Beware, today's post does contain some strong language.
Meanwhile back in down town Jarrow, I’m having a good day. One of the best, in fact. The sun is shining and Denise and I are out shopping. For a long time before Abbot arrived I’d stopped going out like this, so this is a real treat. I’ve really missed days like this, little bits of normality, frittering time, wandering aimlessly and chatting about nothing in particular – days when we can simply daydream a little, wander round the shops and maybe stop for a coffee. I always feel that Denise and I have our best conversations while we’re out for coffee as there are none of the interruptions of home, no phone calls, no email, no tasks awaiting my attention. Days like this are all too rare and I value them beyond measure. Today is one of those days.
Abbot is in top form, his tail is up and he’s working well, weaving his way through the crowds, the thing he loves most. He’s getting lots of admiring glances. As for me, I’m on a little high, cracking jokes and prattling on about any old rubbish... But who can tell what’s about to hit, right out of a clear blue sky?
We leave the shops with armfuls of shopping so we decide to get a taxi home. I call the taxi company and explain to the girl on the desk that I have my guide dog with me. (As I’ve explained, I have the legal right to take my dog in a cab but I always let the taxi company know in advance because I think it’s the courteous thing to do.) The girl assures me it’s fine, I hang up and go outside to wait with Denise.
When the taxi arrives the driver springs out of the car: “That’s a fucking dog!”
he screams.
I reply.
“It’s a guide dog”,
“I don’t give a shit. No fucking dog is getting in my fucking taxi.”
Some drivers have allergies and the law requires them to carry an exemption certificate. I ask if he has one. His response is ‘Fuck off’. I remind him that unless he has a certificate, he’s breaking the law. That seems to get his attention and he agrees to take us, even though I’m apparently still a fucking idiot. I decline and he speeds off, still hurling abuse out of the window as he pulls away.
While all this has been going on a small crowd has gathered. People are pointing and craning their necks to see what all the fuss is about. Denise and I both feel we’re at the centre of a freak show. But there is more to come, from a source I’d never have expected.
My guide dog owner’s manual (I kid you not) gives clear guidelines on how to proceed in such situations. (It’s right near the back, just before the bit on how to change the oil. OK, OK. I am joking now.) The manual tells us to simply remove ourselves from the situation and report to Guide Dogs. So that’s exactly what I do, as soon as I get home, using another taxi company. To my astonishment, Guide Dogs replies that as long as I got home safely they don’t really want to take up the issue with the offending taxi firm.
This one incident sets us back months. Denise, unlike her husband, is a very shy and private person. She says she feels less conspicuous shopping on her own. She doesn’t want to run the risk of another incident. I, on the other hand, feel I’m missing out on quality time with her. I begin to question my decision to get Abbot. All my worse fears about being abused by the public have come true. This has to be my lowest point in my time with Abbot.
For almost a month I flatly refuse to leave the house. Friends and family all try hard to coax me out of my self- imposed confinement but I refuse to be persuaded. I just feel too embarrassed. God knows, I have a huge ego but this was never the type of attention I craved. We’re back in nightmare country and my running shoes have come out of storage.
The good thing is that I’m so in love with Abbot I can’t cope with the idea of handing him back to Guide Dogs. So I eventually force myself back out onto the streets with my boy, even though my confidence is badly shaken.
I spend the first few outings waiting for someone to object to Abbot’s presence or otherwise abuse me. This is not the confident and empowered me that was here just a few short weeks ago. What used to be such good fun now seems like my worst nightmare and it takes several months to get my confidence back. A life tied to the house suddenly seems more attractive than running the risk of taking abuse out there on the street.
If someone as confident as me, with a big mouth, a big ego and an even bigger head can feel so low, what hope is there for someone of a more nervous disposition? Too many sight impaired people are becoming housebound for exactly this reason. This cannot be allowed to continue. Realising this, I summon up all my courage and contact my local council. The offending taxi driver is suspended for a month and sent for low vision awareness training. So the government is doing something right, I admit.
Long may it continue...
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