Last night I went to a jazz club in New York City and it was way too loud for my guide dog Caitlyn. She tried. She lay at my feet. But when a particularly hot squeal from the saxophone hit the room she stood up and I saw it was time to go. We left early. When you have a service animal you must be willing to compromise and know you’re not just you. Plenty of blind folks don’t want guide dogs in their lives for this very reason. Me? I’d rather have a creature who looks out for me in traffic and whose sweet life I have to reckon. A white cane is fine for everyone else. I gain a lot by caring for my canine companion. And really the jazz wasn’t that great. It sounded like an amplified fight in a lobster trap.
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The above passage is okay as far as it goes. But if my dog wanted to visit a shit pile would I compromise, saying, well sometimes I have to admit I’m not just me?
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Enough! We look after each other. And not all jazz is equal.
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When you say you’re somebody think of your dog and subtract the ambitious fealties to super-ego which have held you hostage to pure life.
Planet of the Blind 