When you have a service dog you have to be alert at all times for the crazies–I mean there are some really strange pilgrims on American streets. And boy, they love you when you’re blind. The dog, without meaning to, invites them in. Once in Minneapolis, checking into the Hilton, I met two really drunk college girls who professed to love my dog. They were stinko, blotto, plum loco, almost staggering. “Hey, your dog’s beautiful,” the first one said. “Yeah she’s really beautiful,” said the second. “Hey,” said the first, “You wanna touch my face?” “Yeah,” said the second, “You wanna touch me too?” “Oh your dog is so beautiful!” said the first one. “Oh yeah,” said the second. I backed away, half tripping over my suitcase. All I wanted was to check in. “No,” I said, “I don’t touch faces.” “Well what’s wrong with our faces?” said number one, her voice darkening. “Yeah, what’s wrong?” said number two. “Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “Now go away.” And then security appeared, for this was the Hilton, which is the tasteful lady of commercial hotels, and the face girls became belligerent, claiming that I lured them with the dog. Security said, brightly, “they got dogs outside.” And they went away, shouting, “You coulda touched us!” And this of course is legion, this incident, for every revolving door shoots another nut into the street. There was the lady in the Pittsburgh airport who told me how beautiful my dog was, then added that all her dogs were poisoned by malevolent strangers. Then she asked if my dog could have a treat. Really. This is often how it is.
Planet of the Blind 