In the “Viand” coffee shop on Madison Avenue in Manhattan a short, wiry little man wearing five tee shirts and intricate shorts with many microscopic pockets (as if he might be a medical examiner with innumerable scalpels) and with industrial headphones–the kind worn by men using jackhammers–and tiny black dress shoes and white socks approaches my guide dog Nira who is lying on the floor behind me.
“Hello, baby,” he says, “Did you give up your life for daddy so he’ll be safe?”
He pets her. She ignores him. “Do you keep daddy safe?” he says to her, ignoring me.
I debate the matter. Should I say something or punt? With my residual vision I see the man looks eerily like Adolf Eichmann. He has thinning black hair and creepy dark horn rimmed glasses. How many dumb conversations have I had with strangers because of my guide dogs? Too many. I say: “She didn’t give up anything to be a guide dog. She has tons of play time and gets to go everywhere.”
He looks at me then, says: “I hate people. I just hate them.”
Then he’s out the door with his shorts full of tweezers.
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Planet of the Blind 