Service Animals are not considered “pets.” They are considered to be medical equipment, and therefore necessary to be present with their owners.
Emotional Support Animals are not required to be highly trained or highly skilled animals, and their owners don’t always have a disability. Therefore ESAs are not Service Animals, but they do offer invaluable therapeutic benefit to their owners by offering comfort and companionship. Emotional Support Animals can technically be any pet (yes, even bullfrogs can be ESAs) but only emotional support dogs (and sometimes cats) are permitted to fly in the cabin of an aircraft if they’re well behaved. Emotional Support Animals are not classified as medical equipment and therefore do not automatically have public access rights.
On my flight to collect Kiba, I was so excited that I hadn’t realised that I was practically vibrating. I was shaking my leg, sighing, fidgeting and glancing down at my watch every few minutes. The air hostess who came to offer me a beverage picked up on my body language and asked if I was a nervous flyer. We both laughed when I told her that I was actually just very excited to be meeting my puppy when we landed.
After sipping on some ginger ale (my favourite drink), I put on my huge headphones which are shaped like cat ears and listened to one of my favourite albums, Levity by Dax Johnson.
I began to write down some of my ideas for the book and channelled my restless pre-puppy excitement into a general outline for my personal story, “Bear.”
This book is intended to be a celebration of the meaningful bonds and relationships humans and animals can form and to pay homage to the many varied ways in which animals help us in our daily lives.
As no two people or animals are alike, neither are these chapters. Each short story is its own entity, inspired by the real friendships, discoveries, and undeniable love between the human protagonist and the animals in their lives.
In the case of the short stories “Buddy,” “Zak,” “Magic,” and “Bubbles,” I have written adaptations of these true stories based on my conversations with their generous contributors. However, in the case of “Bear,” I have chosen to write my story factually as I remember it. No detail is altered or embellished. The chapter is written as accurately as I can remember, which makes the story a colossal tidal wave of emotion and distress. My hopes are that the chapters reflect the truth of who I am, affected by such a disorder and experiencing total free-fall. Perhaps some readers will be able to relate. If you can, I see you. I acknowledge your struggle, and you’re doing great.
At the end of each chapter, I’ve compiled a short list of fascinating facts about the species of animal featured in the story, as well as shared pictures of the real animals and humans who inspired that chapter.
My hope is that in sharing these pictures with the reader, we can visually enjoy how such different animals have made monumental and surprising impacts, and that we can, in a small way, immortalize and honour them.
This book has been a true labour of love and a journey which has forced me to rise above the challenges I have faced in my personal life to complete this project. In completing Animal Kind, I have proved to myself that I am not defined by my disorder, and that it does not hold infinite power over me. In this exact moment, at 12:15 p.m. on an otherwise uneventful Wednesday in the middle-of-nowhere New Jersey, I feel quite proud of myself. It’s a feeling I’m trying to feel more often.
In truth, the greatest daily support, motivator, and reason to get out of bed each morning has been Kiba. As I have written Animal Kind, he has transformed from being a football-sized, clumsy ball of fluff under my writing desk to a huge, majestic bear-wolf with eyes that hold more wisdom and love than I can express. He has become my shadow, protector, fluffy shoulders to cry on, and best friend.
When I first set out to write this book, I wanted to open people’s eyes to the magic of human-animal relationships and to share how deeply profound they can be. It is, in a way, poetic, and just right, that the reason this book has finally come to fruition has been because of a new story of friendship which is organically writing itself every day, born of love, trust, cubes of cheese, and belly rubs.
A sharp crack followed by a dull thud woke Heather from her sleep. Deep from within the many cozy layers of blankets hugging the bed came a startled, almost cough-like “woof.”
Heather squinted through the darkness at her motionless bedroom and shimmied herself into a sitting position in bed, her heart still beating hard from being awoken suddenly. She stretched her arm out into the chilly air, reached for the switch on her bedside table, and clicked on the light. The room immediately illuminated with a soft, warm yellow glow.
Looking left and right, Heather scanned her bedroom. Her chair was still piled high with the laundry she had been meaning to put away. Her bookshelf was a shabby-chic assortment of books, eclectic ornaments, and picture frames. Nothing was out of place or showed any sign of disturbance.
She reached for her phone and squinted as its harsh white light assaulted her tired eyes. It was only 4:45 a.m.
Under her duvet, a small, pillow-sized lump began to wriggle its way up her legs, hips, and stomach. Heather glanced down as her blankets rose up like a small hill and fell back to reveal the inquisitive face of her Staffordshire Bull Terrier, Zak.
For a Staffordshire Bull Terrier, or “Staffie,” as they’re affectionately referred to by dog lovers, Zak was dainty for his breed. His short, wiry coat, once a rich fawn colour, was now heavily flecked with white and grey. Over the past thirteen years, age had slowly crept up on Zak. What had started out as just a few white whiskers on his chin and muzzle had multiplied, migrating upwards and steadily turning his entire face white. The years had also added silky white socks to his paws, which perfectly matched his distinguished face.
“Hi, boy,” whispered Heather as she gave Zak a quick scratch under his chin. He narrowed his eyes in quiet enjoyment.
Still curious about the sound which woke her, Heather swung her legs out of bed and hastily tucked her feet into the fluffy pink novelty slippers her mother had given her for Christmas a few weeks earlier. Zak hopped onto the floor and shook his little body, the clinking of his collar and tags filling the room with familiar sound.
Heather stood up and tensed slightly as the chilly air brushed against her body, sending an uncomfortable shiver down her back. She reached toward her chair and peeled her freshly washed house robe from the pile, quickly wrapping its plush fabric around her body and fastening it tightly.
Heather shuffled to the window by her bed, pulled back the dark, heavy curtains, and peered out into the night. What had been a light peppering of powdery snow when she had gone to sleep was now a luxurious blanket of snow and ice covering the rolling Scottish hills which her home was nestled in. Heather noticed that an old branch had broken away from the rowan tree right outside her bedroom window and was now on the ground, disappearing quickly under the cotton ball-sized snowflakes falling from the sky.
Satisfied that she had found the source of the noise, she glanced down to her side at Zak. He was standing as high up on his hind legs as possible, his front paws resting on the windowsill. His huge black nose was pressed against the window, and his warm exhalations were fogging up the glass as he looked out excitedly at the monochrome landscape.
Although time had noticeably changed Zak over the years, his playful energy had never waned, and he still moved with the ease and speed of a much younger dog.
“Forget about it,” said Heather playfully as she drew the curtains shut once again and gestured for Zak to get down. “We’d both catch our deaths.”
Zak