Four Feet Tall and Rising (23 page)

Depending on the nature of a disability, a person is assigned a certain kind of animal. If I’d been blind or deaf, I’d have had to get a dog that had been through service animal college. If I’d had seizures, or needed a dog that could signal a diabetic attack, I’d have had to purchase a specially trained dog. My prescription was for mobility. I needed a dog that could pull me upstairs, carry my things, function as a leg rest when I was seated, keep me from falling, or if I did fall, help me up. Basically, act as a sentient, powerful cane. There were classes I could attend to help with mobility training but I decided I’d read all the books myself and give it a shot.

Geisha seemed like the best option. She was friendly with people, calm in her demeanor, and she was my first girl. I was very attached to her. I took her everywhere I went anyway. Why not throw the service dog vest on her and call it a day?
She turned out to be a handful. She started growling at passing dogs. Geisha was older and was getting set in her ways, like an old, grumpy lady. She wasn’t interested in toting me around.

So I gave Hercules his shot. He’d never been out in public, but ever since my back injury, he’d been attached to my hip, so I figured I’d take him out for a test drive. I wanted to visit a friend in Stockton. I loaded Hercules up with a harness bag that held my laptop computer and all my crap, then we headed out to get on the BART. It was rush hour, and the train was loaded with people, but Hercules didn’t even flinch. He pulled me up the stairs, got me settled into a seat, and then lay down by my feet. I couldn’t believe how docile he was. He was just happy to be with me. Happy to do his job. He instinctively knew what I needed. From that point on, Hercules became my right-hand man.

I never thought I’d own a handicapped parking placard. I always considered them a fraud. Every Little Person I knew had one, but only fifteen percent of them really needed it. Little People used them selectively. If they were with someone tall, they wouldn’t use them, ’cause they’d be ashamed, but if they were by themselves or with another Little Person, you better believe they’d whip those babies out and take the closest space. Now that I couldn’t walk long distances, I finally gave in and got the permit, and what a difference to be able to park so close! I wished I’d had the damn thing for the last ten years.

I didn’t feel sorry for myself, and I didn’t regret any of the stunts or wrestling jobs or abuse I had put my body through for the last six years. I wasn’t worried about my future, and I
wasn’t gonna let my back injury slow me down. No one knows how long they’re gonna live, and I wasn’t gonna spend the time I had worrying about my health when I could die in a car wreck or on a damn airplane the next morning. Frankly, a fiery crash was preferable to liver cancer or lung cancer or diabetes.

That’s why I got the bright idea that if I bought a pair of tennis shoes with wheels built in to the bottoms, then Hercules could pull me faster. In theory, this was a smart idea. In practice, it was a disaster waiting to happen. Wheels on your shoes in hilly San Francisco seemed like fun, until I realized I had no idea how to use the damn things. I got the wheels out and moving, and Hercules was like, “Oh, this is so much easier.” He took off at a trot. Then a run. Bam! Right into a lamppost. So much for my bright idea.

I was feeling much better, but there was still back pain every day. The doctor told me to change my diet, stop smoking and drinking, stop working so much, and lower my stress level, but none of that was actually gonna happen. I’m a workaholic. An adrenaline junkie. I wanted to experience a full life, even if it meant I ended up in a wheelchair, and even that wouldn’t stop me. I could hook up my dogs and they could pull it like a sleigh.

Fuck, I already had the damn elf costume to match!