It’s that favorite time again — a little road trip out of the vault.

 

In my last post, I mentioned I took a quick outing across the border to do some gambling. My closest friend and I made the familiar 90-minute run to Wendover (that really does roll off the tongue nicely). We sat down to a great meal and then hit the casino. Neither of us did nearly as well as the last time I went — on my birthday in 2024 I hit a royal flush for two grand, which, given that year, was probably the luckiest thing that happened the whole time.

 

 

This trip had a new twist: I brought Nala, who’s now in early training as my new service dog. And before anyone panics — I’m not retiring Pax. He’s just getting older, and like all of us, deserves an easier life.

 

 

Nala was excited from the start, vested up and loaded into the car. It took about 30 minutes before she realized the drive was long enough to justify lying down. The real test began when we hit the casino — flashing lights, slot machines, loud chatter, every possible distraction.

 

 

After a quick bathroom break (her first as a working dog — and yes, she was deeply concerned about everything that came out), we went to the restaurant. That was a learning curve too: noise, crowds, smells. But after a few gentle corrections, she got the hang of it. By the end of lunch she was resting with her head on my foot — her favorite way to stay connected.

 

 

Once we moved onto the gaming floor, she slipped right into the rhythm: calm, focused, alert, and keeping an eye on everything behind me. That’s what a service dog does — they exist in a constant low state of awareness, like a steady oxygen flow. You don’t always notice it, but the second it’s gone, you feel the difference.

 

Rant Mode: On

 

 

Let me make one thing absolutely clear: I am not running a damn petting zoo.

 

 

If you want to pet a dog so badly, go adopt one and love it with all your heart. A service dog is not there for you.

 

 

Most of the day went fine until three drunk people decided that Nala needed their attention. One woman kept insisting she “had to pet her.” I was seconds away from introducing my cane to someone’s kneecap. Listen, I get that you love dogs — probably about as much as you love being loud and annoying after a few too many drinks — but when the door says no pets, assume any dog you see is working.

 

And please, stop with the fake service dogs.

 

They’re easy to spot. Real service dogs move with purpose, stay close to their handler, and never bark unless there’s a real emergency. If a dog is barking or lunging in public, it’s not trained — period.

 

A responsible handler knows their dog’s limits. If the dog is overwhelmed, we remove them and try again another day. It’s about protecting both of us. And yes, staff have every right to suggest a team step outside if the dog isn’t calm — it’s not discrimination, it’s common sense.

 

 

Fake service dogs make it harder for the rest of us. Unlike “Karen and her emotional-support Pomeranian,” I actually need my dog to function. My dog can jump up, block, pull me out of a trigger situation — things a ten-pound fluffball can’t do.

 

 

If you see a vested service dog, do everyone a favor:

• Don’t talk to the dog.
• Don’t make eye contact.
• Don’t ask to pet.

If you want to say something, tell the handler their dog is doing a great job. That’s always welcome.

 

Kids and Kindness

 

Children are the wildcards — they act before they think. I always appreciate when a parent stops their kid and explains what a service dog does. When I see that restraint, I’ll sometimes invite the child to pet Nala. It’s my way of rewarding respect and teaching that good behavior earns trust.

 

It’s funny — being a service dog handler means you end up as an unofficial ambassador. You represent everyone who relies on these dogs, and a little grace goes a long way.

 

So yes, when I sign off “Dog first, then Mom,” it’s because both matter deeply to me. But my dog is the reason I can navigate the world at all — she’s my oxygen tank with fur.