“Happiness is a Warm Gun” — The Beatles
I noticed a lot of dogs Saturday while flying home from Mexico. These weren’t service animals, leader dogs for the blind, for example, or dogs trained to sniff our drugs or explosives.
Not at all; these were emotional support dogs. They provided comfort to those that wished to have their caring and warmth during the stress of commercial airline flight. I can attest to the stress, which caused even one as calm and even-tempered as this reporter to utter some brief comments that contained an expletive, and would have been punctuated with an exclamation point had it been in written form.
People were trying to crowd onto a tram going from the International Terminal to the Main Terminal. Crowding became jostling. I needed some emotional support. Saying a bad word helped. But only a little.
What I propose is that folks have a process whereby they can apply to be qualified to bring emotional support guns when traveling by air. Guns can provide a great deal of stress relief. My goodness, don’t we all know that? A man or woman plagued by fears can be soothed by stroking his favorite weapon.
They can be like part of the family, don’t ya know? Of course, I shouldn’t need to say this, but an unloaded gun isn’t really a gun, is it? Let’s keep in mind that the only way to stop a bad guy with a gun is with a good guy with a gun. Maybe a couple of good guys with guns, cuz, who knows?
Require a safety course, sure. The right kind of ammunition should be loaded. No armor piercing rounds. No No No. Remember, airplane fuselages are made of aluminum; lighter loads are strongly suggested. I had a good friend in the Corps who hired on as an air marshal. He dressed in civvies, carried a sidearm, and rode around the country, flirting with the stews. This was back when hijacking was a thing.
One can’t underestimate the sense of well-being a handgun can give a guy – or a gal. Long guns would take too much of the precious space in the overhead compartments. Let’s keep it to revolvers and pistols, please. We need to be reasonable about this.
The first time I encountered an emotional support animal was in the Emergency Department of a hospital in Eugene, Oregon, a couple years ago. There were two little yippy dogs providing emotional support to the other customers there. Maybe not so much to the rest of us, given that they yapped at each other constantly, and bothered some people’s allergies.
Of course, if you’re to have an asthma attack, where better to be than the ER of hospital? The dogs had cute little capes that proclaimed them to be an “Emotional Support Animal.” I learned that the apparel, a certificate of authenticity, and a handbook detailing the process could all be had from an Internet site for the low, low price of $25. A nurse told me, “What can you do; they’re allowed?” It’s probably what I would have heard at Hartsfield on my way back from Cozumel.
I hate to sound argumentative, but an Emotional Support Gun is hypoallergenic, and (usually) very quiet. Hospitals can be stressful, sometimes even as stressful as airports and planes.
In the interest of full disclosure, I generally like dogs. I’m told they’re delicious, though I don’t know. We dined on C Rats and K Rats during my time in overseas. In all seriousness, our wonderful Della provided me years of first rate emotional support during her eleven years with all, and I still miss her.
I’m all for dogs. In their place.
Mr. Basura,
K-rations in Vietnam must of been older than you were at the time. As In 1948, after introduction of improvements in the C ration, the K-ration was declared obsolete; production contracts had long since terminated. Reports are they were not eatable in 1945 after better than two decades on the shelf they must of been bad, very bad.
Thank you for the correction. In my cadre, we called the food that came in cans C-rats, a nice homophone for “sea rats”. Using the pattern of first letters, we often referred to mess hall chow as K-rats, making s somewhat tortured reference to “kitchen rations”. Childish probably, and inaccurate, but we worked hard at our language. When we went from Pearl Harbor to Long Beach, we said we went on Navel Boats. We were silly boys. I wore a hat. I fired a gun. If I had reason to carry the .45, it was a shootin’ iron. Naturally, we would use military nomenclature at times we were addressing brass or some NCOs. I got to scrub garbage cans one day. That was sufficient. The C Rations the USMC provided us had the year printed on the box that contained the cans that constituted the individual meals. I once drew a box that was dated 1939. I ate it, in 1967, and it was fine.