Imagine for a moment that you're sitting in your favorite coffee shop. It's early in the morning, before the freelancers have arrived to turn the place into an office. You've grabbed your favorite seat by the window and you're sipping your soy-green-tea-yerba-mate latte and reading the newspaper in peace.
A guy comes in. At first, all seems normal. He waits patiently in line for his beverage, although, oddly, he gets it served in a bowl rather than a cup. Then he goes to take a seat. But instead of sitting at a table like everyone else, he sniffs a few people, rubs his bare asshole all over the ground, circles twice, sighs audibly, and lies down.
What would you do? Call the police? Get up and leave? Or just stare, openmouthed, at this monster among us?
This may seem like a far-fetched scenario, but it happens each and every day in this fair city of ours, because the guy is actually a dog, and, for some goddamn reason, dogs are given a better place in Seattle society than some people. There are more doggy day cares in some neighborhoods than actual day cares.
Dogs belong in yards and on walks and, on very rare occasions (such as when you've been fired/dumped/found dead), snuggling with you in bed. They do not belong in coffee shops or grocery stores, or, dog forbid, airplanes, where they can fart, bark, and piss their way across the country in the cabin if you shell out $159.99 for some online therapist to vouch that your dog provides "emotional support," which is the literal definition of a pet. If my emotional-support cow isn't welcome in bars or eateries or the Safeway on 15th, why should your dog be any different?
I know you think your dog is cute, but believe me, asthma doesn't respond well to "cute." The only service Fido or Kale or Benjamin or whatever people call their dogs these days can possibly provide is causing allergy attacks and leading blind men into traffic. It's not a service animal—it's a pet. And the only dogs allowed in public from this point forward are on pup nights at the gay bar. Okay?