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The Big Fat Lie of the Little Red Vest: The Use and Abuse of Service Dog Paraphernalia
His lip suddenly raised. Alerted, I moved my hand as quickly as I could.
But not fast enough.
The chubby little Chihauhua, wearing a bright red Service Dog vest, was as fast as a rattlesnake. He opened up one hell of a bite on my right hand.
I bled profusely onto the floor of the Golden VA clinic here in Colorado. I’m a hemophiliac, so this kind of thing can be a problem.
The owner, an elderly bearded man, presumably a veteran, did nothing.
I had done precisely what you’re supposed to do. Approached carefully. Asked permission. Did everything the man told me to do to make the dog feel safe.
And got a bad bite in the process.
This was no service dog.
Two hours later, after the nursing staff took care of me, we had another story. My VA nurse Harvey had his own nearly-white, two-year old Lab. That dog, and Harvey, had undergone some 40 weeks of ADA training. That sweet pup licked my face as I endured the very painful cleaning of the bite.
Harvey had gone downstairs to see the man. Asked to pet the dog. Nearly got himself bitten.