How old is your puppy? asked the Bob Evans server. She stoops down to look under the table at our pup in training.
Puppy Euka is alert amid the activity of this noisy – and aromatic – environment, but she’s content to hold her Down like the good girl she is. Beauty and brains, this one.
She’s almost seven months, I said.
Wow, you’re lucky, said the server. You got a good one then. My boyfriend’s little brother has a service dog. It’s three years old and can’t stay still. He’d never be able to get it to lie under a restaurant table like that.
Lucky?
It?
Huh, is that so? I say. Where did he get his service dog from?
Oh, well, says our server. And she names a local assistance dog organization that’s not CCI, but another one we know about.
Gotcha, I say. You know, if the dog needs more training, I’m sure the organization will provide it.
I actually don’t know this is true. I hope it is.
My boyfriend’s little brother has autism, so the dog’s for that, she said. They don’t need the dog so much when they go out.
The Husband lowers his menu to catch my eye. I know that look. It says, go easy on the chick. The only thing between me and my lunch right now is your impending lecture.
Go. Do. Be Dog. 