I always thought “comfort animals” were bullshit — until I saw one in San Francisco.
Going through airport security can be stressful, but the lady in front of me was bed, bath and beyond stress.
I went to grab a gray tray for my shoes and wallet, and she barked at me.
“I’ll be done with it, when I’m done with it. You don’t have to push.” She was wearing an all pink outfit — loose sweat pants and sweat shirt. It was a fuzzy, radiant, pink that could be seen from 5 gates away. Her sort of red hair wasn’t a mess, but it wasn’t combed either.
Her blood shot eyes were intense and glassy at the same time. Her words were breathy and thick– like a female Dirty Harry — do ya feel lucky punk? Do ya…
“Sorry, sorry. Not trying to rush you,” I said. I raised my hands in surrender and waited for her to move.
She turned toward the TSA people and pointed down. At the end of a leash was a little brown dog.
Nudie Pictures
TSA pulled her out of line from the nudie-picture machine. They opened the line with the old-fashioned metal detector just for her and her little brown dog.
“You told me twice, I have to be in this line,” Pink Lady said. “You didn’t have to tell me twice — once would do.”
The female TSA worker rolled her eyes at me, and we both practiced our breathing exercises.
10 seconds later, Pink Lady was yelling at a different TSA agent.
“You didn’t tell me to move, so I didn’t move — you can’t just wave at me.”
Holy shit. It must be frustrating as hell to have a script in your head about exactly how every interaction with people on the planet must go and no one else can read from your secret script.
Obviously, every word must be delivered exactly right and exactly on time, or you must explode at these stupid fucking actors like Lewis Black yelling at the weather.
Pink Lady is in a perpetual state of pissed.
We moved through the line. I looked closer at the dog that was obviously tasked with being her comfort animal.
I expected to see a calm and happy being that just loves to snuggle with big brown eyes and a head just ready to rest on any shoulder. You know, a true comfort for people under duress.
But this pup was 15 pounds of shivering stress. His little eyes were half bugged out of its head. Instead of leaning in for a hug, the dog kept turning away from Pink Lady and moving to the end of the leash. If PTSD had a mascot, this dog was it.
I tried to make eye contact, but the dog just had a 1000-yard stare…
Pink Lady needs to get that dog a kitten or something… but that’s probably not going to work either. I’m pretty sure there’s no one or nothing that can comfort that poor animal.
Flight from Tucson to Phoenix yesterday, younger version of “Pink Lady”, dog was a nervous wreck and bonus dude with flip flops had to put his fungus nail feet on the back of her seat. Next flight I’m bringing a comfort snake, hopefully Samuel Jackson isn’t on my plane. ✌️
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Seems like the security to get on the plane would take longer than driving to Phx?
Poor little bastard. Other than a few cases, I find the whole comfort animal thing kind of bullshit, but whatever.
Yep. A sad sight. But
Pink Lady obviously needed some help.
Ouch, ouch, ouch. Poor little pup.
I’m reminded of the dog walker I called the “running hysteric with the boob job”. This was a woman in skin tight jogging clothes who, when she saw other dogs, always screamed out at the top of her , artificial, oversized lungs – “control your dogs, control your dogs, control your dogs!!!” This was truly demented as her dog was a pony sized German Shepard and the other dogs might have been stupid but they were not dumb.
That sounds like a La Jolla problem. Boob jobs and hysterics seem to go together. But maybe her German Shepard had eaten a few smaller dogs already, and she couldn’t stand the carnage.
LIFE ON A LEASH – from 2014
As usual this morning, I took the brain dead idiots – excuse me, the dogs – on their morning stroll. Only this morning I was told by my lovely wife not to take them off the leash. This is the time of the year, she tells me, for foxtails – for plants and burrs that dig into dogs like insidious barbed wire. I explain that our dogs – doodles; part lab and part poodle – have the coat characteristics and brains of sheep, that foxtails and burrs cling to the outer coat to be washed, picked, licked and chewed off later. She tells me that said burrs and tails can get up the nose or into the ears of dogs and kill them. I tell her that if a dog is stupid enough to eavesdrop on a foxtail or snort a burr, it should accept the consequences.
This doesn’t fly.
Walking one dog on a leash, I suppose, is fun. I see people walking one dog on a leash all the time. They amble along at the same speed; the dog occasionally stopping to sniff, the walker occasionally stopping to chat – it all seems very civilized. One could do it on a Paris street. And then one could pop by the local bistro, have an espresso and read the paper while the dog curled up under the table and went to sleep at your feet.
My dogs would eat the paper, whiz on the table legs and puke gastric juices on my shoes.
Walking two dogs on a leash is a bit more challenging but do-able. Off we go, a dog on either side – a noble knight accompanied by faithful squires, eager to do your bidding. Two ponies pulling a surrey with a fringe on top – me.
My dogs would tip over the surrey looking for moose sign. Then they’d whiz on it. And me.
Three dogs on a leash, especially my dogs, turns a light morning walk on a lovely spring day into a death march walk to hell. I immediately find myself wrapped up in leashes as each idiot jockeys for position, trying to decide which side of the noble master they wish to be on. I switch hands as they move, I switch as they move back – a hand gets caught behind me and now I am towing a dog. One dog, making a dash for the post position, gets his legs wrapped up in his own leash and stops, hog tied.
I wish it were his neck.
All the dogs leap to the front and suddenly it’s the chariot race out of Ben Hur with wild Arabian stallions dragging stunt men to their death. I pull back seeking to slow the crazed bastards but I might as well be pulling against three nose-to-the-ground tractors. Abruptly one of them stops to squat. It’s as if someone threw a rock into a fast moving assembly line. Everything shrieks to an abrupt halt. The two dogs that are not yet in defecation mode throw evil looks at their embarrassed pack mate.
Trying now to hold onto three doggie leashes, I attempt to get out a doggie bag, open it and pick up a small mountain of steaming doggie poo. As the dogs heave and pull and the scent of doodoo fills my nose, I can’t help but think that in Korea people eat dogs. It’s true. They’re considered a delicacy. Dog chops for dinner! Too bad the lovely wife is a vegetarian.
Ah, but wait! Maybe when she leaves for vacation in Switzerland – (another story) – I’ll just fatten the boys up and eat them all by myself. Better yet, the chip off the old block son will join me. Like his father, he’ll eat anything if it’s medium rare. Never ask permission, always beg for forgiveness.
Yes! The doggy days – and the doggy walks – are numbered.
Oh, but fate has a way of taking things by the hand. A short time later, at the edge of the field where the idiots are usually off leash, I see the woman I call “the running hysteric with the boob job” approaching. This is the slim woman in skin tight jogging clothes who, when she sees my dogs, always screams out at the top of her oversized lungs – “control your dogs, control your dogs, control your dogs!!!” This is truly demented as her dog is a pony sized German Shepard and my dogs may be stupid but they’re not dumb. They always ignore Rin-tin-tin and move off towards the far side of the field searching for scents and spores to whiz on and disgusting things to roll in. Today, however, I’m holding the dogs on leash as the hysteric approaches. She stares straight ahead her mouth quivering, as if it galls and infuriates her not to be able to tell me to “control my dogs!!” Her Shepard, who now seems to be smirking, wrinkles an upper lip and growls as it passes, obviously assuming it has the upper hand. As one, my three hounds snarl and in one bound, leap to the end of their leashes, teeth bared, slavering and howling. The Shepard leaps away. Its retreat yanks the hysteric off her feet and pulls her screaming, boobs and all, two body lengths through the air. The sound of the hysteric hitting the turf is that of a watermelon tossed from a rooftop.
*&%$#@&!!, she says. Your dogs — !
Were protecting me, I say.
$(*!@@#!, she says.
Please. Not in front of the dogs, I say.
“~!@#$%^&*!” she says.
Control your dog, I say.
Saying nothing, the hysteric gets up, slaps the Shepard upside the head and stalks away. My dogs watch her go, tongues lolling. They look up at me. Smiling. What can I do but smile back. Goodly dogs, I say. Such glorious, devoted, handsome hounds, I say. I scratch their soft, luxuriant ears. I give them each a doggy treat. I take them off leash and send them off to search for rabbits and disgusting stuff to roll in. Go, I say. Foxtails be damned. Live long and prosper.
We’ll have dinner together another time.
World’s longest and best comment. You are the winner.
K -man,
I fully think 90% of comfort animals are complete bullshit.
Particularly if they look and act crazy.
My shepherd will tolerate other dogs at best. So we swing wide of interaction at the dog park\hiking trail. Funny thing is if trouble starts I can pull out a tennis ball. She doesnt give a fuck about anything but fetching that ball.
I liked some of these comments almost as much as your original post. Regarding pink lady Jim Morrison had it right: people are strange.
Post on Ride free
-Butterpants
Technically our anxious little chiweenie is a therapy dog. In her case, she needs therapy.