ever seen, and I grab my nose and wonder if it's possible my nostrils have managed to spontaneously combust.
One of my many trivia books once told me that most kinds of sneezing powder are just finely ground pepper in a jar. So, since I was eleven and had no idea the kind of power that household pepper wields, I got some out of the spice cabinet and inhaled it. Walking past the peanut vendor was like that, only the burning was more intense and my eyes didn't immediately start to water. I kept walking, sneezed about five times, and felt a lot better. Not to sound like a mad scientist, but it was an interesting experience. Most of my peanut reactions center around my throat or my skin, but I'd just happened to be breathing through my nose this time.
After getting far away from the peanut vendor, I enjoyed the rest of my time at the Renaissance Festival, and I think Poodleface did too. It was a nice vacation. Well, except for the bit where I impaled myself on my own sword.
I'm a very loyal customer, even if you suck.
Poodleface and I went on a road trip with my father last summer. We stopped at a gas station around lunch time and picked up some Ruffles and DOTS, which we ate as we drove. The subject somehow turned to my DOTS, (which come in a yellow box and are a bit like gumdrops without the sugar coating) and I explained that I love them because they're completely peanut free and even print a notice on the package guaranteeing it. Now that's customer service. I went on to explain that I go out of my way to eat foods that do this because I'm so grateful for what they do and am more than happy to help them generate revenue. I ate several more DOTS, then added as an afterthought, "They're actually quite disgusting."
Dad had a good laugh about that.
Dad had a good laugh about that.
Literary allergic alliteration attempt
I love to read. Since I want to be a writer someday, I can call this both a hobby and a career planning exercise. Which is why it really sucks that I'm allergic to libraries.
I have strange allergic reactions to library books. I once had a rash all the way up both arms before I'd even finished the first chapter. Another time, I didn't feel anything, but I started crying. It went way past watery eyes- I looked like I was crying my heart out. Some books make me cough, some books make me sneeze, some books make my hands hurt, and some books do nothing at all and I'm fine with handling them.
Most of the time it's not peanuts, it's smoke or mold or old paper or the perfume of the person who last read them. It doesn't have anything to do with Poodleface or with peanuts, but it really annoys me and I felt like mentioning it. I'm allergic to libraries.
I have strange allergic reactions to library books. I once had a rash all the way up both arms before I'd even finished the first chapter. Another time, I didn't feel anything, but I started crying. It went way past watery eyes- I looked like I was crying my heart out. Some books make me cough, some books make me sneeze, some books make my hands hurt, and some books do nothing at all and I'm fine with handling them.
Most of the time it's not peanuts, it's smoke or mold or old paper or the perfume of the person who last read them. It doesn't have anything to do with Poodleface or with peanuts, but it really annoys me and I felt like mentioning it. I'm allergic to libraries.
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