I was in the checkout line with my service dog, minding my own business, when I wound up behind a woman unloading what had to be $200 worth of toilet paper. She gave me the once-over like I’d brought a llama to the store and, with attitude, asked, “What kind of dog is that?” I said, “He’s my service dog.”
She rolled her eyes. “I know that. What kind of service?” Meanwhile my dog—oblivious to drama—was being his friendly self, tail thumping, sneaking in a few enthusiastic licks to her hands and even a quick swipe at her cheek while she leaned over her cart.
“BLD,” I said, straight-faced. She squinted. “What’s BLD?” I nodded solemnly. “Butt Licking Dog.” The cashier choked on a laugh, the bagger froze mid-scan, and the TP queen went instantly silent, fumbling for hand sanitizer like she was defusing a bomb.
She nudged her cart a full six feet away and finished paying without another word. For the record, my dog’s actually trained for (mobility/medical alerts)—but sometimes the quickest way to end a nosy interrogation is a punchline. He got a treat for being a very good (and allegedly BLD-certified) boy.
