The "Emotional Support Animal" Scam
I'm not a fan of the way pets are automatically kept out of restaurants and cafes in the US. I used to take my late Yorkie, Lucy, to a number of Paris cafes, where she was welcomed as an honored guest -- and promptly curled up in my lap, as she was trained to do, shortly after we sat down.

My wee Chinese Crested, Aida, is cleaner and better-trained -- and better-behaved -- than many children. But it wouldn't be fair of me to cause a restaurant or cafe to get a health code violation by bringing my dog in.

And no, because I committed to being ethical, I'm not willing to lie and call my dog a service animal. Instead, because she is joy on four legs and is very attached to me (and vice versa), I hate to leave her. So, I mostly stay home with her instead of going out to write at my favorite cafe on non-deadline days, like I used to. And when I do go there, Gregg stays with her for the day.

Patricia Marx writes in The New Yorker about those who lie to get their pets in to restaurants and museums and more. (Not to be missed is the part about her testing out the acceptance of an "emotional support alpaca" and a turtle.)

People with genuine impairments who depend on actual service animals are infuriated by the sort of imposture I perpetrated with my phony E.S.A.s. Nancy Lagasse suffers from multiple sclerosis and owns a service dog that can do everything from turning lights on and off to emptying her clothes dryer. "I'm shocked by the number of people who go online and buy their pets vests meant for working dogs," she told me. "These dogs snarl and go after my dog. They set me up for failure, because people then assume my dog is going to act up."

...Carry a baby down the aisle of an airplane and passengers look at you as if you were toting a machine gun. Imagine, then, what it's like travelling with a one-year-old pig who oinks, grunts, and screams, and who, at twenty-six pounds, is six pounds heavier than the average carry-on baggage allowance and would barely fit in the overhead compartment of the aircraft that she and I took from Newark to Boston. Or maybe you can't imagine this.

During check-in, the ticket agent, looking up to ask my final destination, did a double take.

She said, "Oh . . . have you checked with . . . I don't think JetBlue allows . . ."

I rehashed my spiel about the letter and explained that days ago, when I bought the tickets, the service representative said that I could bring Daphne, my pig, as long as she sat on my lap.

"Give me one second," the agent said, picking up the phone. "I'm checking with my supervisor." (Speaking into phone: "Yes, with a pig . . . yeah, yeah . . . in a stroller.") The agent hung up and printed out boarding passes for me and the pig's owner, Sophie Wolf.

"I didn't want to make a mistake," he said. "If there's a problem, Verna, at the gate, will help you. Does she run fast?"

I'm pleased to report that passing through security with a pig in your arms is easier than doing so without one: you get to keep your shoes on and skip the full-body scanner.

Related: "The bullshit disabled" with their handicapped placards.