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Service dog handler lobby

I am looking to buy Chopper this cooling vest:

Ruffwear - Swamp Cooler, Cooling Vest for Dogs, Graphite Gray, Large Link Removed

But the way it works is evaporation of water. I know many teams use this but what no one has said is if putting their normal vests over this is ok as then the air flow is constricted and it doesn't evaporate as it would without the vest over it. So I am wondering if anyone uses this and if they put their normal vests over it.
 
Shoes/boots. What is the easiest way y'all have seen to put them on? Socks or no socks? I have both but the shoe/boot doesn't seem to want to move over the sock so put them on without the socks. They stay on but do seem to twist a bit.

I have the Ruffwear Summit Trex: Summit Trex

I was going to get the grip trex: Ruffwear GripTrex Dog Boots (though they were 80 bucks on amazon. Not sure why so cheap on this site) but someone said that the summit trex would be better for Florida hot asfault.

I rolled the top part over the boot and wiggled them all the way on (a trick a team that uses them said to do) and then rolled the top part back up and over his leg. I got them tight enough where they won't fall off but seem to twist at times.

Any tips on keeping them on correctly. Socks or no socks? Some use them and some don't. They are the right size but a BITCH to get on. It seemed easier to have him lay down rather then stand up. But anyone have tips on this?

I am also having him wear them around the house and encouraging him to walk around with some chicken. We just got them so he is lifiting his feet really high in the air. I am hoping he gets used to them? Any tips on that? Getting him used to them?
 
Musher's Secret i

Yes, I do have Musher's Secert as well but since I would have to continue buying that, it makes more sense to just use the shoes. Most teams I have seen use shoes and you can fry an egg on our asphalt here in the hot summers and I don't know if I would trust an ointment to stay on the whole day. But I did get it as well so I have shoes/boots, socks, and a jar of Musher's Secert.

ETA: I should say that I will be using Musher's Secert until he gets fully used to the shoes and will always carry it with me in case I forget the shoes. So his feet will always be protected.
 
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What a terrific response to this thread. As a left arm amputee, I've trained my dog to primarily...

I'm not sure how to reblog a post I recently made on one of my public blogs but, for the sake of anonymity that's okay. Instead, I've cut-and-pasted it here.

It's lengthy, but it's a terrible trauma I need to release. I know that those among you who are service dog handlers in particular will get it. But it's here for everyone.
It remains a nightmare to us:

On February 10th, 2017 -about two months ago now- I wanted to reward Sophie for her patience all day long while I'd been immersed in yet more inner healing work. *(MyPTSD.com was among the places I'd been reading and writing that day)

Though I didn't expect we'd see anyone else, I clipped Sophie's service dog ID badge to my shorts, grabbed a t-shirt and water bottle and headed out.

Our goal was a trailhead with a hillside trail we'd seen on a previous hike. It was located just past a campsite where an older, 60-something couple were camped.

Sophie and I hadn't stayed often at such campgrounds, opting instead for the open lands. It's why Havasu wasn't a good choice for us.

Still, Sophie and I had met these campers before, and they were very friendly. Their actual role there was to be the "campground hosts" who'd document the arrival and departure of campers.

In actuality, they seemed to be babysitters who had the unenviable job of monitoring the comings and goings of people there.

As I mentioned, there were some sketchy people there and, had I not been with Sophie I wouldn't have stayed.

Plus, I learned much earlier that some people actually did live pretty permanently on public land and, if not made to move every two weeks as mandated by the rules governing public land usage, such people might stay indefinitely.

Upon arriving at the hosts' campsite, I could see they had two visitors, a guy dressed as a park ranger and a young female adult.

We had no reason to believe there'd be any trouble with them, as we'd met the hosts before. Plus, Sophie has always been welcomed by park rangers and law enforcement officials in general, and she seemed to have an affinity for them. I jokingly chalk it up to her pedigree and it's probably true.

As we approached, I held out Sophie's ID and, for the sake of those who hadn't yet met Sophie, I announced her role as my service dog.

But this park ranger was unlike any Sophie and I had ever met, a very brusque person who simply had bad energy; he came across from the start as a not very nice person.

After all that's happened with this young man, those are still the best and only words I choose to describe him.

When he quickly ran up to face me and issue his edict that Sophie needed to be on a leash or else, I knew there'd be trouble. So did Sophie, and she came to sit by my side.

My head was still swimming with thoughts of what I'd been working through all afternoon, and it was on walks like this one I'd take with Sophie where I'd wind down from such days.

His request clearly made no sense, and I didn't hesitate to tell him I'd a right to not have Sophie on a leash provided doing so would create a danger for me due to my physical disability. Climbing a rocky trail while holding a leash, shirt, and water bottle in my only hand, I believe, qualified as such a dangerous situation.


In effect, this ranger was literally ordering me to do something dangerous.
He was half my age if a day, and armed to the teeth with a handgun and a belt full of other supplies.

He also had a youthful belligerence to match and, in his misguided view, because he was the one wearing the badge and uniform and carrying the gun, I could tell by his tone that my rights, or those of anyone who had stood before him at that moment, were secondary, if that, to his need to aggressively voice his authority.

So there I stood, most likely twice his age, with one shriveled half-arm and the other arm sorely overworked. I don't look-and I'm not-in good physical condition.

Given the presence of the campground hosts and the young girl who was apparently a love interest of this young man, it seemed he felt a need to save face. An obvious element of insecurity was clearly at work here, and I was an easy mark for him to display his aggression.

So, while I'd only intended to go for a walk with my service dog, there was instead going to be trouble; he'd make sure of it.

Sophie rubbed up against me and pushed me away from this guy, her cue to me that I should get out of there because she sensed danger.

That same cue had spared me at least one other such potentially violent situation, and this was clearly another.

By now, I was unable to see a badge or a gun or anything in front of me, only an angry person who wanted to hurt me, staring back at me.

I'd seen that same angry and irrational look many times before in my father's face, forty years earlier. I'd also relived those old experiences many times earlier that day through a psychological technique called Progressive Desensitization.

Heeding Sophie's cue and an age-old fight-or-flight defense mechanism, I turned and ran toward the only sanctuary I knew, my motorhome, about 50 yards away.

I didn't get far enough, fast enough though, as the kid got into his SUV and chased me.

The sound of the tires crunching the rocks behind me, plus the smell of the rubber tires and the flashing lights all took me back to yet another trauma-related experience, my bicycle accident, four years earlier.

The kid got out and tackled me; my legs became rubber and I went limp.

Though I didn't feel a thing, I recall the young man having trouble getting handcuffs on me since I only had one hand. He later claimed that, because my body twisted as he tried to wrestle me down to the ground, I was resisting him. In reality, I was off balance and in a constant state of falling down. It was just an excuse he used to brutalize me. Sophie's instincts were right, as usual; I was being assaulted by a thug wearing a uniform.

In retrospect, why restraining me in any way was necessary makes as much sense as insisting I use my only, already occupied hand to hold a leash while climbing a rocky trail where there were no other people who might be present to perceive Sophie as a danger.

If he was having trouble handcuffing me, and I was unable to stand while he held my arm, how could he conceive of me holding a leash? In trying to restrain me, he was really proving the irrational nature of his request. This is a place where any reasonable person would, in exercising good judgment, understand the irrational nature of his order.

But I wasn't dealing with a reasonable person here, just a young and inexperienced kid who was probably also scared to be seen as such, so he tried to hide it through his brutality. Again, I was an excellent mark for him to do just that. I recall getting dragged through the rocky sand and, though my legs were already cut quite severely and already bleeding, I didn't feel a thing.

The blood thinner I take added to the fearful scene, and I doubt my mind responded to the sight of my own blood again under such circumstances in any way but to block it out entirely.

Reliving a scene so closely related to my accident years earlier, and only moments after reliving horrific physical abuse from decades earlier was surreal, to say the least.

The next memory I have is of this young man kneeling on my back as Sophie approached me.

I have a lifelong history of intractable seizures, and she is trained to come to my aid if I should be down on the ground; it's something we practiced daily in Mexico, as I knew it could make the difference in my safety.

As she approached, the young man took a little canister from his belt-presumably one of his toys-and proceeded to pepper spray Sophie in both eyes.

"What are you doing?" I asked, coughing and in disbelief. Again, I don't recall feeling any pain then, just a thought in the back of my mind that told me that this should be hurting, it just isn't for some reason.

It was the exact same thought I had lying broken on the street in August, 2012; the pavement then was so hot, I knew, but after my collision with the SUV I was in shock and just couldn't feel it.

Then he was dragging me through the rocky sand again, and left me to lay next to the truck he'd used to chase me. My face was right up against the tire; I could smell the rubber.

That's about the moment I had a weird feeling in my back, as if some kind of pain was fighting to get through my shock to hurt me.

"What are you doing?" I asked him once again, in complete confusion. He gave no answer, though I knew he was responsible. Who else could it be?

A few moments later and I realized he'd deployed yet another of the toys from his belt; he was tasering me, standing right above me as I lay face down, defenseless.

Though I didn't realize it then-I was in survival mode- the degree of cruelty perpetrated on both my service dog and I-despite doing all the right things and even calmly speaking up for my rights, and certainly not resisting anything afterwards-was criminal.


All this, because he couldn't - or wouldn't-concede that putting a leash on Sophie was a distinctly dangerous idea.

Hurting Sophie and I as he was demonstrates the sort of thing a sick person who is bent on hurting another person would do if he could be certain to do so with impunity.

That's why I say that, still, the most accurate description for this young man is that he's a very not nice person. Cruel would be okay, too.

Ultimately, after the kid struggled to figure out where to attach my right hand he found the only suitable place to hook me was the brush guard on the front bumper.

I don't know how long I sat there, staring at the bottom of the car, watching the emergency lights flicker and listening to this kid revel in telling everyone everyone in earshot how he'd dragged me here and sprayed my dog and how my body convulsed as he tasered me, "just like in that movie," he repeatedly said.

It was like being in a grade school lunchroom, listening to little boys talk about their hero from a recent action movie, only one of them was in his twenties and carrying a gun, and excitedly kept describing himself as the hero.

Call it another survival mechanism, but I remember making mental notes of the scene and thinking of how I'd write about them later, as I'm doing now.

Perhaps I knew then that going over it in my mind while still on-scene would make going back over it later, as I'm doing now, somehow less traumatic.

As I mentioned, writing about my cPTSD is my primary way of dealing with it, always has been.

Keeping in mind that my only goal here was to only take Sophie for a walk and wind down a bit. There's something so wrong with what was happening there that I hadn't the presence of mind to figure out what it was.

It was the exact same situation as the abuse I received as a kid, lying down, broken, with no idea why it was happening or how to escape it.

This time, however, I knew better. Even though I couldn't put my finger on it, I knew I'd done nothing wrong and that, in reality, I was the one who had been wronged.

The campground hosts, I later learned, did their best to clean the pepper spray chemicals from Sophie's eyes. *The woman, I later read in the police report, burned her hand in so doing. The same report, from her husband, referred to me as "obviously crazy." Just one of many lies used against me still, even today.

Chained to the front of the truck, all of this was out of sight and earshot.

Beyond, a couple of nerdy, skinny guys in uniform, apparently sheriff's deputies, showed up. They brought to mind, like the kid who just beat up Sophie and I, kids who'd been beaten up and pushed around all their lives and sought to get even by pushing others around simply because they could.

The young park ranger/thug who'd just beaten up Sophie and I earned both my distrust and also the nickname Billy the Kid. He had confiscated Sophie's Service Dog ID from me. He then proceeded to approach me where I sat three or four times to "inform me" that Sophie is not a service dog, and then to accuse me of having an ID for the sole purpose of taking her places with me.

As I said, this young kid's behavior transcends belligerence and overlaps into cruelty.

Although I answered his question affirmatively the first couple times he asked, I just looked at him thereafter.

He was trying to goad me into some sort of aggressive reaction in front of his uniformed buddies so he could prove to them how "dangerous" I was.

Perhaps they had pointed out to him that what he'd done to a disabled man in front of the few witnesses of the event might have made Billy the Kid guilty of a crime here.

Afterward, Billy was a lot less outspoken about what - and how - he'd hurt Sophie and I. It reflected poorly on them all.

After all this, I don't believe any of them have a conscience, just a need to cover their own asses, just in case. Not exemplary or brave behavior from those entrusted with the label of public servant.

Later, I've no idea how long, I remembered -how could I forget?- Sophie running over to me while I was still chained to the truck.

Billy the kid wanted to make Sophie out to be some kind of attack animal, bent on killing him. He wouldn't have to admit to pepper spraying a defenseless, unsuspecting service animal.

Sophie, of course, was scared too, but Billy the kid could never have counted on the affinity she has for cops. So, I guess, they "let" her live.

None of those cops who showed up that evening-because a one-armed old guy didn't have a leash on his dog-were very nice people.

Finally, after proclaiming that he "didn't care if I froze my ass off," he drove me literally ninety miles an hour to Flagstaff, four hours away. I could clearly see the speedometer from where I sat.

He'd turn on the lights and siren anytime someone else was visible up ahead, watching them pull over as he sped on by. He was having a great time playing policeman, and was a danger to everyone he came near.

It appeared that, somehow, because I spoke up for myself about being a disabled amputee and having a right to not have to hold a leash on my service dog, I'm somehow responsible for triggering this young man's reprehensible behavior.

It would be a week before I'd see Sophie again, and just as long until I knew she was okay. That's how long I was in jail, having been charged with assault.

Yes, in keeping with the completely backwards nature of this entire episode, he charged me.

Once we arrived in Flagstaff, Billy next turned his attention to whispering threats to me through gritted teeth. He wanted me to know that Sophie was going to be euthanized, that my RV would be towed away and destroyed and that I'd spend "all sorts of extra time in jail."

Keep in mind this person is still roaming the public lands, wearing a badge and carrying a gun, with a head filled with dangerous overconfidence and an exaggerated idea of the limited albeit important purpose he must fulfill as a park ranger.

What Billy didn't know as he tried his best to intimidate me is something I suppose I'd never have thought of as a silver lining to all my father's abuse. Namely, it's the fact that Billy is a rank beginner when it comes to such tactics.

Having just beaten up Sophie and I, not unlike my own dad once pushed me around, the fact that the kid was a coward was clear.

But I was only afraid back when I was a kid, and in the rare nightmares I still have today. Here, though, I knew I'd done nothing wrong. So listening to Billy try to intimidate me was quite awkward; I was in a situation I never thought I'd find myself in again and, since it was already happening anyhow, it was worth it to know I was above it.

Billy just came across as an angry kid who resents his job because he's not Border Patrol, or State Trooper, or something more glamorous than a BLM ranger who mostly deals with senior-aged campground hosts. Only he, however, can come to terms with that. Pushing innocents around, like Sophie and I, won't change a thing for him...

...I'm not a criminal, and I don't have a criminal mindset, whatever that means, exactly. But I've been on the receiving end of criminal behavior, first as an abused kid, and now as an adult, abused by a kid...

...Among the things that took place while I was in their county jail was a meeting with the public defender. During our initial meeting we talked about what happened.

By this time, all I knew was that something really wrong was happening. And there was no one to trust, for everyone I met along the way simply assumed I'd done something wrong and, by association, was lying in every way about everything.

I was really out of my element, and more interested in how I'd react to being in jail than anything. It was like being in a life-sized sociology experiment, and I was both guinea pig and experiment administrator.

Most important, however, for the first time in many years I had none of my medication, nor would I receive any for the duration of my stay. It had, I'm sure, a profound effect on my ability to process information and to understand even the most basic things that were happening.

When it came for my first time to speak in court, I deferred to the public defender to do so. I had no clarity of thought and my Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) symptom of dissociation was taking place.

I had nothing of nutritional value to eat, and was severely dehydrated. It was in this state that I did everything, including meeting with the public defender. After gaining his assurance we were speaking privately, I told him how I'd been assaulted by this kid and that I had a flashback to some previous traumas throughout this whole episode.

I described the situation as best I could, under the premise that I couldn't hold a clear and deep thought. He summed it up for me, I think in an attempt to spare me from having to rehash the details. He reiterated my details about this kid irrationally and wrongly insisting I put a leash on Sophie, because of the legal right I had to not do so, as well as the obvious dangers involved in hiking a rocky trail off-balance.

Given that I sat right in front of him and he could see I am an amputee, I thought he'd get it. But, as I realized many weeks afterward, he didn't. Nor did he understand the importance and purpose Sophie has in my life, and the training that was behind it all.

Though I didn't know it, he was coming from some other place, with some other source of information, some details corrupting his understanding of what happened. In short, though he didn't outwardly show it, he was listening to me with the belief I was guilty, too.

He ended his brief summary-and I agreed with him, that after the kid tackled me and I fell to the ground, "...things went downhill from there."

With wounded legs still raw and yet to scab over, and an upper body that felt as broken as it had when I was healing from my bicycle accident, I totally agreed.

But what he meant by "things going downhill" was his watered-down way of referring to me having committed the assault.

To me, “things going downhill” meant that was when the kid really started to beat me up. Something I probably would have caught-or at least clarified-had I not been in shock and had my medication.

In the mind of the public defender, I was already guilty and the only question was how to prove me not guilty. Also, in the report the public defender drew his information from, Sophie was some kind of menacing, vicious threat that needed to be neutralized.

How much more wrong could any of this be, I now wonder. It's obvious the case should have been thrown out, and the kid reprimanded, at least, for his criminal behavior. But I had no grasp of the situation, which never would have occurred had I not been traveling alone; again, I was a perfect mark for a dangerously sick person.

It's all a part of living with BPD, which allows little room for others. As Dr. Judith Herman states in her book Trauma and Recovery, "those with BPD are condemned to live a lonely life."

Again, this occurred solely because I'd not had my service dog on a leash for my own safety.

As I say, the so-called justice system is geared toward keeping inmates in jail, or somewhere within their custody, i.e. via some form of parole. Recidivism is the order of the day.

They call mine "Supervised Release," which is to last for a year. But the restitution they've saddled me with is meant to financially break me so that I must stay near them as long as I haven't paid in full. Clever, eh?

Not really; it's not rocket science, just a more civil form of being a thug, as they made a point of telling me that if I didn't do what they said a whole squad of federal marshals would arrive in swat gear at my door.

They would, I presume, take enjoyment in pepper spraying Sophie and tasering me once again. It's a violent and irrational world they live in, one I remember growing up around.

One thing is certain; I am as incapable of understanding it now as I was then.

Anyway, when I was in jail, I felt truly safe there. It was the clearest connection I had with my childhood, and the memories of the many times I was grounded for some picayune "infraction" that my old man used to call "being on probation."

So why did I feel safe? Simple; nobody could hurt me there, only my emotions could be hurt, if I were weaker. But I had the strength of knowing I'd survived such treatment before, and would have no trouble surviving it again. Having lived much of my life in survival mode, jail provided a situation I was well suited to handle. The mere thought of it frightened me.

However, I didn't know if Sophie was safe until the fourth or fifth day in jail, when I was slipped an official looking document- a photocopy- that said in so many words that Sophie was scheduled to be euthanized "or given up for adoption" if I didn't pick her up by a certain date.

Coincidentally enough, the date came before the date I'd be out of jail should I choose to have a jury trial and be found not guilty. Also, my RV - with my medication still in it, I hoped- would have been on public land beyond the two week limit and likely would be towed.

Those weren't risks I was willing to take, particularly regarding my absence of medication. The hope was, I'm sure, that I'd have some kind of violent episode in jail so they could justify keeping me there longer, and possibility sending me to some kind of institution.

For these jailers as well, I was a perfect mark. Again, none of these things would have happened if I weren't traveling alone. Clearly, having BPD is a crime.

To reiterate, all this because I didn't/I couldn't safely have my dog on a leash and spoke up on my own behalf about it.

I was put in a position to plead guilty and probably see Sophie, or risk losing Sophie in order to be found not guilty.
And I should never have been there in the first place.

What they didn't know, and still don't know, was that I have nothing to lose in pleading guilty. Life without Sophie would be meaningless to me, so the concept of guilt meant little.

I'd already survived being beat up by Billy, and the wounds on my legs were still healing. All the old injuries from my bike crash that Billy had aggravated by sitting on me were gone.

Nobody in jail was going to hurt me except maybe one or two of the guards - just more not very nice people-and nobody was going to attack me if I dropped the soap, either. They all had girlfriends anyway and, by the look of it, they were having a great time in there. It somehow kept me emotionally intact, and even made me smile- a much-needed distraction.

Their card games, playing football with rolls of toilet paper, etc., took my mind off my PTSD.

The first few nights I could not sleep in there, nor could I drink water. My eyes were so bloodshot that I figure the guards thought I was either going cold turkey from some pretty heavy drugs or crying myself to sleep. It didn't matter, for everyone I've run into since then treats you as if everything you say is a lie.

But I kept in mind what my ex-wife told me about how messed up people who work in prisons are, and have to be. She grew up in Cañon City, Colorado and attended school with some guards’ kids, so she has some insight into the idea.

Not to take anything away from those who may well need to be chained up to make the rest of us safer, I think any human who makes his/her livelihood about chaining up others falls into a special category that isn't quite all right.

If some things I overheard among staffers there are a true reflection of their behavior, I think the public in general would be safer if some of them were behind bars next those who already are.

Anyway, if I remember correctly it was 28 degrees and snowing when I was released, wearing the shorts, t-shirt and sandals I had when I went in.

For no apparent reason other than to inconvenience me, they confiscated my driver's license and, for good measure I suppose, Sophie's service dog ID. Who knows what trouble a danger to society like me could cause with those items.

If it weren't for the need to make sure Sophie was okay, none of it would have mattered.

Keep in mind, though that I received none of my medication in jail. The whole so-called justice system is meant to encourage recidivism and, if possible, death to all who enter jail.
I'm not kidding.

I've since read accounts of others who've had a significant other in jail where, for example, a woman had a heart attack and died because she'd been denied her medication.

If I hadn't personally experienced this myself, I'm not sure I'd think twice about reading it, or if I'd bother reading it at all. But now, however, I know this to be very real.

Beyond its obvious dangers, it's a very disparaging thing to be denied your medication by strangers who are indifferent at best, and most likely simply uninterested.

The truth is, though they appeared few in number, the only people who were really, truly awful were those who, like Billy, wore a badge and a uniform.

They are the only ones who threatened me and tried to scare me, etc.
Or they were just so downright vulgar they came across, to me at least, as embarrassingly reprehensible.

But I was so struck by how young they all were that one of them trying to intimidate or threaten me was a lot like someone's smart-alecky nephew acting up.

Perhaps a jailhouse is exactly the sort of place someone like that ends up spending their working lives. Someone's got to do it, I suppose, and if the job fits, then why not?

Anyway, once I got out I first went to Kingman where I was told Sophie was being held.

When I arrived at the animal control office first thing in the morning she was sitting outside. At first, she didn't know it was me approaching.

Then, when she looked at me closer, she immediately looked like she knew me, but not quite from where.

Then, I couldn't keep a straight face, and as soon as I began to laugh she started talking. I think she was asking me where the hell I'd been.

The real truth is, though, that I was really glad that, because dogs live in the moment and, given my memory problems, so do I.

It makes it easier for us then, to forget about what's just happened and move on until we get to someplace where we can work through it.

Just not Havasu.

Once I had the RV again, I got my medication and some good food. Jail food sucked, mostly sugary crap that, at best, tasted like dorm food, except without the hangover.

Then I went back to Flagstaff to visit the parole people. They were nice enough, and said "Call us when you get to Colorado..."

I felt dirty just being in Arizona anymore, as if plastered with a viscous layer of green, napalm-y stench.

I wanted to go home, back to Colorado right away, where I could feel clean again. The fastest route out of Arizona was to take the long way, through California, Nevada, Utah and Wyoming.

Then I called the people in Flagstaff and they gave me the number of their cohorts in Denver.

The Denver people called me back right away and said (they didn't ask) "What are you doing here? You weren't supposed to leave Arizona."

I didn't have the heart to tell them that, not only did I leave Arizona but I've been through four additional states, too.

We've since met and, though they told me they usually work with felons, not those who commit lowly misdemeanors, they wondered out loud why they had to see me at all.

So, I guess I learned my lesson; always be sure to have your dog on a leash, even if it kills you, and for god's sake, don't dare speak up for yourself or your rights. This isn't a democracy, you know.


If I ever go back to Mexico, I'll likely never return. I'll just wait for my Canadian friends, and Sophie and I can grow old together in peace, then die on the beach.

Sounds kind of cold for me to see it said in writing like this but, given the hail thundering outside my windshield on this chilly April afternoon, a warm Mexican beach sounds perfect.

These events have been horribly nightmarish to rehash, particularly the scenes of violence and the corrupted view held by the public defender.

It's much like revisiting the experiences from my youth. But this entire account needs to be told if I am to justify its having happened at all. It's been healing for me to have done so.

And after this hail stops, I am going to go for a hike with Sophie, hopefully unhindered, and wind down in peace.

Thank you for reading this. Please share your thoughts, if you like.
What a terrific response to this thread. As a left arm amputee, I've trained my dog to primarily...
 
Sophie's service dog ID badge

These are not legally required and are scams. Many true handlers buy them to avoid access issues but the issue it causes is you show them a service dog badge (or ID etc) and they let you in. I come after you and do not have a badge or ID (and not required to have one) and they ask me for one because the last service dog handler had one, then tell me I can't have access because I don't have one. That's the issue with those. It creates access issues for those of us that do not buy them because, since one handler had one, they expect them all to have one.

In Cali, there are ID tags that you can voluntarily sign up for through animal control. It is handled by the State but still not required as per the ADA. It is exactly like a rabies tag. It means nothing, not required, and do not give you access.

Plus, I learned much earlier that some people actually did live pretty permanently on public land and, if not made to move every two weeks as mandated by the rules governing public land usage, such people might stay indefinitely.

Boon docking. Many nomads do that. Not all require the 2 week move. It all depends on the rules of that area.

Also, not all areas enforce the 2 week rule. Again, depends on the public land.

I researched boon docking and how to survive living out of my car. I am in no way an expert on it though.

His request clearly made no sense, and I didn't hesitate to tell him I'd a right to not have Sophie on a leash provided doing so would create a danger for me due to my physical disability. Climbing a rocky trail while holding a leash, shirt, and water bottle in my only hand, I believe, qualified as such a dangerous situation.

While, you are allowed to have a service dog off leash if being on leash hinders the service's dog's tasks, I wanted to say that there are numberous handsfree leashes. Ones that go cross ways, ones that go around your waist, and then you can clip a leash on anything using a carabiner.

But, if being on leash is dangerous (as it sounds like it would be) and hinders their tasks (which also sounds it would have), then you have every right to have your service dog off leash if off leash trained. I didn't want to sound like I was saying otherwise. I am just naming some ways to not have to hold a leash for anyone else reading.

I have the service dog part of the ADA as well as my State Statue of service dogs downloaded and saved on all of my electrical devices as well as bookmarked on all browsers. Along with a scanned copy of my Dr's letter. I also have them all printed and have many copies. Three copies of My Dr's letter and 3 printed copies of the ADA and my State Statue are all in a plastic baggies and are inside of his vest and then another copy of all 3 are in both of my bookbags. I also plan to have these grouped printed copies in baggies inside of any of his gear if at all possible.

Not that is needed, at all. And is overkill. But, it helps me try to keep an access issue from esclating and I can provide them with any info. I have never shown the Drs letter and won't but its a just in case sort of thing. There are highlighted areas on all copies of both the ADA and State Statue.

Though it sounded like your symptoms were very high thus not real possible to do but if it is possible to do maybe offering to show him where in the ADA (and possibilty State Statue) it states your service dog can be off leash if a leash prevents the service dog from preforming needed tasks could have prevented esclation. Though some people just don't care.

Again, not blaming you at all nor am I advising you did anything wrong at all. When symptoms are high you can't think, your service dog was saying "get out of here", and when in a face to face confrontation like that, just that prevents any rational thoughts for me. I am just advising, for anyone else reading, what could possibily help.

He then proceeded to approach me where I sat three or four times to "inform me" that Sophie is not a service dog, and then to accuse me of having an ID for the sole purpose of taking her places with me.

This might be because fake service dog owners buy them for that exact purpose. It may be possible that they have come across many fake service dogs and their owners having these badges. It is yet another reason to not buy these badges and IDs.

Again, not saying this was right at all. Just advising what could have been the reason for this. We all know that what makes a service dog is their training but the rest of the world don't seem to know that.

The Cali ID is different but still not required and still doesn't give access.

When it came for my first time to speak in court, I deferred to the public defender to do so. I had no clarity of thought and my Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) symptom of dissociation was taking place.

Dissocisation is a PTSD symptom. I also have BPD.

Given that I sat right in front of him and he could see I am an amputee, I thought he'd get it.

Did you advise that on the ADA it states that if a leash prevents the service dog to do their trained task then a service dog can be off leash? He could have pulled up the ADA quickly. Being an amputee really has zero to do with it. It is about the service dog's trained tasks. Maybe he didn't know and maybe, though should have been obvious, it wasn't obvious to him?

I would also ditch the badge. When people come across fake service dogs where the owners buy those things in the effort to pass their pets off as service dogs, it seems they then have tunnel vision and think everyone with the those badges and IDs are fake service dogs.

They are just problematic.

Even in Cali, that is voluntary. And handlers in Cali advise that and the handler I personally know in Cali does not present it for access into places. It is just there. It is exacty like a rabies tag. A State ID for your dog. All areas have that. I'm not in Cali but I do know a handler that is.

Rely on your dog's training, the ADA and your State Statue, and your doctor that states your need for a service dog. That is what makes a service dog a service dog here in the US.

So, I guess I learned my lesson; always be sure to have your dog on a leash, even if it kills you, and for god's sake, don't dare speak up for yourself or your rights. This isn't a democracy, you know.

No, still do not use a leash. It is still dangerous and Sophie is still off leash trained I presume. I know dogs loose their training if given long enough and I am not sure how long you were in jail and she was with Animal Control. But, I would have the ADA and your State Statue and highlight that area and always have a copy with you. Not that you have to or should have to but it could prevent something like this again. But, the danger is still present and it still interfers with her tasks thus you still have this right and still should not use a leash if it places you in danger.

I often see handler access issues on youtube where they are "standing up for their rights" but its how they go about it. Cops don't know nor care about federal law in most cases I have seen. They are there to enforce State and local laws. So, read through your State Statue. Mine reads super close to the ADA with the added service dogs in training area. If cops are present, use mostly your State Statue as they will be more familiar with it. Though, ADA is federal and over all states, cops tend to not know it and care more about it, per most videos I have seen. Handlers that have spoken up about it say staying calm helps a ton and then pick your battles. If they give you that much trouble then walk away and go elsewhere. If it spiked your symptoms that much I would have just said "she is a service dog and I have a right to have her off leash per both State [if so] and federal laws but I will hike elsewhere. Have a good day!" Or something simular.

Again, not blaming you, this was wrong in every sense of the word, but handlers need to pick their battles and ask themselves if it is worth standing up for your rights to get a hamburger or hike at that location in your case. There are times where you simply will not be heard and people just will not care what the law says. This is one of them. It is wrong but it is just reality of the world we live in.

I'm sorry that happened to you! It all sounds horrible and wrong! I would start a civil suit on them. I would think you have a good case there. Have you spoken to a lawyer about it?
 
The situation was a bad mix, given that my PTSD was already triggered from my days work.

Even if I hadn't been triggered, the federal officer who attacked Sophie and I would have caused trouble – I'm sure of it. There was no turning around and walking away from the sky. Besides, when I left the camper, I wasn't expecting to see a soul. I'd have gone the other way if I had any idea anyone would have been there.

I left out a lot of finer details, such as some of the messed up things the cop said to me in an attempt to intimidate me. Because, however, I'd heard it so many times as a kid, I recognized it for what it was without him really feeling affected by it. Most of us here have probably encountered similar behavior in our tormentors, too. Aggressive tormentors are sick people and cannot help themselves when they've got an innocent victim in hand.

That, more than anything, is how I knew that the the kid was messed up – my internal response to him told me all I needed to know.

Just as the body has certain knee-jerk responses to certain stressors, so does my mind, and I don't live my life in a state of fear. So when these things happen and I respond this way, I just know to follow my gut instinct.

I live in Colorado, and this event occurred in Arizona. As an amputee and disabled person, I have numerous associates as part of my support groups. An attorney, for example who is also an amputee leads our support group here in town, and I have other advocates who work closely with attorneys that understand my position as well.

Because this took place out of state, however, and because I plead guilty to get out to save Sophie's life, everyone has said I have no recourse.

Perhaps filing a civil suit would be justified, but it would also further the number of times I'd be likely be triggered by this situation. Plus now I've little faith in the legal system and don't believe a judge would find against a cop. Further insult to further injury.

That said, next month I'll be starting EMDR to help put a lot of these past stressors into a healthy perspective. I'm talking about the stressors that occurred long before I ran into this legal problem in the desert.

The kid in the desert got away with assault, probably not the first time and most likely not the last.

Given the pain Sophie went through, it's not fair to her not to follow up where possible. But she takes her lead from my emotions – she's my seizure dog – and if I'm triggered, it upsets her too.

Regarding the IDs, and the ADA and state statutes, the biggest problem I face is my naïveté in thinking that, because they are "law enforcement" they know the law. Even worse, that they'll fairly enforce it.

In a perfect world, maybe. But I am too idealistic and naïve, particularly as a grown man who finds himself suddenly in the psychological role of child abuse victim looking into the ambivalent and hostile eyes of a law enforcement agent.

My instincts as a man are to never take this sort of crap from anyone, and I haven't. But the irony is that any law enforcement agent knows they can behave with impunity – even with lethal force, as the recent acquittals of three officers who shot and killed citizens during routine traffic stops show.

It just makes them a thug with a badge, most likely someone with trauma issues of their own. So I know that, even if I hadn't been triggered, there would have been problems; I was dealing with a troubled person.

As you said, and I agree, I know on an academic level that cops generally don't know or care about the ADA or the rights of the disabled. I also am aware that some who do choose to ignore their knowledge.

The same is true of people in general, whether friends, coworkers, or family. I grew up with two family members – an aunt and uncle – who were visibly disabled. Even after the accident that caused my own physical disability I was unaware of ADA requirements.

That said, when my rights are violated as a disabled person I find myself in the position of having to educate people on my rights. Most people are receptive, while most cops, I've found, simply gave me and my dog distance. My ID tag and the red vest I have Sophie wear – that's not legally required – gives them all the justification they need for that. Otherwise, it would be me putting them in a position where they might have to investigate. I don't want to cause trouble for anyone as a general principle.

Most people know that what happened to me could happen to them anytime as well. Cops, many of whom are vets or serve with vets who've lost limbs in the line of duty are sensitive to my position. They know danger, and also that some sort of trauma was involved. I believe they've granted me deference on the basis of that alone, though I never expect that.

I also believe cops don't wish to become entangled in a dispute with someone who, like me, is a service dog handler with a well-trained, voice controlled dog. In fact, the canine officers in particular respect that.

They understand the training involved of course, and they also understand that my Sophie, like her littermates, could have been their dog. Because Sophie was the runt of the litter, she came to me. But the others went off to military and police work.

I believe everyone thinks that their dog is beautiful and, I believe all living things are beautiful-even ugly dogs !

Seriously, though, Sophie is nonetheless a beautiful specimen, and strangers approach me on a daily basis to tell me so, often multiple times. She's a working dog, not a show dog and she's a smart and strong Lady who carries herself well.

To me, she is beautiful anyway, and because I see her every day, she's just my Sophie. Obviously, though, she is remarkably so to strangers.

It's worth mentioning because, as you said, the ID tags and the vest and all the other swag someone can buy - or make a profit selling to others –to identify a service dog really carries little weight legally. It's the dog's behavior while working with the handler that counts.

I use the ID card and the vest so that people, most of whom don't know the law behind what's required of a service dog and handler won't be put off. It gives me peace of mind, and that's a big part of why I work with Sophie in the first place.

Also, there are, as you indicated lots of people out there who simply wish to call their dogs "service dogs" when, in fact they are not trained in anyway.

Some of the folks who approach me about Sophie's appearance often also tell me that she's wonderfully trained, and have also told me stories of how they see dogs misbehave in public places, like stores, etc. Such things reflect poorly on all service animals.

Some of these people have been store employees or managers who, because of store policy, cannot request a dog owner (who's not a dog handler) remove their pet. Their seeing me with Sophie restores the idea that, yes, there is such a thing as a good service dog/handler team, and here's one now.

Because of the obviousness with which we work so well together, plus Sophie's truly beautiful physical characteristics, my sincere belief that the cop we ran into in the desert is a thug is reinforced.

No reasonable person would doubt Sophie's usefulness to me, nor her my ability to command her by voice.

Only an unreasonable person carrying a badge would be willing to do so, if they believed they can get away with it. They have the law on their side and even a disabled person with a trained service dog isn't exempt.

You're right-cops might not know or care about the ADA or other statutory laws. Even if they did, the "because I said so and I am the cop" law can take effect and prevail if they feel like it.

Sophie's a visible deterrent to would be bad guys. She can smell a troubled person and let them know not to come near. But the cop who hurt us fooled her, fooled us both.

It's further reason to believe the cop I met in the desert meant to cause trouble anyway – because he could.

Again, it's obvious Sophie is my service dog, that I am her handler, that we are a team, and that we work well together.

Despite all of that, it didn't matter and the apparent lack of legal support I've been able to find – from the ACLU to attorneys I know to disability advocacy groups here and in Arizona seem to indicate, it still doesn't matter.

Though I cannot get my head around the idea still, I actually have a certified "probation officer."

To this person, everyone is guilty and, perhaps more important, everyone claims that they are not guilty. She also states that everyone claims to have PTSD, too.

"I have seen disabled people cause quite a bit of damage," she's said, and also that "I've been bit by dogs I've known for years who'd always been gentle and then suddenly attacked me."

This last remark she made after agreeing to be on a conference call with me and two of my advocates. I want her to know I am not alone like I was in the desert, just some rogue anarchist with a vicious dog. With no apparent legal recourse, I must be my own advocate if I'm to prevent further trouble with these people.

One of my advocates, also a service dog handler, works with a statewide disability organization. She questioned the officer's earlier claim about being bitten by a dog. Turns out it wasn't a trained dog or service dog at all, but "somebody's pit bull."

But this probation lady has been to my house with her supervisor and, upon meeting Sophie said "You're a nice dog." It's an indignity I'll have to put up with until next year.

Though it didn't start out that way, I don't believe anything this probation lady says to me any more than she claims to believe anything anyone tells her.

As I said, I'm pretty naïve when it comes to the ways of the world. The harsh lesson Sophie and I recently received was quite a wake-up call, however.

This is where my PTSD figures in to things – the injured kid inside me would like to believe the world is a rosy place, despite the adult who knows that his dog will be pepper sprayed right in front of him. Nothing rosy about that.

The probation lady is just an extension of the thug in the desert, And if all the criminals she works with claim they are not guilty, I believe that all the criminals who carry a badge make the same claim.

It's not conducive to a society that works well with law-enforcement, but apparently that's how things are, even if the naïve kid inside of me would like to think otherwise.

Again, I am in the position of working with someone who has the legal authority to continue to vilify me and, what's worse, my innocent dog.

Prior to being attacked by a cop in the desert, I didn't walk through life imagining that will ever happen.

I'm on guard a lot now, though and I don't think I'd be human if I weren't; it's part of how my mind is functioning based on my recent trauma on top of everything else.

It's the adult version of the same fear I had as a kid, walking around with eyes in the back of my head so as not to incur the wrath of my father through avoidance.

I remain open to any additional feedback and/or ideas on the subject.
 
because they are "law enforcement" they know the law. Even worse, that they'll fairly enforce it.

Nooo. I mean some law enforcement do but many don't. Cover yourself.

My ID tag and the red vest I have Sophie wear – that's not legally required – gives them all the justification they need for that. Otherwise, it would be me putting them in a position where they might have to investigate. I don't want to cause trouble for anyone as a general principle.

I use the ID card and the vest so that people, most of whom don't know the law behind what's required of a service dog and handler won't be put off. It gives me peace of mind, and that's a big part of why I work with Sophie in the first place.

The vest is fine. Though also not required by law, most handlers vest their dog. The ID is problematic. They are scam companies making it seem like they are offical.

The issue with the ID is you show a business it and they let you in. I come after you and do not have an ID (nor do I legally need one nor is there even an offical service dog ID & the registation number means nothing) and the business thinks, now, that I should have an ID as the last service dog handler did and so now I am denied access because I don't have the scam ID.

That is the issue those IDs/badges when real true handlers buy them and use those for access into places. Yes, it makes access easier for you but it makes it much harder for those handlers that come after you.

Rely on your dog's training to speak for her as a service dog. Vest her but use her training as "proof" she is a service dog. That is what makes a service dog a service dog anyway, even their tasks are training.

And, you will likely find more and more places that blame you for faking a service dogs as more and more buy these IDs and vests to fake their pets as service dogs, and you are blamed for faking simply because you also have an ID.

Some of the folks who approach me about Sophie's appearance often also tell me that she's wonderfully trained, and have also told me stories of how they see dogs misbehave in public places, like stores, etc. Such things reflect poorly on all service animals.

Yeah, many tell me they didn't realize my dog is still in training. That he acted well enough (in their eyes) to be called fully trained. Many are seeing fakes and understanding more and more how to spot a fake vs a true service dog. I am also hearing more and more parents tell their children "when you see a dog in a vest like that, you cannot pet it or speak to it" or some version of that. I thank those parents when I can or just overhear them and smile. I heard one such parent in Walmart the other day and I just smiled to myself as I was no where near them. But, it is just so nice to hear that!

Perhaps filing a civil suit would be justified, but it would also further the number of times I'd be likely be triggered by this situation. Plus now I've little faith in the legal system and don't believe a judge would find against a cop. Further insult to further injury.

Maybe put a bit of distance from it and then talk to an attorney and see how you feel after sometime? I do understand and your mental well being is far more important! Take care of yourself!
 
There are people who take advantage of the rule saying the dog does not need to be on a leash IF it hinders his ability to help you. We've got one of those here. His dog runs around the store trying to play with kids. Nobody says a word because A) he weighs like 400 pounds and B) it's understood that it's a PTSD/mental disability (and given the MI stigma, would anyone dare say a word? Nope!)

A dog running around the store playing with kids isn't a true service dog IMHO and just makes things harder for those who really need a service animal.
 
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