Service Dogs and Weak Chins

I made the mistake of going out for breakfast today.

Now, it’s Sunday, so this is something I do most Sundays. That isn’t the mistake part. That’s the routine.

And before someone says it, YES, I actually do hate routine. Well, most fucking routines. But breakfast, though routine, isn’t routine as implemented. I go to different places. I let the wind blow me wherever I need to be.

The mistake today was leaving late.

On a Sunday.

On the weekend of Zozobra and Fiestas.

Santa Fe was a fucking madhouse.

I went to my normal haunt, Pantry Dos, and didn’t even bother pulling into a parking spot. I just drove straight through.

Fuck that.

So I went to Dolina. There was parking along the side of the building. Now, I don’t think it’s technically parking per se, but it’s where I park my Breakout when I fucking ride it. Their normal parking is across the street, and I fucking hate that. I fucking hate leaving a forty-thousand-dollar Harley sitting somewhere I can’t see while I eat.

Call me paranoid. Call me fucking Bob. I don’t care.

Just don’t call me late for breakfast.

This is where you laugh… blandly… at the stupid, trite, overused fucking line.

Anyway, I came here with the intent of working on the final pass of my remaining short stories for Undertow.

Something about best-laid plans and all that shit.

Because yeah, there was parking.

That didn’t mean there wasn’t a fucking wait.

A long one.

But I waited. Patiently.

Well, as patiently as I am capable of waiting.

And while standing there, I was struck by two completely unrelated observations about humanity: Service dogs and weak chins.

Let's tackle these one by fucking one, shall we?

The guy ahead of me seemed like an okay enough guy, I guess, if you're into that sort of thing. I'm not. But whatever. He seemed nice enough, and it's hard to tell much about a person from ten minutes of observation.

Usually.

After about ten minutes, he started fucking fidgeting. Looking around for someone. You know the look. The one that says, I have decided my problem is about to become somebody else's fucking problem.

Eventually he found his victim: a young server trying to survive a completely slammed Sunday morning. She had that look in her eyes that dared somebody to fuck with her, covered by the mandatory customer-service smile suggesting that she absolutely, positively loved every fucking second of this.

He started asking about his dog.

The dog he brought with him to breakfast.

The dog he had left in the fucking car.

Because apparently he wanted the dog brought into the restaurant.

Then came the magic words.

Service animal.

And maybe it was.

I don't fucking know.

That's actually part of the problem.

Because enough people have slapped the service animal label onto ordinary pets simply because they want to bring Fido fucking everywhere that they've made everybody suspicious. They've taken something genuinely important to people with disabilities and turned it into another convenient loophole for entitled assholes.

And that pisses me the fuck off.

If your dog is genuinely trained to perform a task related to a disability, great. That's what service animals fucking do. Bring the dog. Give it the space it needs to work. And everybody else can mind their own goddamned business.

But if you're calling your pet a service animal because you simply don't want to leave the little fucker at home?

Fuck you.

You're not merely gaming restaurant rules. You're making life harder for the people who genuinely rely upon service animals because now every legitimate handler gets looked at sideways thanks to assholes who came before them.

And newsflash: I don't particularly want to have breakfast with your fucking dog.

I just don't.

When I come to a restaurant, it's to fucking eat. Not to feed your weak-ass ego by stroking your mutt and asking stupid questions about it.

I like my food like I like my underwear: Without fucking dog hair.

But enough about your fucking mutts and my Benedict.

A few minutes passed, and suddenly they started calling names. Several parties that had been waiting for tables began filing inside. I was standing pretty close to the door, so they all had to march right past me.

And that's when I noticed something else: Weak fucking chins.

There were an astonishing number of men walking past me with incredibly weak-looking chins.

And some of these motherfuckers were strutting.

That's what got me.

Chin retreating toward fucking Albuquerque, chest puffed out, walking into Dolina like they had just conquered Gaul.

And suddenly I remembered my dad.

Growing up, my dad would talk about men's chins like they were some meaningful indicator of the human condition. I had no fucking clue what he was talking about. I was a kid. A chin was a chin.

Later in life, I finally understood what he meant.

My dad literally meant a glass jaw. Somebody he figured he could knock out with one fucking punch.

But somewhere along the way, weak chin became something different in my head. It became my completely unscientific, entirely judgmental shorthand for a particular kind of person.

No spine.

No conviction.

No willingness to stand for anything when standing actually costs something.

And yes, before somebody furiously types me an email explaining genetics, mandibular development, craniofacial anatomy, or whatever the fuck else: I know.

Your chin does not determine your character.

This isn't fucking Nature.

It's breakfast.

But goddamnit, once my brain made the connection, I couldn't stop seeing them.

Weak chin.

Weak chin.

Oh, Jesus Christ, really weak chin.

And some of these motherfuckers walked in like Caesar returning to Rome.

Sir.

Settle the fuck down.

You are waiting for pancakes.

So, sorry, weak-chinned motherfuckers. In the entirely fictional personnel-assignment system currently operating inside my head, you've been assigned to IT. Maybe engineering. Perhaps you're sweeping the general store.

But you're not storming the fucking beaches today.

And you definitely don't own Dolina.

Just because you finally retired doesn't mean the pack stopped recognizing you as weak.

Which is how I ended up sitting here eating breakfast, writing this bullshit instead of doing the final pass on Undertow like I intended.

I'm smiling about weak fucking chins.

I'm silently fuming about fake fucking service animals.

And somewhere nearby, I'm reasonably certain there's an actual writer accomplishing something productive with her Sunday morning.

Fuck her, too.