Pets Allowed Part III

Why didn’t anybody do the sensible thing, and tell me and my turtle to get lost? The Americans with Disabilities Act allows you to ask someone with a service animal only two questions: Is the animal required because of a disability? What work or task has the animal been trained to perform? Specific questions about a person’s disability are off limits, and, as I mentioned, people are baffled by the distinction between service animals and emotional-support animals.

Len Kain, the editor-in-chief of dogfriendly.com, a Web site that features pet-travel tips, said, “The law is fuzzy. If you ask one too many questions, you’re in legal trouble for violating the Americans with Disabilities Act and could face fines of up to a hundred thousand dollars. But, if you ask one too few questions, you’re probably not in trouble, and at worst will be given a slap on the wrist.”

If you want to turn your pet into a certified E.S.A., all you need is a therapist type who will vouch for your mental un-health. Don’t have one? Enter “emotional-support animal” into Google and take your pick among hundreds of willing professionals. Through a site called ESA Registration of America, I found a clinical social worker in California who, at a cost of a hundred and forty dollars, agreed to evaluate me over the phone to discuss the role of Augustus, the snake, in my life. To prepare for the session, I concocted a harrowing backstory: When I was six, I fell into a pond and almost drowned. There was a snake in the water that I grabbed on to just before I was rescued by my father, and, ever since, I’d found comfort in scaly vertebrates.

“Now, let’s talk about your problems,” the therapist said, in the sort of soothing voice you might use when speaking to someone who has one day to live. “What’s your snake’s name?”

“Augustus,” I said.

“How does Augustus help you with your problems?”

“How far back should I go?” I asked, itching to tell my story about the pond.

“Just the last six months,” she said.

“Um, he provides unconditional love, and I feel safe when he’s around,” I said. “He’s a good icebreaker, too, if I’m feeling shy.”

“You want to have more ease outside the house,” the therapist summed up. “Now I want to do a generalized-anxiety screening with you,” she said. “In the last fourteen days, have you felt anxious or on edge nearly every day, more than seven days, or less than seven days?”

“I’d say around seven,” I replied. Using the same parameters, she asked me to rate my worrying, trouble relaxing, ability to sit still, irritability, and dread that something awful might happen. The next day, I received the following e-mail:

Hi Patricia:

It was my pleasure to speak to you today.

Attached is your ESA letter.

Enjoy the benefits of having your dog (sic) with you more now.

I’d better come clean. This was the only time I was evaluated. On my other outings with animals, I brandished a doctored version of the original snake letter. (If talking seems too last-century, you can consult thedogtor.net, where getting your E.S.A. certified is “only a mouse-click away.” You fill out a seventy-four-question medical exam online and receive your paperwork within two days, for just a hundred and ninety dollars.)

So I was off to SoHo to be put at ease by a Mexican milk snake named Augustus, which I borrowed from a friend. With his penchant for coiling all thirty inches of himself around my neck and face, he felt less like an animal than like an emotional-support accessory—say, a scarf. He is the diameter of a garden hose, as smooth as an old wallet, and gorgeously marked with bands of yellow, black, and rusty red. As I walked down Wooster Street, Augustus tickled my ear and then started to slither down my blouse. (Men!) His owner had warned me, “He is good for parting the crowd on a busy midtown sidewalk,” and she was right.