A dogged interest: You might just have a service dog on your lap

Today at Nickel Diner in downtown Los Angeles, I had nearly had lunch with a chihuahua in the restaurant. The pooch was perched atop the lap of its human, its head occasionally resting on the table.

Now I've seen dogs at eateries with outdoor patio dining. No big deal. But never have I seen a dog sitting at a restaurant table, as if it were an invited guest. Actually, the dog had all fours on the table at certain points during our mutual stay.

When I asked the manager about the restaurant's policy on pets at the table, she informed me that the humans offered certification that this mini-muffin of a canine was a service dog.

A service dog? What possible service could this timid and tentative creature possible offer? And offer from the arms of its owner.

To be clear, there is a legal distinction between service dogs, therapeutic dogs and pets. Service dogs, the American Disabilities Act states, are not pets. Service dogs are the only ones permitted anywhere its human goes.

I suspect that, since the male human with the long-haired chihuahua kissed its mouth, it wasn't on the job at the time. The dog's carrier also sat next to them on the booth. But, honestly, for all I know, the animal might have been a working animal. Although, again, I'm not sure what service a dog being kissed and carried can perform.

This experience, complete with the female human making sure to linger while holding the dog with its backside to my face as she passed to leave, got me to wondering what the standards and rules are related to service dogs.

As it turns out, your lap dog might just be a service dog -- if you say it is.

While several states offer certifications, there are no overarching standards for service dogs -- nothing legal and binding -- as far as I can tell. The ADA site states that:

1. a proprietor cannot ask a patron about their disability, to prove or detail it; 
2. a proprietor cannot ask to see certification that the dog in question is actually a service animal; 
3. a proprietor cannot deny access to said pooch, unless it poses imminent danger or health hazard to other patrons -- allergies don't count. 

Granted these loose parameters are in place to protect disabled persons from being persecuted, so they can go about their lives in the most normal, unfettered way possible. A noble and necessary approach.

However, the lack of certification requirements leave open wide chinks for unscrupulous pet owners to exploit something intended to protect the afflicted.

But there are consequences for falsely posing as a disabled person and claiming your precious pet is a service animal when it's not. The California Penal Code (Title 9, Chapter 12) states in section 365.7 is a misdemeanor:

(a) Any person who knowingly and fraudulently represents himself or herself, through verbal or written notice, to be the owner or trainer of any canine licensed as, to be qualified as, or identified as, a guide, signal, or service dog, as defined in subdivisions (d), (e), and (f) of Section 365.5 and paragraph (6) of subdivision (b) of Section 54.1 of the Civil Code, shall be guilty of a misdemeanor punishable by imprisonment in the county jail not exceeding six months, by a fine not exceeding one thousand dollars ($1,000), or by both that fine and imprisonment.

Of course, they have to prove, somehow, that you aren't disabled -- and that's something about which they can't even ask.

So, Paris Hilton -- and all you others with lap dogs you take everywhere -- Tinkerbell could be a service dog, if you say she is.

Falling Down: A walk with a mission

About 6 months ago when I started training for the Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure, my partner in mischief said he always wanted to do the walk Michael Douglas did in the movie Falling Down. Today, since I had an 18-miler to do, we walk from downtown to Santa Monica. Wish us luck. - Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Treadmill torture

Nothing deep here. Just wanted to leave word -- in case this workout is the end of me. Think Blair Witch Treadmill. Sweat, tears, snot...the works.

Oy. - Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:N Brand Blvd,Glendale,United States

I'm back

I've decided to return to blogging as I embark on an adventure of making a new me for 2010. Stay tuned. - Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Colorado St,Glendale,United States

Psychological profile

I don't recall the first time my mother mentioned it to me, but I do remember the repeated message: When you get stopped by a police officer, do not talk back, do not react, do keep your hands visible, do not make sudden moves and, most importantly, do not let your pride get the best of you.

And then she would say, in words almost as fleeting as an exhale, that she was grateful I wasn't a boy.

You see, being brown and male presents a whole other set of variables that were too terrifying for her, a black mother, to ponder. It was scary enough for her to think, past the indignities she experienced in a 1950s American south, of her feisty daughter who "grew up white," for the most part, forgetting her place when faced with authority who might not have as much respect for her life as she was taught to have for authority.

I remember the first time I was pulled over at night, with a girl friend (who was also black) in my car. It was in Rancho Mirage near Eisenhower Medical Center. Desert nights are lighted primarily by distant stars. Date groves that line the street enhanced the depth of darkness -- and vulnerable aloneness -- when we were pulled over. The emptiness of the streets seemed almost to echo audibly. No witnesses.

Just seconds before I made that left turn, we had been two carefree teenage girls singing at the top of our lungs to the latest Bobby Brown hit. Then the red and blue lights bounced off all of the unlighted surfaces. The light air in my Ford Escort grew heavy. In the first flash reflected off my rear-view mirror, our faces tightened and our bodies stiffened.

Instinctively, we became what generations of blacks before us had taught us to become: cautious and compliant -- and black. Without even a glance at each other, she put her hands on the dashboard and I quickly slipped my license out of my purse and put my hands on the steering wheel after I pulled over. It wasn't motivated by fear, but more by rote, instinct.

It is a lesson that so many brown people know almost before they learn to tie their shoes. They know there is no value in being proud when the person who has the power is a cop with a gun. Bullets and gun butts trump pride every time. It's not a question most of us think worth asking. We already know the answer.

The question that wended its way through my mind, the same way I might wonder about what's for dinner, was will we leave this alive. It was the only question. Our parents, cousins, grandparents, aunts had told us that. We knew story after true story of proof that it wasn't outside the realm of reality that we might not, no matter why we were pulled over.

In this situation, was there ever a real danger? I'm guessing not. Does that change the way I feel about the situation or would have reacted? Again, I'm guessing not.

The recent case of Dr. Gates has many black and brown folks talking about what they have learned to suck their teeth and roll their eyes at as routine, even if an exception these days. In the LA Times, there's a story headlined "Black males' fear of racial profiling very real, regardless of class" that attempts to explore the topic.

Like Henry Louis Gates Jr., they are professionals, men of status and achievement who have excelled in a nation that once shunned black men.

And for many of them, their only shock -- upon learning of the celebrated scholar's recent run-in with police -- was the moment of recognition.

They know too well the pivotal moment Gates faced at his Massachusetts home. It was that moment of suspicion when confronted by police, the moment one wonders, in a flash of panic, anger, or confusion -- Maybe I am being treated this way because I'm black.

Next comes the pivotal question -- Do I protest or just take it?

The point it misses is that it's not really a question. It's never a question. Being ponderous and considering motivations and which course of action to take is a luxury most in these situations cannot entertain.

Not that the "it's because I'm black" assessment is always the assumption as much as a subconscious readiness. I think more processing the questions in the story, it's like a checklist that one begins to put into action the second an officer is in one's orbit.

To this day, that is always the case when it comes to my infrequent encounters with police with that particular power relationship. It's not a question of whether they approached me because they see black.

Ultimately, that doesn't matter. It's usually, for me, more about the uncertainty of how they will treat me because they see black. I know, like most of us know, that reacting -- letting pride escape from the chains we bind it in the bowels of our beings in such instances -- will elicit nothing good in the presence of power.

Now that's not to say that every situation takes a turn for the worst. The reality is I have been treated simply as "a citizen" in most of my encounters. That fact, however, does not ever change the checklist.

I think just as an officer may, based on his or her extended experience in dealing with the lesser elements of society, be inclined to view a situation through squinting skepticism, a brown person may see through the scrim of a shadowy history. It is a matter of persistent perception versus a reflection of reality.

Having never been a cop, I can only imagine the adrenaline and fear officers experience so many times in a single day. My brief ride-along when I was in grad school in New York gave me a fleeting glimpse of what it must be like. Every call that night was a wash of tension, anxiousness, energy, alertness, excitement and split-second judgment as pivotal moments seem to play out in slow motion between blinks.

And, as Malcolm Gladwell writes in his book "Blink," it is what goes on between those blinks that can determine how each of us handles and processes our encounters.

Reunited and it feels so good

I'm off to my 15-year reunion at Scripps College. So many things have changed since 1994 at this amazing women's college. One interesting change is that instead of embracing La Semeuse or the athletic mascot of the goddess Athena, current students have embraced...

...the squirrel.

Most of us alums are rather perplexed about why an infection carrying rodent in search of nuts is a good idea for a student-selected mascot, but I'm trying to embrace it. "Scripps Squirrel Girl" is chronicling her adventures during reunion weekend.

Scripps Squirrel Girl hardly reconizes Elm Tree Lawn. At graduation 1994, the lawn was shaded by aging elms that created a gazebo of history and import as Scripps women for decades passed under and through them. Maybe they'll grow back.

There was a workshop on decoupage. SSG was moved by the beautiful black and brown faces she found in the clippings and pasted them on a box as the beginning of a project.

So moved by nostalgia, SSG nearly forgot herself around the winetasting at Margaret Fowler Garden. No, Scripps Squirrel Girl, no need to, um, flash back to senior champagne brunch!! Shirts stay on!

Um, what are you?

In April, NPR tackled the topic of what not to say to mixed-race colleagues. But you know, I personally take license to ask. My approach sometimes catches them off-guard, primarily because it's not what they're used to hearing.

My question: What's your beautiful blend?

Fellow blenders, how do you ask -- or do you ask at all?

Here's a link to that NPR program

NPR: What Not To Say To A Mixed-Race Colleague