A Doggone Lie

A few years ago, I wrote an essay about a woman at my gym and her helping dog who is always by her side while she exercises. I have seen that dog for years now, the same yellow Lab in his hunter green vest, alerting any friendly folk that he is working and not to pet him. He would stay close to her, resting on his belly while she used the treadmill or elliptical machine, which made me admire her for staying active and healthy in the face of some disease that required her to need the assistance of that sad eyed canine.

Well, last week, the lady was at the gym with a new dog, a beautiful but serious looking Golden Retriever. This new dog takes the job more seriously than the last one, staying very alert by her side, never making eye contact with humans, not even smiling a subtle dog smile. I didn’t think the other dog looked particularly old, but I suppose at some point even helping dogs need to retire.

I commented on the new dog while walking on the track with my friend DK, who like me, is both a regular at the gym and nosy enough to be aware of things like a new working dog.

I said something along the lines of “Hey, look, she got a new dog.” DK said she hadn’t noticed, so we took a moment to stare at the dog in all its splendor.

“What’s wrong with her, anyway? One of the instructors told me she’s blind, but she doesn’t act blind,” I said.

“There’s nothing wrong with her,” DK told me. “She is perfectly healthy.”

“Are you serious? What do you mean there’s nothing wrong with her?”

DK looked thrilled to be able to share a little gym gossip. “She has a disabled daughter. That dog is her daughter’s, not hers. There’s nothing wrong with her.”

“Pardon my language, but are you fucking kidding me?” I said to her.

“I kid you not,” she answered. “There is nothing wrong with her. Here, I’ll show you.”

Now, this part sounds like it’s going to lead to one of those moments like on The Brady Bunch, when Mrs. Brady was in court for a traffic accident. Remember that one? The guy who was against Mrs. Brady had a neck brace and was claiming whiplash, but he was really fine, and Mr. Brady tricked him into revealing his lie in court by throwing his briefcase loudly on the floor, which caused the man to turn his head to see what made that noise, thus showing a full range of motion in his neck and how could anyone try to set up Mrs. Brady anyway? Well, it was nothing like that. Except for the fraud part, to which Mrs. Brady could relate.

DK walked up to the old lady with the dog, bent down to stroke the dog’s head, and asked her what happened to the other dog. I don’t remember what the woman said since I was still in shock over the part where DK touched a service dog who was working, which on the scale of things you don’t do is somewhere between throwing your gum on the sidewalk and using the N word. The next part I remember well though and it went something like this:

“Oh, this is my daughter’s new dog. She’s on vacation right now, so I have him with me while she is out of town,” the old lady said.

“Well, he’s really beautiful,” DK said, “and so serious.”

“He takes his job very seriously,” she said.

"Enjoy your workout!" DK said cheerfully.

As DK and I walked away, continuing on the track, she turned to me and smugly said, “See?”

“I cannot believe that! I feel so violated.” I was outraged. “Who takes a service dog who isn’t even their service dog to a public place and passes him off as hers? What a fraud!”

“I told you,” DK said. “Nothing wrong with her.”

The next time I see that woman and her service dog who isn’t even servicing her, I am going to walk right up to him and scratch him behind the ears and maybe even give him a treat. Then I am going to follow her out to the parking lot when she leaves and see if she gets into a car in a disabled parking space, because if she does, I am going to report her to the police or something, because that is just wrong.

Okay, I am not going to do any of that. But I am thinking about making a little vest with a badge on it for my cat and taking him with me to the grocery store. If anyone asks me, I will say it’s my daughter’s, because that makes everything okay.