“I Was Hoping You’d Have a Dog…”

It happened yet again. A complete stranger asked where my dog was, seemed shocked that I don’t have one, and loudly expressed her disappointment, complete with injured sigh.

“Oh! I was really hoping you’d have a dog with you. It would have been nice if you’d brought a dog with you.”

This time, I was luckier than usual. She eventually continued engaging with me, despite my disappointing inability to provide the doggie interaction she so craved. Most people, once they’ve finished voicing their dismay, lose interest altogether. My value lies in my potential to bring a cute dog into their lives, and when I fail to fulfill that potential, I either fade into invisibility, or field intrusive questions about my blindness and how I cope with it. At no point during these interactions am I asked my name, what I do for work, what I studied in university, or any of the other small-talk topics I’d vastly prefer. For these sorts of people, I’m a living educational exhibit, or a possible conduit to what they really want—an adorable puppy dog.

At least this particular stranger went on to chat about other things, like the negligence of city drivers and the unseasonably gorgeous weather. In my world, that’s a win.

As I’m always quick to point out, I understand that people who make these comments are well-intentioned. When they’re expecting a dog and none appears, they aren’t aware of how much their transparent disappointment can hurt. I doubt they’d be so outwardly miffed if they knew they were making an awkward situation even worse. But as good as the intentions might be, they don’t make this behaviour any less irritating for those of us who encounter it regularly. When you’re the hundredth person to interrogate me for not wanting a dog, I must admit your personal motivations stop mattering all that much to me.

My readership knows by now that I have no intention of getting a service dog. I’ve taken pains to outline my reasoning. I’m unwaveringly supportive of service dogs and the handlers who work with them, but haven’t been shy about discussing the downsides of such a partnership. The one thing I feel I haven’t done with sufficient clarity is describe how it feels to be asked time and time again, “Where’s your dog?” and be met with undisguised judgment and displeasure when I say “I don’t have one.” It’s disruptive, sure, but there’s more to it than that.

Imagine how you’d feel if someone—a stranger, or someone you know well–accosted you to ask why you don’t have kids. Is it because you’re selfish? Is it because you’re incapable of taking care of them? Are you lazy? Do you hate children?

Take it a step further: imagine this person then went on to insist that your life would be so much better if you had them. This is even more fun when the person knows nothing whatsoever about you or your circumstances. They ask personal questions and draw incorrect conclusions based on their own biases and assumptions. By the end, you feel called out and frazzled. Meanwhile, the other party has no idea whether sensitive issues underlie your decision.

The kicker? When you complain, when you point out that the interaction made you feel uncomfortable, people tell you to lighten up. They tell you you’re overreacting. They tell you that not everyone knows how to behave around you, and that if anything it’s actually your fault for not educating them.

This cycle continues–about my lack of guide dog and my lack of children, as it happens—and my annoyance is dismissed.

Yes, I have many reasons for choosing a cane over a dog. Yes, I’ve thought them all through carefully. No, I don’t believe my life would be exponentially better if I had one. No, contrary to what you might expect, not all blind people use dogs. And, even if I did have a dog, I would not owe you the right to spend time with them.

People who actually do have dogs face a (much worse) variant of this behaviour all the time. Just last week, a handler friend lamented that while people ask her dog’s name constantly, they rarely ask for hers. Other handlers have mentioned the unpleasant reality that they will forever be upstaged by their dogs. Yet another friend noticed that if she left her dog at home here and there, people altered the way they interacted with her to such a degree that the difference was painful. People always want to touch the dog, talk to the dog, ask about the dog, take a picture with the dog, and compare the dog to their own beloved pets. Amid all their enthusiasm, they probably won’t bother to acknowledge the person attached to the harness. Most devastating of all, when handlers retire their dogs, they can expect to be asked “Where’s your dog?” far more often than “How are you?” Much like new mothers who discover that they are chopped liver next to their new baby, many of the handlers I’ve spoken to claim they feel invisible next to their dogs, and if they go out in the world without them, the public feels cheated.

Overriding the desire to fawn over a dog is hard, and it’s even more challenging to rewire our natural approaches to social situations. I’ve been “where’s your dogged” by people I’ve known for years and people I’ve known for five seconds. These off-putting comments have come from people who were otherwise impeccably polite, and who have since proven they see me as more than an express lane to doggie snuggles. Like so many issues I bring up here on this blog, this is not isolated to one group or location or personality type. This comes from everyone, it comes from everywhere, and many of us are far too courteous to call it out. When we do, we are quickly shouted down, sometimes by each other.

And so it goes on.

This is the paragraph where I usually insert some advice. This is the point where I present a solution, concluding with an inspiring call to action. This is also where I craft my social media quotes to tie it all together. This is, in other words, the useful part.

Except … I’ve got nothin’. All I can do is explain why this is a problem, do my best to contextualize it, and hope.

People are going to do what they do, but maybe the most well-meaning of them will read this and rethink. Dog handlers are so much more than the dogs by their sides. And I am so much more than the dog I don’t have.

Now, if we could please talk about something else, that’d be fabulous.

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Accommodation with a Side of Guilt, Please

This evening, I went out to dinner with some friends. I ordered a dish I’ve eaten many times (a salad) only to find that they’ve begun presenting it in a new way: the dressing was in a small cup on the edge of the platter, rather than atop the food as it usually is. I froze, slightly embarrassed. I’ve always had trouble dressing my salad if it’s in a cup. Squeeze bottles? No problem. These give me a certain degree of control. Cups, however, are a different story. (Disclaimer: some blind people have no issue with these whatsoever.) I was just about to ask someone at my table to help when our extremely-attentive server materialized at my elbow:
“Do you want me to take this back and dress it for you?”
“Um…no, it’s okay…it’s just a bit awkward—“
“I totally understand. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be right back.”
Away went my plate. The server appeared several minutes later, saying “Here’s your salad. We have a special rule here where each time food is sent back for any reason, we have to actually make a new dish. So, we just made you a new salad and dressed it for you.”
I was stunned. I had just inadvertently wasted an entire plate of food so that someone could put dressing on top of my salad for me? Forget being slightly embarrassed: I was mortified and, I confess, a little ashamed. While the server reassured me that it was all okay, I silently asked the powers that be to disappear me immediately. They did not oblige.

I’m used to being “accommodated”. Indeed, I often expect it: when I enroll in university classes, each of my instructors is given an accommodation letter, which describes the accommodations I’ll need to participate fully in the classroom. (If I sound like a handbook, that’s because I wrote one—no, really!) I also expect workplaces to make (reasonable) accommodations to the work environment. This is something I’ve been encouraged to view as normal and acceptable. As is typical for me, I have felt heaps of unnecessary guilt over accommodations, even when they are deemed “reasonable”. Once, in ninth grade, my science teacher got together with a few others on staff and made me a periodic table, so I wouldn’t have to use the rather inadequate one in my textbook. My junior high Industrial Arts teacher went out of his way to make sure I could try out all the same equipment everyone else could. He even positioned the end of a nail gun while I fired, showing a remarkable lack of concern for his fingers. (If you’re reading this, I want to thank you. I’ll never forget that one.)

When people go above and beyond the call of duty for me, I feel grateful (healthy) and horribly guilty (unhealthy). Instead of simply thanking people and getting on with things, I waste time and emotional resources worrying about how undeserving or inconvenient or high-maintenance I’m being. While the person who is helping me is busy doing me a favour, I’m busy coming up with all the reasons I shouldn’t be accepting it. Even when I do accept it, as I did with that salad, the shame and humiliation will plague me for days. Yes, you read that correctly: days. This particular incident was so awkward that I’m amazed I didn’t start crying right there at the table; goodness knows I wanted to.

As far as the server was concerned, she was helping a gal out, no more no less. I have no idea what the kitchen staff thought, though I wouldn’t be surprised if they were about a dozen different kinds of exasperated. As far as I was concerned, I’d manage to waste food, fill my server’s time with running back and forth (in a very busy restaurant, I might add) and make a fool of myself all in about five minutes. I’m cringing as I write this, but the more I think about it, the more I realize it needs to be discussed. There are probably a lot of people out there who have felt how I’m feeling right now.

I’m trying to be okay with being accommodated. I’m trying to be at peace with accepting help, and depending on others, and even letting people do me favours now and then. Could I have dressed the damn thing myself? Of course. Would it have been less messy and awkward to have someone else do it? Absolutely. Did I force anyone to do it for me? No. Am I still going to feel awful about it for days to come? Yup.

But should I feel guilty? Most people seem to think I shouldn’t. Accommodations are there for a reason, and in many cases they are universal enough to be made into policy and/or law. But just because it’s not in a handbook or policy statement doesn’t mean it can’t and shouldn’t be done. While imposing unreasonable accommodations on people at work, school, and elsewhere isn’t going to further the cause, it shouldn’t mean that any random act of kindness ought to be rejected.

Should we make a habit of letting people do things for us, especially when we’re capable of doing them ourselves? If you know me at all, then you know I’d never suggest such a thing. However, this does mean that we should be comfortable with accepting what people want to give us now and then. If it’s not a sin to let someone carry your heavy bag, or hold open a door, or grab you a drink (all things sighted people let others do for them on a regular basis) then why not let someone offer kindness if they really, really want to?

I’m learning, guys. I’m learning. But for now…I think I’ll go and have that cry.