Bad Luck with the Blind

As a dog lover, I am drawn to dogs of all sorts, old and young, pure and mutt. Except for Whippets. During a recent visit to Zibetto, the neighborhood espresso bar around the corner from my office, I encountered a seeing-eye dog attached to his companion. He was a full-grown male German Shepherd, all fur and panting virulence. His human counterpart was sipping a Pellegrino Limonata, my favorite soda, ankle anchoring the leash of his bodyguard. With the sun shining gloriously through the shop window, it seemed like the right time for me to ask to be acquainted. To the dog, of course. Fellow coffee drinkers have already fondled, cooed, and departed, without so much as a Hello to the Man; I am not so ill-mannered. I approach Mr. Limonata and ask, "Hi, may I say Hello to your dog?" Finishing his sip, he stonily replies, "No. He's working."

Stunned, I turned back to my own companion, and furiously whispered, "I am mortified! He said no to me!" My logical companion inquires, "If you were not prepared for the answer to be no, why did you ask? Why didn't you just go and pet the dog?" "Because I extended the question as a matter of courtesy. I didn't ever expect his answer to be no! Surely, I wouldn't pet a child without asking his parents for permission. Why should petting a dog be any different?" I muttered.

My mind reeled and memories swirled to try to find some relevance to my current situation. I took myself back to a few summers ago, to Cambridge, Massachusetts. It was a hot summer day, made hotter after my fifteen minute stroll across the Mass Ave. Bridge, blazing, uncovered under the summer sun. At the crosswalk of Mass Ave. and Vassar, a Blind Dude (I'm done walking on eggshells, goddamn it), was trying to cross, and the volume of the chirping Walk signal proved no match for the trucks rumbling past. I approached him, and asked, "Excuse me, are you trying to cross?" Apparently, my naturally low speaking voice was also no match for the trucks, so I made a second attempt. I placed my hand gingerly on his forearm and reiterated, "Excuse me, are you trying to cross?" My hand was flung off as he yelled, "Please, DON'T touch me!" At that, he rushed across the thankfully empty street, and walked briskly away. I stood and looked around furtively to make sure no witness misunderstood my intentions and assumed from this outburst that I was molesting a blind person. Upset, I walked on and took myself home, vowing never to offer assistance unless it was begged from me.

Perhaps my voice is grating to the ears of the blind? My tone too plaintive, my actions too bold and violating? Why do blind people hate me?! Silly egoist, I know. But this has spurred me to apply to Lighthouse International to be a reading companion for the visually impaired. If chosen, I would spend a few hours a week reading to whomever would enjoy it. I can't think of a better way to improve my blind-person-karma. And maybe, he'll even have a dog.