All Rise For The Service Dog

Service Dogs are the Marine recruits of canines, fresh from drill camp, ready to take on the world. 

Service Dogs are single-minded, utterly devoted and unswerving in their duty and loyalty. Because of their rigorous training, Service Dogs do things and go places from which ordinary pets are barred.

Keep that stuff in mind. 

NOTE: Until recently, friends, neighbors and other morons were free to bring all manner of “service” animals aboard public transportation. This brief breakthrough in civic advancement allowed you to enjoy a cross-country flight seated next to a chicken, hippie or boa constrictor. Or all three. The reality of course is that it made travel a potential nightmare for those of us hesitant to fall asleep adjacent to the business end of a snapping turtle.

Adjustments were made and today only qualified service animals are allowed to board, say, a 747 from SFO to CLT. So we set about getting Sweetie the dog trained for her cross-country mission. (NOTE: Our first mistake was naming a service dog “Sweetie” because no one takes a dog seriously unless named Bravo or Patton.)

We might have put Sweetie in a box and shipped her among suitcases and backpacks in the belly of the plane. Trophy would rather have dropped me at Fed Ex. 

Service Dogs get to ride first class among the poets, politicians and professors, whereas boxes of fruit, goats, common canines, journalists and crates of shoes of are stuffed below. 

Sweetie needed training and, inevitably, dog classes. 

Classes teach a dog to sit, stand, walk and sit again, bribed by expensive treats between chores. Fetch an old rag and get a biscuit. Jump through a hoop and get a smoked ham. By the end of the term she’ll be keeping a journal. 

Trophy was in charge of training, whereas I spent hours at the Forest Club purchasing expensive dog treats (beef jerky and Beer Nuts).

Classes went on and on. Every few weeks Trophy showed me a batch of medals, awards and certificates to frame and hang on the wall. Eventually Sweetie got a ribbon around her neck and a big gold plaque. She was an official Service Dog. She was eight months old.

We headed to SFO, Carolina-bound, and prepared for everything except for one thing we couldn’t have expected but learned around the time we rolled past Petaluma: Sweetie was in heat. Eight months old?

My dog is eight months old and she’s in heat? This means that in Dog Years she’s about to enter second grade and she needs a training bra. Hope she had sex-ed classes in addition to ones teaching Fetch and Sit.

At the airport I kept the dog pacing around outside to give her the opportunity take care of business while Trophy stood at a counter clutching various diplomas, certifications and letters attesting to Sweetie’s sterling character and noble heritage. The dog, dignified in red vest and shiny silver badge, was suddenly attracted to a handsome Doberman at the check-in gate. I yanked her collar, hard. 

Next, security. A uniformed officer glanced through the dog’s paperwork, then bent forward for closer inspection. Sweetie jumped straightup and knocked the agent’s glasses sideways. All our the gabble about rigorous training and drill camp instruction dissipated. We tiptoed toward Gate B-17.

Remember a couple paragraphs ago when I described 20 minutes outside the terminal making sure the dog had no need to go potty prior to the flight? Also, remember how Service Dogs are as highly trained as Marine recruits and devoted to serving people? 

Marching through the terminal on her pink leash, Sweetie dropped a pair of bombs on the polished floor, never breaking stride.I love a challenge. (Did you know all poop bags are purposely manufactured upside down and perma-sealed at both ends?)

I scrubbed the floor back to shiny, deposited her load in a garbage can and resumed the trek. We hiked another 50 feet and she extruded another bigger, moister and more aromatic mess. 

At the carpeted area of Gate B17 Sweetie proudly marked our arrival with a long stream of puddled urine. Plenty of witnesses, all probably wondering what consignment shop sold us the red “Service Dog” vest.

The flight was lacking in excitement. Oh, there were a few bloodstains on the pads we’d spread on the floor, our luggage didn’t get lost, and the flight crew lady mistakenly gave me an extra eighth-ounce bag of pretzels somewhere over Colorado. 

We arrived at Charlotte airport at 6:05 a.m., took a taxi home and went to bed with a big blonde dog, hopefully not very pregnant.

(Tom Hine, despite this column’s exaggerations and suggestions to the contrary, thanks Nancy Skelly and her dog training classes for molding Sweetie into a prize of a dog and a canine citizen even the imaginary TWK is proud to know.)