Mom has needed to go to DMV for some time to get a new ID card. It seems silly to me that she needs an ID card at her age, but that’s the world we live in now, so there you go. Anyway, today was the day. We also took the paperwork that we got from Dr. F last week and got her set up with a Handicapped parking permit, which we will carry in our car so that we can use it when we take her places.
I specifically chose this day to take Mom to DMV because mid-month Thursdays are typically pretty light on traffic. We were in and out in less than 45 minutes, which I consider a win.
Right after the picture above was taken, a guy with a well-behaved young pit-bull mix walked by us in the DMV lobby. Of course, Teddy went ballistic like he always does when he see other dogs. (Read: Little man complex.) The incident was over before it really started: they passed by and he barked. They went out the door and he stopped. But that didn’t stop a very cranky DMV employee (let’s call her “Claudine”) from letting us know what’s what.
So, Mom and I are both sitting there, minding our own business. Teddy is on my lap, not making a peep. All of a sudden, here comes Claudine, literally running over, planting hands on hips, sticking her bony chin out like she’s trying to poke a ‘possum out of his den.
“Service dogs,” she scolds, “are not supposed to bark.”
I look at Mom and then up at her. “OK,” I say. Like, what am I supposed to do? Teddy barks. (And for the record, he isn’t a ‘service dog’: he’s a companion dog.) Then I just sit there, hoping she will go away.
“They are not supposed to bark,” she says again. Teddy hasn’t made a peep since the pit-bull left.
“Ok,” I say again. “He’s a companion dog – for my mom.” I say, as if that should explain it.
“Service dogs cannot bark at other dogs.”
Hmmm. Pretty sure they can. It’s probably not a good time to correct her grammar though.
Long silence. Apparently, she wants me to apologize for bringing a poorly trained “service animal” into the holy shrine that is the DMV. She wants my assurance that Teddy will never bark on government property again.
Nope.
There are so many things I want to say to Claudine, the first being, it’s sad that your life sucks so much that you get some joyous power rush while verbally attacking little ninety-year old ladies and their tiny dogs. I don’t say anything.
In my mind, I’m already writing about Claudine. She already has a name.
Mom looks at me. She doesn’t know why Claudine is there, or why she isn’t leaving. It’s gone on long enough. I don’t need to defend us. I just say, “Thank you.” Dismissively, with a smile on my face: the same way a teenager will say thank you when they really mean “F* You.”
Claudine has no idea what to do. Her body language suggests she is bracing for an argument, but the small crowd on our side of the DMV is watching her as she hovers over my tiny mother and her equally tiny dog, and from all outward appearances, mom and I are both being courteous and compliant. There really isn’t anything else she can do without coming off like a full-tilt witch. She narrows her eyes at me, turns on her heels, and goes back behind the counter.
Mom asks me what that was all about. I tell her that the lady was just reminding us that Teddy isn’t supposed to bark inside the building. Mom says, “He’s such a good boy.” Then, turning to look at Teddy, “You wouldn’t bark in here, would you, Teddy?” She’s already forgotten about the pit-bull. Every once and a while, Alzheimer’s works in our favor.
The only thing of real note today is that I had to tell mom how to spell her name when she was signing for her ID card. That was a bit of a surprise, but I guess it shouldn’t be. Reading even the most simple things has been a chore for her for at least six months, and I know that she can no longer write.
We topped the day off with a Frosty from Wendy’s, which makes everything better for Mom. All in all, I think it was a pretty good day, Claudine notwithstanding.
Grammi Time 