I was almost picked up for solicitation the other day. Apparently standing in a group of prostitutes and drug dealers when the police roll up, while they pet your pooch (literally my dog), is ill-advised. Several police cars showed up all at once, sirens and lights, billy clubs, guns, etc. I must have looked positively terrified, which is probably why they let me wander off in a daze without saying, “Hey. Where the hell do you think you’re going?” No one else in the group batted an eye. Seasoned vets. Just another day on the corner.
Obviously I’d prefer it if the neighborhood stock brokers, bank tellers and store owners were the only ones to show an interest in Sam-dog, but I have to live with the other element, too. Discriminating against them would only make me stand out and possibly invite conflict. Who am I to judge, on disability and facing discrimination of my own each and every day in small ways?
Then there was the one hooker who thanked me for letting her pet Sam. Nothing could have been more effective at letting me know, once and for all, that we are all created equal but only on paper.