It's not just you… we all have our moments

It's not just you… we all have our moments

Wednesday, January 15, 2014

Emo Service Animal

There are a number of reasons I chose to go to great lengths to unearth, like a truffle pig, a head doctor on some Indian Reservation in Colorado who would diagnose me as "mentally disabled;" the main reason being I think it's ludicrous I'm forced to pay for a dog - who takes up the same amount of room as my purse - to fly on an airplane with me.  Essentially, I'm paying for the air my dog breathes, like I'm being punished for her carbon footprint.  Either way, it's bullshit, and I won't do it.

So I'm forced to take a bullet, and risk any future employer finding out the status of my mental health, or lack thereof.

At first, the pros still seem to outweigh the cons: not only do I not have to pay for my pooch to fly, she also gets to sit on my lap - and contrary to what I originally thought, turns out people don't want to sit anywhere near a dog, which works well for me because I'm not particularly fond of people.  Double also, if I ever find myself in a situation where I need to move, having a "service animal" will not preclude me from renting in a non pet-friendly complex.  I can bring her to work… Hell, I can bring her anywhere I want and people aren't "allowed" to question me.  Service papers are like my golden ticket, even though they come at the expense of my IQ.  It's not like I'm Einstein, trying to get away with some outrageous farcical claim that I'm actually closer to Forrest Gump.  I'm just a bit high strung, a little tightly wound.  Or, to the layman, sober.

But according to the Chilhowee Psychological Services, I'm riddled with anxiety, debilitating and incapacitating anxiety.  Me, certainly not my dog - my furry little Mogwai - who was smart enough to discover my strategic flaw when packing her up for one of our last flights (because I'm mentally handicapped).

May I present Exhibit A:

Notice the position where the two ends of the zippers meet - right there at the top of the backpack.  Now imagine said pack laying on the ground under the seat in front of you - where is the zipper now?  If you said perfectly positioned for a quick escape, you would be correct.

Ironically, my emotional support animal is riddled with debilitating and incapacitating anxiety.  To such an extreme degree, in fact, that upon takeoff - as if possessed by panic demons - she dug her way out the top/ front end of her carrier, and hauled ass under a few rows of seats.  I didn't realize what had happened until I heard the woman sitting behind me scream as the Gremlin ran over her feet, before darting into the aisle, running hot laps up and down the plane.

All I could do was reach above my head and hit my flight-attendant call button to claim my crazed monster, because the fasten seat-belt light was on, and I'm the kind of girl who follows the rules.
*Truth: I don't break rules (anymore).  I find ways out and around them.*

In summation, it's 100% accurate to say that I have an "anxiety" dog.  However, I'm the one emotionally supporting my animal during travel.  Do I think it's fair that I have to register a personal disability?  Of course not.  My dog's obviously the retarded one.  But I'm a tight ass who would rather suffer the embarrassment of looking like a goddamn, prissy, Paris Hilton wanna-be, LA idiot than pay for my dog to fly.