Disservice Dog

MiniMe and I stopped by Fine Girl’s house for early Christmas Eve drinks. She did as she usually does and mixed us several amazing delicious cocktails. After a few we decided to go grab a quick bite to eat and a drink or two at a nearby restaurant bar.

As I was gathering my belongings MiniMe’s sister walked into front the room, ready to go, carrying her lap dog  – who was donning  a bandana with the inscription, ‘ Service Dog,’ around his neck – in a dog carrier/bag. “I’ve got a service dog permit; got it online, no questions asked,” she informed me.

Once at the restaurant Fine Girl’s sister led the way, holding her permit out for the hostess to see as we walked in and saying, “Service dog.” They asked her no questions but then asked the rest of us if we were over 21. “Did you hear that?” I asked her sister. “They asked if we were over 21. Pretending to have a service dog makes you look old.” She paid no heed to my comments, pulled her service dog out of his carrier, wrapped her jacket around him and held him on her lap. After a few minutes she put him down on the ground and began telling us how, if the dog barks or growls, she tells people she is training him to become a service dog and then says things  like, “Leave it. Leave it.” So convincing.

A few seconds later she realized her dog was no longer on her lap, let alone by her side. “Where’s my dog?” she asked. He was three chairs away, clearly not servicing her health needs. The hostess walked by just as this occurred and asked, “Geez, is your permit fake?” Fine Girl and I avoided eye contact but could not avoid laughing. Her sister just rambled on and on about the benefits of a service dog.

Once the hostess left we advised her, “This dog better not be a disservice to us. In fact, it would be nice if you could ‘train’ him to make him more of a customer service dog. Might help decrease our wait times for food and drinks.” “Good point. I wouldn’t mind some customer service right now,” she replied and added, “I would really like to order a seizures salad.” “It’s Caesar’s Salad,” I replied. “Whatever,” she replied as she stroked the head of her ‘service’ dog who was falling asleep, very soon to be ‘out of service.”