The Canine Commuter

On Thursday evenings I now take a French class, and so ride the trains home later than usual. More often than not, catching the J-Church at Union Square, I've noticed a blind woman, who boards the train with her service dog: a lovely black labrador. I've shamelessly and delightedly observed the latter every occasion I've had to seen her.

The dog is truly adorable. I can't imagine that she's more than two or three years old, with brown eyes and big, almost puppyish paws for her smaller size. She patiently navigates her owner through the commuters on the platform, and together they seem to know exactly the spot where the front door of the train will open. At which point they assume the same seat, close to the driver and door.

The labrador typically sits quite obediently with the grave expression one might expect of a guide dog, but last night, something clearly was too much for her. She just--desperately!--absolutely--had to!--smell--the floor of the train! Again and again, she sunk her head downwards, and again and again, her owner corrected her, pulling up on her leash, occasionally having a few strict words. Until finally, taking advantage of a momentary slackness, she happily bellied down onto the floor, and gave whatever deliciousness there lie a big, resounding lick.

It made me wonder of the things we ask our dogs in the city. All the time, one sees dogs riding the trains--big dogs, small dogs, dogs in purses, dogs in laps, veteran, well-behaved commuter dogs, serious police dogs, and exuberant puppies alike. And honestly, I think certain dogs like having "jobs" as much as humans do. But consider the agony of walking through a stinky train station every evening without having the liberty to smell anything!