Member-only story
Rosie becomes a service dog for my invisible injury
I was reaching into the loose carrots, one hand wrapped in a plastic bag, the other holding Rosie’s leash. I heard only, “It’s illegal.” Her voice was angry, the woman in the organic banana section of our local grocery store. I knew the comment was aimed at me. It was a familiar tone, the people who take it on themselves to enforce store policies, without asking questions and without thought to the person they are publicly shaming.
My body reacted automatically. I could no longer focus on the carrots, only the bananas, as if they were talking. I held the leash tighter, trying to steady myself. Rosie stood still, her first experience with feeling my trauma travel through the leash. I took a deep breath and resumed counting the carrots I would need for our dinner. My shame turned to anger. I knew this stranger was focused on Rosie, my service dog in training. I knew she looked at me and saw someone with no apparent physical impairments. She couldn’t see my damaged brain trying to sort out what was happening, decide what to do next, recall the organization of the market so I could get to the meat counter and buy fish for dinner. Rosie waited. She didn’t pull or sniff the food surrounding her, including what was on the floor. She understood her job. Keep me as calm as possible, and guide me through the aisles and back to the check-out counter.
