IN A LIST of the top 10 dumbest things I have ever done, there was a new entry the other day at No 2, writes Frank McNally. There's no easy way to say it, so I'll come straight out with the terrible truth. Which is that, well, I petted an on-duty guide dog.
If you’re not familiar with the working methods of the visually impaired, chances are you’re wondering: what was so awful about that? The more informed of you will know, as I learned since, that petting guide dogs on the job – or indeed distracting them in any manner – can undermine the safety of the “team”.
Either way, if I tell you that at the time of the incident, the one I petted had a sign attached with the words “Working animal – do not pet”, printed in black-and-yellow lettering of the kind used to highlight industrial hazards, you may begin to sense the depth of my shame.
What’s worse is that I was actually looking at the sign even as I committed my faux pas. I just wasn’t seeing it, if you know what I mean: ironic in the circumstances.
It was the first day of my Irish-language course in Donegal and I was waiting to speak to the teacher who was in conversation with the guide-dog’s owner, Sally, another member of the class. No doubt I was preoccupied by the effort of mentally formulating a sentence in Irish. And it’s well known that petting a dog can reduce your stress levels.
I would also say in my defence that it can be very hard not to pet a dog. Especially a golden labrador: a breed that just radiates friendliness. Placing a labrador in a room with a sign saying "Do not pet" is like the bit in The Simpsonswhere Bart sees a big red button with the warning "Do not press this button". It's almost too much to ask.
So I petted the dog. Or to be more exact, I barely touched the dog. Because at the moment of contact, both members of the “team” flinched in unison. Sally said: “Don’t pet the dog!”, even as – for the first time – I now read the sign. But the labrador’s reaction was even more embarrassing.
He looked at me, shocked and indignant, as if this had never happened before. If he could speak, he would have said: “How dare you, sir!”; or maybe he would already have been on the phone to the Guide Dogs Association, having me added to the register of offenders for inappropriate touching. Mortified, I had to avoid eye contact with him for days afterwards.
It seemed strange at first, but as the week wore on, we all learned to ignore the dog in the classroom. As for the dog, he had no problem ignoring us. When not working, he was as stoic as a piece of furniture; albeit furniture that stretched himself occasionally and sometimes made funny noises.
Even at the end-of-week concert, during which his owner revealed herself to be a fine fiddler and whistle player, he refused to be distracted from his job. Having to sit alongside her in front of a crowded hall didn’t faze him. And most impressively, by the climax of the performance, his were the only feet in the room not tapping.
Writing this I realise that, in fact, I’m not at all certain the dog was male. It could just as well have been a bitch, for all I know. But in a way, I think, that’s a tribute to its professionalism.
THE PETTING INCIDENTapart, I like to consider myself sensitive to the needs of the visually impaired. But like many people, I often feel awkward offering help because of confusion about the etiquette. Should you hold a person's arm while crossing the road, for example? Or is it better to avoid contact and communicate verbally? I'm never sure.
Then there was the situation I found myself in a few weeks ago while driving into town – to a concert for which I was late – when I saw a man with a cane standing on the edge of the footpath to my left. I was past him before I noticed, in fact. But then I watched in the rearview mirror and, as he receded from view he was still standing there, even though there was no traffic.
I also noticed there were people sitting on steps right behind him, apparently oblivious to his plight. So call me a goody-goody two-shoes if you like. But despite being late already, I turned the car around.
When I got back to where he stood, still waiting, I rolled down the window and called over: “Do you need help crossing?” Whereupon, before I could do anything else, he said “Thanks very much!” and launched himself into the street. The point is: I was only blocking one half of the road: not the half he was now on. But he reached the meridian in an instant and, deftly manoeuvring around the car, continued on his way.
I reassured myself afterwards that he must have known there was no other traffic approaching when I stopped. Blind people often have acute hearing, after all. But that being so, why was he waiting so long in the first place? I don’t know.
And I’m still not sure that, in the list of dumbest things I have ever done, that wasn’t a new entry at No 1.