[nagdu] How to Take Your Pet Everywhere

[Nimer Jaber]

 On one hand this is really sad...but on the other hand I'm not surprised
in the least...

On Tue, Oct 14, 2014 at 9:32 PM, Aleeha Dudley via nagdu <nagdu at nfbnet.org>
wrote:

> This article is startling in many ways. I will paste the link to it at
> the end of the text. It really illustrates the need for at least some
> education of the general public and business owners. What is this
> world coming to? This is ridiculous!! Here is the article. It is by no
> means brief, so grab a cup of whatever beverage suits your fancy.
>
>
>
> The author takes an alpaca to the drugstore. There's a lot of
> confusion about what emotional-support animals can legally do.Enlarge
> The author takes an alpaca to the drugstore. There's a lot of
> confusion about what emotional-support animals can legally do.
> Credit Photograph by Robin Siegel
>
> What a wonderful time it is for the scammer, the conniver, and the
> cheat: the underage drinkers who flash fake I.D.s, the able-bodied
> adults who drive cars with handicapped license plates, the parents who
> use a phony address so that their child can attend a more desirable
> public school, the customers with eleven items who stand in the
> express lane. The latest group to bend the law is pet owners.
>
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> The New Yorker
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> Our Local CorrespondentsOctober 20, 2014 Issue
>
> Pets Allowed
>
> Why are so many animals now in places where they shouldn't be?
>
> By Patricia Marx
>
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> 2014_10_20
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>
> The author takes an alpaca to the drugstore. There's a lot of
> confusion about what emotional-support animals can legally do.Enlarge
> The author takes an alpaca to the drugstore. There's a lot of
> confusion about what emotional-support animals can legally do.
> CreditPhotograph by Robin Siegel
>
> What a wonderful time it is for the scammer, the conniver, and the
> cheat: the underage drinkers who flash fake I.D.s, the able-bodied
> adults who drive cars with handicapped license plates, the parents who
> use a phony address so that their child can attend a more desirable
> public school, the customers with eleven items who stand in the
> express lane. The latest group to bend the law is pet owners.
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> News
>
>
> Culture
>
>
> Books & Fiction
>
>
> Science & Tech
>
>
> Business
>
>
> Humor
>
>
> Magazine
>
>
> Archive
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Sign In
> Link your subscription
>
>
>
>
>
> advertisement
>
>
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>
>
>
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>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Subscribe to The New Yorker
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> The New Yorker
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> Subscribe to The New Yorker
>
>
> Search
>
>
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>
>
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>
>
>
>
>
>
> Our Local CorrespondentsOctober 20, 2014 Issue
>
> Pets Allowed
>
> Why are so many animals now in places where they shouldn't be?
>
> By Patricia Marx
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
> 2014_10_20
>
>
>
> The author takes an alpaca to the drugstore. There's a lot of
> confusion about what emotional-support animals can legally do.Enlarge
> The author takes an alpaca to the drugstore. There's a lot of
> confusion about what emotional-support animals can legally do.
> CreditPhotograph by Robin Siegel
>
> What a wonderful time it is for the scammer, the conniver, and the
> cheat: the underage drinkers who flash fake I.D.s, the able-bodied
> adults who drive cars with handicapped license plates, the parents who
> use a phony address so that their child can attend a more desirable
> public school, the customers with eleven items who stand in the
> express lane. The latest group to bend the law is pet owners. Take a
> look around. See the St. Bernard slobbering over the shallots at Whole
> Foods? Isn't that a Rottweiler sitting third row, mezzanine, at
> Carnegie Hall? As you will have observed, an increasing number of your
> neighbors have been keeping company with their pets in human-only
> establishments, cohabiting with them in animal-unfriendly apartment
> buildings and dormitories, and taking them (free!) onto
> airplanes--simply by claiming that the creatures are their licensed
> companion animals and are necessary to their mental well-being. No
> government agency keeps track of such figures, but in 2011 the
> National Service Animal Registry, a commercial enterprise that sells
> certificates, vests, and badges for helper animals, signed up
> twenty-four hundred emotional-support animals. Last year, it
> registered eleven thousand. What about the mental well-being of
> everyone else? One person's emotional support can be another person's
> emotional trauma. Last May, for instance, a woman brought her large
> service dog, Truffles, on a US Airways flight from Los Angeles to
> Philadelphia. At thirty-five thousand feet, the dog squatted in the
> aisle and, according to Chris Law, a passenger who tweeted about the
> incident, "did what dogs do." After the second, ahem, installment, the
> crew ran out of detergent and paper towels. "Plane is emergency
> landing cuz ppl are getting sick," Law tweeted. "Hazmat team needs to
> board." The woman and Truffles disembarked, to applause, in Kansas
> City, and she offered her inconvenienced fellow-passengers Starbucks
> gift cards.
> In June, a miniature Yorkie caused a smaller stir, at a fancy
> Manhattan restaurant. From a Google review of Altesi Ristorante:
> "Lunch was ruined because Ivana Trump sat next to us with her dog
> which she even let climb to the table. I told her no dogs allowed but
> she lied that hers was a service dog." I called the owner of Altesi,
> Paolo Alavian, who defended Trump. "She walked into the restaurant and
> she showed the emotional-support card," he said. "Basically, people
> with the card are allowed to bring their dogs into the restaurant.
> This is the law."
> Alavian is mistaken about that. Contrary to what many business
> managers think, having an emotional-support card merely means that
> one's pet is registered in a database of animals whose owners have
> paid anywhere from seventy to two hundred dollars to one of several
> organizations, none of which are recognized by the government. (You
> could register a Beanie Baby, as long as you send a check.) Even with
> a card, it is against the law and a violation of the city's health
> code to take an animal into a restaurant. Nor does an
> emotional-support card entitle you to bring your pet into a hotel,
> store, taxi, train, or park.
> No such restrictions apply to service dogs, which, like Secret Service
> agents and Betty White, are allowed to go anywhere. In contrast to an
> emotional-support animal (E.S.A.), a service dog is trained to perform
> specific tasks, such as pulling a wheelchair and responding to
> seizures. The I.R.S. classifies these dogs as a deductible medical
> expense, whereas an emotional-support animal is more like a blankie.
> An E.S.A. is defined by the government as an untrained companion of
> any species that provides solace to someone with a disability, such as
> anxiety or depression. The rights of anyone who has such an animal are
> laid out in two laws. The Fair Housing Act says that you and your
> E.S.A. can live in housing that prohibits pets. The Air Carrier Access
> Act entitles you to fly with your E.S.A. at no extra charge, although
> airlines typically require the animal to stay on your lap or under the
> seat--this rules out emotional-support rhinoceroses. Both acts
> stipulate that you must have a corroborating letter from a health
> professional.
> Fortunately for animal-lovers who wish to abuse the law, there is a
> lot of confusion about just who and what is allowed where. I decided
> to go undercover as a person with an anxiety disorder (not a stretch)
> and run around town with five un-cuddly, non-nurturing animals for
> which I obtained E.S.A. credentials (one animal at a time; I'm not
> that crazy). You should know that I am not in the habit of breaking (I
> mean, exploiting) the law, and, as far as animals go, I like
> them--medium rare.
> The first animal I test-drove was a fifteen-pound, thirteen-inch
> turtle. I tethered it to a rabbit leash, to which I had stapled a
> cloth E.S.A. badge (purchased on Amazon), and set off for the Frick
> Collection. "One, please," I said to the woman selling tickets, who
> appeared not to notice the reptile writhing in my arms, even though
> people in line were taking photos of us with their cell phones. I
> petted the turtle's feet. "Just a moment," the woman said. "Let me get
> someone."
> "Oh, my God," I heard one guard say to another. "That woman has a
> turtle. I'll call security."
> "Is it a real turtle?" Guard No. 2 said to Guard No. 1. Minutes
> passed. A man in a uniform appeared.
> "No, no, no. You can't take in an animal," he said.
> "It's an emotional-support animal," I said.
> "Nah."
> "I have a letter," I said.
> "You have a letter? Let me see it," he said, with the peremptoriness
> you might have found at Checkpoint Charlie. Here are some excerpts
> from the letter, which I will tell you more about later, when I
> introduce you to my snake:
> To Whom It May Concern:
> RE: Patricia Marx
> Ms. Marx has been evaluated for and diagnosed with a mental health
> disorder as defined in the DSM-5. Her psychological condition affects
> daily life activities, ability to cope, and maintenance of
> psychological stability. It also can influence her physical status.
> Ms. Marx has a turtle that provides significant emotional support, and
> ameliorates the severity of symptoms that affect her daily ability to
> fulfill her responsibilities and goals. Without the companionship,
> support, and care-taking activities of her turtle, her mental health
> and daily living activities are compromised. In my opinion, it is a
> necessary component of treatment to foster improved psychological
> adjustment, support functional living activities, her well being,
> productivity in work and home responsibilities, and amelioration of
> the severity of psychological issues she experiences in some specific
> situations to have an Emotional Support Animal (ESA).
> She has registered her pet with the Emotional Support Animal
> Registration of America. This letter further supports her pet as an
> ESA, which entitles her to the rights and benefits legitimized by the
> Fair Housing Act and the Rehabilitation Act of 1973. It allows
> exceptions to housing, and transportation services that otherwise
> would limit her from being able to be accompanied by her emotional
> support animal.
> The Frick man read the letter and disappeared, returning with another
> uniformed man, to whom he said, "She has a letter."
> "Can I see it, please?" the new man said. He read the letter, then
> looked up. "How old is he?" he said.
> "Seven," I answered.
> The Frick does not admit children younger than ten, but evidently the
> rule does not apply to turtles, because the man gestured welcomingly,
> and the turtle and I went and had a look at the Vermeers.
> "Big for seven, isn't he?" the man said.
> I wouldn't know. Turtle (her actual name) is a red-eared slider who
> lives in Brooklyn, the property of a former mail carrier who was kind
> enough to lend her to me for the day.
> On her inaugural visit to Manhattan, Turtle and I also made stops at
> Christian Louboutin, where she cozied up to a glittery $6,395
> stiletto, and I, trying to snap a photo, was told, "Turtles are
> allowed, but no photography"; E.A.T., the high-end delicatessen, where
> I had a bowl of borscht and the turtle hydrated from, and also in, a
> dish of water provided by our waiter; NK Hair Salon, where a
> manicurist agreed to give Turtle a pedicure for an upcoming bar
> mitzvah ("You'll have to hold her toes down under the dryer"); Maison
> du Chocolat; and the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel, to inquire
> whether I could pre-pay for the turtle's burial. "But it will outlive
> us all," a sombrely dressed representative said in a sombre
> consultation room. Why didn't anybody do the sensible thing, and tell
> me and my turtle to get lost? The Americans with Disabilities Act
> allows you to ask someone with a service animal only two questions: Is
> the animal required because of a disability? What work or task has the
> animal been trained to perform? Specific questions about a person's
> disability are off limits, and, as I mentioned, people are baffled by
> the distinction between service animals and emotional-support animals.
> Len Kain, the editor-in-chief of dogfriendly.com, a Web site that
> features pet-travel tips, said, "The law is fuzzy. If you ask one too
> many questions, you're in legal trouble for violating the Americans
> with Disabilities Act and could face fines of up to a hundred thousand
> dollars. But, if you ask one too few questions, you're probably not in
> trouble, and at worst will be given a slap on the wrist."
> If you want to turn your pet into a certified E.S.A., all you need is
> a therapist type who will vouch for your mental un-health. Don't have
> one? Enter  "emotional-support animal" into Google and take your pick
> among hundreds of willing professionals. Through a site called ESA
> Registration of America, I found a clinical social worker in
> California who, at a cost of a hundred and forty dollars, agreed to
> evaluate me over the phone to discuss the role of Augustus, the snake,
> in my life. To prepare for the session, I concocted a harrowing
> backstory: When I was six, I fell into a pond and almost drowned.
> There was a snake in the water that I grabbed on to just before I was
> rescued by my father, and, ever since, I'd found comfort in scaly
> vertebrates.
> "Now, let's talk about your problems," the therapist said, in the sort
> of soothing voice you might use when speaking to someone who has one
> day to live. "What's your snake's name?"
> "Augustus," I said.
> "How does Augustus help you with your problems?"
> "How far back should I go?" I asked, itching to tell my story about the
> pond.
> "Just the last six months," she said.
> "Um, he provides unconditional love, and I feel safe when he's
> around," I said. "He's a good icebreaker, too, if I'm feeling shy."
> "You want to have more ease outside the house," the therapist summed
> up. "Now I want to do a generalized-anxiety screening with you," she
> said. "In the last fourteen days, have you felt anxious or on edge
> nearly every day, more than seven days, or less than seven days?"
> "I'd say around seven," I replied. Using the same parameters, she
> asked me to rate my worrying, trouble relaxing, ability to sit still,
> irritability, and dread that something awful might happen. The next
> day, I received the following e-mail:
> Hi Patricia:
> It was my pleasure to speak to you today.
> Attached is your ESA letter.
> Enjoy the benefits of having your dog (sic) with you more now.
> All the best,
> I'd better come clean. This was the only time I was evaluated. On my
> other outings with animals, I brandished a doctored version of the
> original snake letter. (If talking seems too last-century, you can
> consult thedogtor.net, where getting your E.S.A. certified is "only a
> mouse-click away." You fill out a seventy-four-question medical exam
> online and receive your paperwork within two days, for just a hundred
> and ninety dollars.)
> So I was off to SoHo to be put at ease by a Mexican milk snake named
> Augustus, which I borrowed from a friend. With his penchant for
> coiling all thirty inches of himself around my neck and face, he felt
> less like an animal than like an emotional-support accessory--say, a
> scarf. He is the diameter of a garden hose, as smooth as an old
> wallet, and gorgeously marked with bands of yellow, black, and rusty
> red. As I walked down Wooster Street, Augustus tickled my ear and then
> started to slither down my blouse. (Men!) His owner had warned me, "He
> is good for parting the crowd on a busy midtown sidewalk," and she was
> right.
> "Look, a snake," I heard a young woman say to her boyfriend, as we
> passed on our way to an apartment open house on West Broadway. A
> moment later, I heard a yelp and a splat, and turned around to see
> that the startled fellow had dropped his can of soda. The real-estate
> agent, by contrast, went on about the granite countertop and the home
> office that could be converted to a nursery, but ignored the snake,
> which had got stuck in my hair tie. Maybe a serpent is one of those
> things that it's best to put up with when you're trying to sell a
> $5.2-million three-bedroom. Here's what happened at the Chanel
> boutique: "Hello. I'm looking for a pocketbook that will match my
> snake," I said to a salesman. "Maybe something in reptile." I shuffled
> Augustus from one hand to the other as though he were a Slinky.
> "I'm sorry, Ma'am, I have a thing against snakes, so let me get
> someone else to assist you," he said, as if he were telling the host
> at a dinner party, "No dessert for me, thank you."
> A colleague appeared. "Wow," he said, leading me to a display case.
> "We do have snakeskin bags back here. Is he nice? Does he bite?" The
> salesman handed me a smart, yellow python bag marked $9,000. "I think
> this would work the best. It's one of our classics. I think yellow.
> Red makes the snake look too dull."
> The welcome wasn't as warm at Mercer Kitchen, where a maître d'
> responded to my request for a table by saying, "Not with that!"
> "But it's a companion animal," I said. "It's against the law not to let me
> in."
> "I understand," he said. "But I need you to take that out."
> Over at Balthazar, once the woman at the front desk confirmed with her
> superior that snakes could count as emotional-support animals, I was
> able to make a lunch reservation for the following week. ("So that's
> how you get a table there," a friend said.) An hour later, I learned
> that the Angelika Film Center does not require you to purchase a
> separate ticket for your snake, and that the Nespresso coffee bar is
> much too cold for an ectotherm.
> "I'd like to get back to the city before the leaves turn against us."
> Buy or license >>
> To think that animals were once merely our dinner, or what we wore to
> dinner! Fifteen thousand years ago, certain wolves became domesticated
> and evolved into dogs. One thing led to another, and, notwithstanding
> some moments in history that dogs and cats would probably not want to
> bring up (like the time Pope Gregory IX declared cats to be the Devil
> incarnate), pets have gradually become cherished members of our
> families. According to "Citizen Canine," a book by David Grimm,
> sixty-seven per cent of households in America have a cat or a dog
> (compared with forty-three per cent who have children), and
> eighty-three per cent of pet owners refer to themselves as their
> animal's "mom" or "dad." Seventy per cent celebrate the pet's
> birthday. Animals are our best friends, our children, and our
> therapists.
> "I hate all of these people," Jerry Saltz, the art critic for New
> York, told me, referring to pet owners "who can't be alone without
> their dogs or who feel guilty about leaving their dumb dogs home
> alone." He went on, "A few years ago, my wife and I were flabbergasted
> to see a smug-looking guy sauntering through MOMA while his 'comfort
> dog' happily sniffed the paintings, as if to pee on one. I ran up to a
> guard and started yelling, 'That guy's dog is about to pee on the
> Pollock!' She looked at me and said, 'There's nothing we can do about
> it.' "
> Why did the turkey cross the road? To get to the Hampton Jitney. How
> did the twenty-six-pound fowl get across? With me hoisting him by his
> "Emotional Support Animal" harness, as if he were a duffel bag.
> "You're taking this with you?" an attendant asked, standing in front
> of the luxury bus on Eighty-sixth Street. Henry was a Royal Palm, a
> breed not known for its tastiness but one that could easily make the
> cover of People's sexiest-poultry issue. His plumage is primarily
> white, but many of the feathers are accented with a tip of jet black,
> giving him a Franz Kline Abstract Expressionist feel.
> "Yes," I said, handing the man two tickets, one for me and one for
> Hope, the turkey's ten-year-old neighbor, in Orange County, New York.
> Henry flapped his wings furiously, dispersing a good amount of down
> into the air and emitting noises not unlike the electronic beeps that
> a car makes when it's too close to the curb. Henry had been driven in
> from the farm that morning. "Did you talk to the company?" the
> attendant asked.
> "Yes," I fibbed.
> "Good boy, good boy," Hope whispered to the heaving bird, as I
> strained to lift him up the bus's stairs.
> "He's my therapy animal," I primly told the driver. "Do you want to
> see the letter from my therapist?" The question was not acknowledged.
> "Easy, buddy," Hope said, helping me to park Henry on a seat next to
> the window. Soon the bus was lurching down Lexington Avenue. The
> turkey angrily flapped his wings. I hovered in the aisle, because,
> truth be told, I was a bit emotional around my emotional-support
> animal.
> "If you sit with him, maybe he'll calm down, right?" the attendant
> said. I slid in next to Henry, whose eyes seemed fixed on the Chase
> bank sign out the window.
> "Did you take him for immunizations and everything?" the optimistic
> attendant asked. Simultaneously, I said yes and Hope said no.
> "How much food does he eat?" the attendant continued. "Like, half a
> pound?" A huddle of passengers had gathered in the aisle, and a lot of
> phone pictures were snapped. The Jitney stopped at Fifty-ninth Street
> to let on more passengers.
> "Is that a real turkey?" a woman said to her friend as she passed
> Henry. (No matter what the animal du jour, someone always asked me
> whether it was real.)
> At Fortieth Street, Henry and I, who had pressing appointments in
> Manhattan, disembarked ("Oh, no. I think I forgot something," I said.
> "I have to get off"), leaving a trail of plumage behind. The
> attendant, who asked for a picture of himself with the turkey, was
> more perplexed by our getting off ("You're going to pay thirty dollars
> to get off at Fortieth Street!") than by our getting on.
> Next stop: Katz's Delicatessen, at the corner of Ludlow and East
> Houston Streets. "How many?" the guy at the front desk asked, after
> I'd shown him the therapist's letter and we were joined by two of
> Henry's human friends.
> "Four, plus the turkey," Hope said. We followed a waiter through the
> crowd until Henry, whom I'd been leading on a leash, plopped onto the
> floor in a spot that blocked traffic. Hope and I dragged him to a
> table and hoisted him onto a chair, on which he lay immobile, on his
> side with his feet splayed as if he'd conked out on the sofa, watching
> TV. A wing drooped over one side of the chair.
> "What kind of emotional support do you get from him?" a man asked.
> Henry's E.S.A. badge had come off earlier, when he jumped onto a
> dumpster on East Houston Street ("He needs to roost," Hope's mom
> said), but the news of his presence had spread among the diners as if
> he were Jack Nicholson.
> Depending on his mood, a turkey's head and neck can be red, white,
> blue, or, if very excited, some combination of the three. After lunch,
> Henry's head had turned purple. His handlers decided that he was "too
> stressed" and ought to be getting back to the farm.
> "Too stressed for yoga?" I said, having hoped to take the turkey to a
> class at Jivamukti. Did my emotional-support animal need a support
> animal?
> Reflecting on whether it is reasonable to be this inclusive of man's
> best friends, I called the Australian philosopher and ethicist Peter
> Singer, who is best known for his book "Animal Liberation," which
> makes a utilitarian argument for respecting the welfare and minimizing
> the suffering of all sentient beings. Singer takes a dim view of the
> emotional-support-animal craze. "Animals can get as depressed as
> people do," he said, so "there is sometimes an issue about how well
> people with mental illnesses can look after their animals." He went
> on, "If it's really so difficult for you to be without your animal,
> maybe you don't need to go to that restaurant or to the Frick Museum.
> "
> An alpaca looks so much like a big  stuffed animal that if you walked
> around F.A.O. Schwarz with one nobody would notice. What if you tried
> to buy a ticket for one on an Amtrak train? The alpaca in question was
> four and a half feet tall, weighed a hundred and five pounds, and had
> a Don King haircut. My mission: to take her on a train trip from
> Hudson, New York, to Niagara Falls.
> "Ma'am, you can't take that," a ticket agent at the Hudson station
> drawled, in the casual manner in which you might say, "No flip-flops
> on the tennis court."
> "It's a therapy animal. I have a letter."
> "O.K.," she said flatly. "That's a first." I paid for our tickets. On
> the platform, the alpaca, whose name was Sorpresa, started making a
> series of plaintive braying noises that sounded like a sad party horn.
> Alpaca aficionados call this type of vocalization humming, and say
> that it can communicate curiosity, concern, boredom, fear, or
> contentment but is usually a sign of distress. Sorpresa's wranglers,
> who raise alpacas for wool, and who had accompanied us, decided that
> she'd be better off staying closer to home. They had no problem,
> though, with her accompanying me to CVS and to some art galleries
> along Hudson's Warren Street (man in gallery: "Wow! Are they the ones
> that spit?"). In fact, alpacas rarely spit at humans. At Olana, a New
> York State Historic Site, showcasing the nineteenth-century home of
> the painter Frederic Edwin Church, Sorpresa and I were stopped at the
> visitors' center by an apologetic tour guide. A higher-up named Paul
> was summoned, and kindly broke it to me that animals were not
> permitted.
> "It's a museum and a historic home," he said. "There are thousands of
> distinct objects in there that are over a hundred and twenty years
> old. I'm sorry, but we just have never been able to take that risk."
> While the alpaca stood, perfectly behaved, in the gift shop among
> hand-painted porcelain tiles, glass vases, and antique lanterns, and I
> fielded questions from shoppers ("Are you allergic to dogs?"), Paul
> consulted the site manager in charge of Olana. They called their boss
> in Albany to ask for guidance.
> When you hear that the livestock in your custody has been granted
> permission to clomp through the premises of a national treasure that
> houses hundreds of priceless antiques, you do not feel unequivocal
> joy--particularly when the beast has been known to kick backward if a
> threat from the rear is perceived. Don't ask me anything about
> Frederic Church's home. Could you really expect me to concentrate on
> the art when all I kept thinking was: "Didn't the owners say that when
> the alpaca's tail is held aloft it means she has to go to the
> bathroom?" By the time we reached Church's entertainment room,
> Sorpresa was intently humming a distress signal.
> "She needs lunch," I mumbled, and we made a hasty retreat. When I
> returned the alpaca to her owner and told him about our visit to
> Olana, he said, "I'm not sure whether it reaffirms my faith in
> humanity or destroys it."
> People with genuine impairments who depend on actual service animals
> are infuriated by the sort of imposture I perpetrated with my phony
> E.S.A.s. Nancy Lagasse suffers from multiple sclerosis and owns a
> service dog that can do everything from turning lights on and off to
> emptying her clothes dryer. "I'm shocked by the number of people who
> go online and buy their pets vests meant for working dogs," she told
> me. "These dogs snarl and go after my dog. They set me up for failure,
> because people then assume my dog is going to act up."
> Carry a baby down the aisle of an airplane and passengers look at you
> as if you were toting a machine gun. Imagine, then, what it's like
> travelling with a one-year-old pig who oinks, grunts, and screams, and
> who, at twenty-six pounds, is six pounds heavier than the average
> carry-on baggage allowance and would barely fit in the overhead
> compartment of the aircraft that she and I took from Newark to Boston.
> Or maybe you can't imagine this.
> During check-in, the ticket agent, looking up to ask my final
> destination, did a double take.
> She said, "Oh . . . have you checked with . . . I don't think JetBlue
> allows . . ."
> I rehashed my spiel about the letter and explained that days ago, when
> I bought the tickets, the service representative said that I could
> bring Daphne, my pig, as long as she sat on my lap.
> "Give me one second," the agent said, picking up the phone. "I'm
> checking with my supervisor." (Speaking into phone: "Yes, with a pig .
> . . yeah, yeah . . . in a stroller.") The agent hung up and printed
> out boarding passes for me and the pig's owner, Sophie Wolf.
> "I didn't want to make a mistake," he said. "If there's a problem,
> Verna, at the gate, will help you. Does she run fast?"
> I'm pleased to report that passing through security with a pig in your
> arms is easier than doing so without one: you get to keep your shoes
> on and skip the full-body scanner.
> "Frank, you never told me you had a brother!" one security officer
> yelled to another, as Frank helped me retrieve my purse from the
> security bin. A third officer, crouching to address Daphne, whose head
> was poking out of her stroller, said, "You're a celebrity. Will you
> sign autographs later?" The pig grunted. "How is that even allowed?" I
> heard a peeved woman behind me say, as I made my way down the jet
> bridge with my arms clasped around the pig's torso, its head and
> trotters dangling below. We settled into seats 16A and 16B, since
> JetBlue does not allow animals in bulkhead or emergency exit aisles.
> On the floor near our seats, Wolf spread a--I'll just say it--"wee-wee
> pad," while Daphne arranged herself on my lap, digging her sharp
> hooves into my thighs. She sniffed and snorted, detecting the arrival
> of the in-flight chips before they were announced.
> "If I let her, she'd eat all day--she's a pig," Wolf said, searching
> her bag for treats. In case of airplane ear, she had also brought a
> pack of Trident for Daphne, who likes to chew gum. Daphne thrust her
> snout toward the smell of Gerber Puffs, knocking Wolf's hand, and a
> quantity of cereal snacks was catapulted into the air. As the pig
> gobbled up every Puff on the seat, a flight attendant passed Row 16.
> "Aren't you adorable!" she said.
> "Holy shit! " the woman in back of us said, spying Daphne. "I feel
> like I'm on drugs. Now I need a drink."
> We spent a pleasant day in Boston. One of us grazed on Boston Common,
> wagging her tail whenever she heard pop music with a strong beat. We
> took a ride on the Swan Boat and then went to the Four Seasons for
> afternoon tea, where the letter was trotted out once more. As I pushed
> the stroller, its privacy panel zipped up, through the dining room, a
> woman, looking aghast, said, "Oh, my Gawd, your baby is oinking!" At
> our table, Wolf discreetly fed Daphne some raspberries and a scone,
> but drew the line at prosciutto sandwiches.
> Just when I thought I had successfully taken advantage of the law, I
> almost tripped up. A taxi-driver balked when he saw the porcine member
> of our party.
> "It's illegal in Massachusetts to have an animal in a taxi, unless
> it's a service dog," he said.
> "But it's an emotional-support animal," I said.
> "It doesn't matter," he replied.
> "Look, I have a--" I said, fumbling in my purse for the dog-eared piece of
> paper.
> "If a policeman sees me, I'd get in a lot of trouble," he said.
> I was about to give up when he said, "I'll take you anyway. But it's
> not allowed."
> In point of fact, as I learned when I later looked it up online, the
> city of Boston is O.K. with taxi-drivers transporting animals, but
> they are not required to do so unless the animal is a service dog.
> Back at Logan, Daphne regained her superstar status.
> A smiling agent, approaching us at the gate, said, "We heard a cute
> piggy went through security." She added, "If you want to pre-board,
> the cabin crew would love it."
> At the entrance to the plane, we were greeted by three giddy flight
> attendants: "Oh, my God, don't you just love her?" "I'm so jealous. I
> want one!"; "I hope you're in my section"; "I'm coming back for
> pictures."
> As we exited at Newark, a member of the flight crew pinned pilot's
> wings onto Daphne's E.S.A. sweatshirt.
> "Are you going to ruin it for all of us?" one of my dog-fancying
> friends asked, when I told her that I was writing this article. I was
> surprised to learn how many of my acquaintances were the owners of
> so-called emotional-support animals. They defend the practice by
> saying that they don't want to leave their pets home alone, or they
> don't want to have to hire dog-walkers, or they don't want their pets
> to have to ride in a plane's cargo hold, or that Europeans gladly
> accept dogs everywhere. They have tricks to throw skeptics off guard.
> "People can't ask about my disability," one friend told me. "But if I
> feel that I'm in a situation where I might have a struggle being let
> in somewhere with my dog, then I come up with a disorder that sounds
> like a nightmare. I like to be creative. I'll say I lack a crucial
> neurotransmitter that prevents me from processing anxiety and that,
> without the dog, I'm likely to black out and urinate."
> Corey Hudson, the C.E.O. of Canine Companions for Independence, a
> nonprofit provider of trained assistance animals, told me that he has
> "declared war on fake assistance dogs." Earlier this year, his
> organization submitted a petition, which has now been signed by
> twenty-eight thousand people, to the Department of Justice, requesting
> that it consider setting up a registration--"like the Department of
> Motor Vehicles"--to test and certify assistance dogs and to regulate
> the sale of identification vests, badges, and so forth. "They
> responded that they think the law is adequate." No animals were harmed
> during the writing of this article, but one journalist did have to get
> down on her hands and knees to clean her carpet.
> And, if you've made it this far, here's the link.
> http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/10/20/pets-allowed
> --
> Aleeha Dudley and Seeing Eye Yellow Labrador Dallas
> Vice President, Ohio Association of Blind Students
> Email: blindcowgirl1993 at gmail.com
> Follow me on Twitter at @blindcowgirl199
>
> The wind of heaven is that which blows between a horse's ears.
> - Arabian Proverb
>
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