Oregon Vacation Photo Dump!

Last week I went on vacation to Oregon to visit my awesome friend Brad, who you may remember from blogs such as this one.  Andy and I went on vacation because I had one week between the end of my old job as a tech at USC (Go Trojans!) and the beginning of my new job as a lab manager at UCLA (Go Bruins!).  We road-tripped up to Oregon and saw crusty hippies and a couple of llama farms and a pick-up truck with a wolf-dog in it.  Most importantly, though, when we got to Oregon, Brad was there and he showed us a great time.

Highlights:

The Crater Lake

Brad insisted on taking us to this very cool lake, where we discovered that Brad is an excellent photographer and that nature is crazy cool.  We already knew one of those things, but I won't say which.

 

 

 

  

 

Fun facts: This is the bluest lake in the world, the deepest lake in America (over 2,000 feet!), and was formed by the explosion of a volcano.  You can see the volcano behind us on what people call "Wizard Island."  Yes, that is its real name.  Learn more about this bizarre lake here.

 

The Shasta River

We ate lunch at the side of the river, which runs though a redwood forest.  My view was mostly close-ups of the riverbed because I discovered frogs there.  (Protip: Never bring a biologist to a river.  They will get hyperfocused on the tiny things therein and fail to appreciate the scenery as a whole.)

 Brad's view:

My view:

 

 

 

Don't worry; we put him back.

The Redwood Forest

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Andy's view:

 Our view: 

Again, never take a biologist anywhere biological.  Every two seconds I was like "GUYS!  MORE FUNGI!"

How big are these trees?  Here's Andy standing in the center of one that had been knocked over:

Wee!  Nature!

 

Irony!  (Read the bench; it's a famous Giacomo Leopardi quote.)

♫ ♬♫ Moments in the woods:

Fun fact about redwoods: Redwood forests are considered to be "temperate rainforests."  Redwoods live 1,000 - 2,000 years.  They can grow to be 300-400 feet tall, so theoretically, you could pop like 5 end-to-end into Crater Lake and still have room left over, although the National Park Service would really prefer if you didn't.

 The House of Mysteries:

You might recall that Andrew and I are pretty big fans of a show called Gravity Falls.  Like, huge fans.  So you can imagine our glee when we discovered that the mystery shack is real:

Brad had no idea why I was flipping out over a stupid roadside attraction but was kind enough to let us get some pictures of the sign.

My only complaint about vacation is how brief it was.  I'm back now and settling in nicely to my new job as a lab manager, but that's a blog post for another time!

Note to self: Link the entire 400-picture Imgur album here and/or cross-reference Andy's blog.

It's officially autumn! Have some early Halloween stuff.

In celebration of the autumnal equinox, which occurred last Wednesday, and Halloween, which is rapidly approaching, let's talk scary!  If you don't like scary stuff, go watch this video and don't bother reading further:

If you're still reading but not quite ready for spooky stuff, let's warm up by pointing out a major flaw in everyone's favourite witch-and-wizard series, Harry Potter.  Specifically, the horcruxes.  Goddammit, Voldemort, you chose some really bad horcruxes.  One of them was a book, for God's sake.  A book.  Books are crazy easy to destroy.  Water, fire, wind... hell, even heart could probably injure a book.

Books are made of trees, you guys.

So I came up with a list of my own horcruxes for He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named:

1. A really cute puppy.
2. A rock thrown into the ocean.
3. A bucket of water.
4. A Muggle quarter.
5. The Mona Lisa.
6. A phoenix.
7. The moon.

Of course, J.K. Rowling will have to rewrite the books, but I know she's up to the task.  I already rewrote the titles for her:

1. "Harry Potter and the Queen's Corgi."
2. "Harry Potter and the Muggle Submersible."
3. "Harry Potter and the Bucket of Water."
4. "Harry Potter and the Cursed Vending Machine that Doesn't Give Change."
5. "Harry Potter and the Guards of the Louvre."
6. "Harry Potter and the Resurrecting Horcrux."
7. "Harry Potter and the International Space Station." (Released in the US as "Harry Potter Ruins the Tides.")

But I'm not doing any more than that, because I'm too busy writing my own shit, such as the next two short campfire stories!  For the consideration of the Midnight Society, I now present...

Out to Lunch

Every work place probably has "that guy." You know the one I'm talking about, right? The one who doesn't quite fit in. Maybe he smells weird, or has a really nasal voice, or seems like he's just a little too friendly with the ladies. Or maybe, as is the case where I work, he's Richard.

I want to clarify right away that Richard is a good guy. He's a hard worker and he's easy to get along with. He's been with the company for over 40 years, making him our oldest employee in all senses of the word. In fact, he just celebrated his 70th birthday.

But the thing about being that age is that, well, he's started to slow down a bit, and at times, he's just not quite right in the head. He wasn't always like that, but over the last two years, there's been a subtle change, and more and more often, he seems to be a little bit lost. Don't get me wrong; 95% of the time, he's fantastic at what he does. But that other 5%? He just sort of turns inward, becomes lost in his own inner world. When this happens, he can still be directed, but the tasks need to be very, very clear and very, very simple or he gets overwhelmed and just sort of shuts off. Or sometimes he'll confuse two tasks; last month, for example, he loaded a stack of order forms into the printer and then put the printing paper into the outbox.

Let me take a moment to back up and talk about my job. I work in a laboratory setting, which is not normally the type of place you'd find people like Richard. I study chronic diseases like epilepsy, and a heavy component of that type of research involves live animal models. Richard's role is not, as you might expect, a janitorial one, but a technical one. A lot of animal research involves nitty-gritty work: cleaning test tubes, wiping feces from cages, feeding animals, and sometimes euthanizing animals when they get too old or too sick. So you can understand Richard's role in our lab: he's an assistant that helps us set up cages for the animals and carries bags of feed to the rooms and wipes down chemical hoods so they're clean. That sort of thing. Even euthanasia is a pretty streamlined process; we have a machine that automates it. You put the mouse in the machine, flip a switch, the animal goes to sleep, you put the carcass in a brown paper bag, and you put the bag in the freezer until you have time to take it to the incinerator. Voilà. No problem.

So Richard. I've always felt a bit bad for him. Here in the city, the cost of living is high, and he gets paid minimum wage. Retirement is not a possibility for him. He lives alone; his lunch is always finger foods like carrot sticks or Pop-Tarts or pastries; I don't think he knows how to cook. I know it's rough on him because I've seen him occasionally take things from work. Nothing major, and nothing I think is worth even mentioning to management. A roll of paper towels from the store room, for example, or the brown paper bags from the euthanasia room for his lunch sacks, or a pen from the office. Just little stuff like that. Considering brown paper bags cost a dime for a pack of 100, it doesn't matter much if he grabs five for the week ahead.

Last week, I found Richard spaced out in the hallway. He was staring at the wall with a completely unfocused expression. It was honestly a little unnerving. More and more often, I've caught him on "auto-pilot;" he'll be wiping down a countertop, or changing the trash, and you'll get the sense he's on another planet. One time, he was drinking coffee, and there was nothing in the cup.

When he gets like that, it's best to try to snap him out of it early. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't.

"Hey, Richard!" I said, loudly. Richard gave no indication he'd heard me. He continued facing the wall, his jaw slightly slack, his eyes glazed. "Richard!" I repeated. This time his eyes slid over and met mine, though he remained completely silent.

Pretending this was entirely normal, I held out a bag to him. "Hey, can you put these mice in the freezer for me?"

He reached out, still silent, and took the bag. For a moment, we stood there. I wondered if he was going to keep staring at the wall. But then, he turned and began wandering slowly off, clutching the bag.

Poor guy.

Being his age, all alone, and with some of his mental facilities failing... it's humbling to work with someone like that. You might wonder why we keep him on, but honestly, this job is all he has, and at his age, he wouldn't be able to find anything else. An extra set of hands is an extra set of hands, anyway.

I went back to the procedure room to finish up what I was doing. I made sure to check in on Richard about an hour later; when he slides off into his own head, you sometimes have to reorient him more than once before he really snaps out of it. He seemed okay, though. He was in the break room when I saw him at noon, washing his hands in a slow, methodical way. The break room smelled absolutely horrible. Horrible smells have never bothered Richard much. He must've had Hot Pockets for lunch. Old Hot Pockets.

"Done with lunch?" I asked cheerfully, as if the break room didn't smell like nine-day-old ham. He grunted at me, which I assumed meant yes. "Great!" I exclaimed. "Would you mind replacing the biohazard bags in room 18, and also taking the carcasses up to the incinerator? I think the freezer is full." He grunted at me, which I assumed meant yes.

It was maybe an hour or two later that a postdoc caught me in the hall. "Excuse me, but the freezer is full," she said. I groaned internally. I thought Richard has snapped out of it, but he must have wandered off again.

"I'll take care of it," I said, making a mental note to find Richard as soon as possible. I hurried off to the biohazard storeroom, which is basically just a closet with two deep freezers for carcass disposal. The freezers fill up quickly and need emptied regularly, lest they fail to close entirely and the carcasses rot. (This has happened twice so far.)

I opened up the freezer and grabbed one of the over-filled bags, which was brimming with little brown paper sacks. It was heavier than I thought, and I dropped it. I swore, expecting dead, frozen mice to scatter across the floor. But what fell out of the bag was far worse: a handful of uneaten pastries, frozen solid.

Whatever Richard had had for lunch today, it hadn't been pastries.

The Day Baxter Came Home

Someone called to tell me they’d found my dog.

It was a pretty standard phone call. The lady’s voice was mild and unassuming. Her exact words were, “I found your dog.”

Normally I would be ecstatic. I used to get intensely anxious anytime the dog wandered off, imagining him streaking into oncoming traffic in pursuit of a squirrel.

But I didn’t feel ecstatic this time. I felt perplexed and a little unnerved. I knew exactly where my dog was. My dog was buried in the corner of the garden under the mountain ash tree.

“You must have the wrong number,” I say.

“I’m calling the number on the poster.”

Poster? There haven’t been posters in almost three years, since Baxter succumbed to renal failure at the ripe old age of fourteen.

“You must be mistaken,” I say, still not sure how to handle the situation.

“I can send you a photo if you like,” she says. And before I have time to tell her that’s not necessary, and that I don’t even have a dog, she hangs up. I get a picture from her moments later. It’s small on the screen of my phone, but unmistakable. That’s Baxter, all right. Baxter was (is?) a border collie, but I couldn’t have mistaken him for any other border collie. Not in a million years. In the photo, I can clearly see the torn ear he got as a puppy, and the faded red leather collar we bought for him after he snapped the blue one. There’s no questioning the photo. Especially since I was the one who took it, eight years ago. I recognize the bit of rose bush in the corner, the grape Popsicle wrapper at Baxter’s feet. I’m feeling even more confused now. Is this a prank? That photo is in an album at my mother’s house, three states away. To my knowledge it was never shared with anyone, and even if it had been, how would they be able to connect it to me?

The phone rings again and the lady is back. “Are you coming to pick him up?”

“I… I don’t think that’s my dog,” I protest weakly.

She lets out an exasperated noise. “Then I’m taking him to the shelter.” And she hangs up.

What could I do? I couldn’t leave poor, loyal Baxter with a stranger, to be dumped at the pound, wondering where I was and why I wasn’t coming for him. So I went. Of course I went. Wouldn’t you?

I guess I can’t complain much. It took some getting used to, having Baxter around again. He’s mostly unchanged. He accompanied me around the neighborhood to take down the posters that I never put up, the ones with my phone number on them. I guess I like having him back. He still gets up on to my bed at night, though he no longer sleeps (or eats); he just watches me silently, and I try not to think about it too much.

Creative Outlets

One thing I've never understood is people who bitch about their jobs.  If you hate your job enough to complain about it daily, why not redirect that energy into finding a new job, perhaps one you hate less?

 

At a certain point, the buttons you keep winning just aren't worth it.

Yet sometimes, bitching is still easier than the stress involved in applying, interviewing, waiting for HR, signing the forms, and getting oriented.  I know this because my stress levels are through the roof.  Next week is my last week at my current job and it's not a moment too late.  Our staff has been at about 50% of what it should be and it's working me to the bone.  I'm exhausted all the time, and even if I didn't have this new job lined up, I would have probably put in my two weeks' notice anyway and started searching.  On top of my stress due to overwork, there's the stress of worrying about my new job.  Will I be good at it?  Will it be challenging?  Will I mess up?  Will I have fun?

For those just joining us, my new job is as the head researcher / lab manager of UCLA's new gnotobiotics lab.  Note that "head researcher" just means "researcher who's been there the longest" and "lab manager" just means "person who orders more pipette tips."  The true boss is the PI, which stands for Primary Investigator and not Private Investigator, which would be far cooler.

According to stock photography, both professions use magnifying lenses to an excessive degree.

Gnotobiotics is the study of microbial influence on neurological development.  This is also called the "brain-gut" axis.  Whether you like it or not, the reality of the situation is that you are mostly microbe.  You have ten times more bacteria than cells that are "you," and when you take a dump, 30% of the mass of that dump is E. coli.  With that amount of bacteria floating around in your body, it's inevitable that some of it is going to have a degree of influence over your thoughts, perceptions, and increasing cynicism about your job.

Then again, it's not really your microbes' fault that you got a liberal arts degrees.  ...OR IS IT?

Since switching over from one job to another takes time, I've been in a sort of career limbo where I'm not yet established at my new job, and tying up loose ends at my old job.  I'm feeling increasingly anxious about starting anew and being given new challenges and responsibilities.  It's a lot to think about.  The paperwork alone is a daunting, Sisyphean task.  My response to this has been to sleep a lot and to try to find creative outlets at home.

As usual, RedditGifts is one of my major hobby projects.  I signed up for two "secret santa" exchanges: an animal-themed one and a pet-themed one.

Here's a pretty typical wrapping job for the animal-themed exchange.  As you can see, each package has a dirty limerick attached to it, lovingly crafted and hinting at the contents of what's inside each gift.

I was especially proud of this one.  (The person I was gifting to mentioned that her boyfriend really likes ducks.)

As for the pet exchange, Andrew and I make a snake hut for someone with snakes.

  Lol, snake puns. 

Not that I spend all of my time at home painting houses for snakes, of course.  That would make me crazy.  And I'm certainly not crazy, which is why my friends often rely on me to get things done for them.  For example, one of my friends, a professional drag queen, was doing an Elvira act over the weekend and asked for two 4-ft.-tall cardboard cutouts of Elvira's dog posing with a boombox as stage props.  Does that sound crazy to you??? 

Here's the outline, and then the finished product.

Wow, this post has had a lot of artsy-fartsy stuff, huh?  Don't worry, blog.  I'm still a scientist and absolutely not a crazy one.

If I were crazy, my dog, who is also my captain, would have honorably discharged me by now to get some of that top-notch mental health care that America provides to its veterans. 

Next time, on iAlbatross: My picks for what Voldemort's Horcruxes should have been, two new short scary stories, and a charming Halloween video to ring in autumn 2015!  Also, some science stuff: insects and fish, and the world's smallest horse!

Also, sorry for the infrequent updates.  As always, please feel free to visit Andrew's more frequently updated but immensely less endearingly batty blog, SHRAD.ORG.  The name of his blog is not, regrettably, any sort of reference to a death metal band.  In fact it's quite the opposite.  For example, he recently wrote about an excellent date we went on to see Audra McDonald the soprano sing at the Hollywood Bowl, followed by a ballet performance of Fancy Free.  Not especially hardcore, but nonetheless amusing.

Fancy Free is a ballet about some totally heterosexual sailors, and the resemblance to Carlisle is uncanny.

On service animals, therapy animals, and taking your dog with you to the store: an essay

I have a friend of a friend of a friend who, earlier this year, decided that she wanted a hedgehog.

Specifically, she wanted a "service hedgehog." See, she had been at the mall and there had been a guy there walking around carrying a hedgehog. She asked about it, and he explained he was "allowed" to, because it was a "service hedgehog."

There's at least three things wrong with this scenario. First, we live in the state of California, where hedgehogs are illegal (with rare exceptions; you must own a special permit to own one and justify why you have one).

Second, there is also no such thing as a "service hedgehog." I suppose you could have a "therapy hedgehog," but even if you did, it probably wouldn't be allowed in the mall or the state of California.

Finally, hedgehogs are notoriously grumpy animals. If you needed emotional support of any kind, a hedgehog would be one of the last animals I would recommend.

I had to explain all this in excruciating detail to the friend-of-the-friend, who really, really wanted a hedgehog. Her central argument was "But they're so cute!" It's hard to argue with that, because it's true. They're really cute.

Fortunately I managed to explain to her why she couldn't have a service hedgehog. I don't know whether the guy with the "service hedgehog" was lying or if he'd been completely misinformed by someone else, but this is not the first time I've heard someone misuse or misunderstand the concept of service animals and the legality of taking them into public spaces.

And so, if you've heard of this, considered it for your pet, or want more information, here's the scoop.

Disclaimer: I researched this only for my own interest (and to talk the friend-of-the-friend down from getting a hedgehog), and I am not a lawyer. These rules apply only to the United States, and some states may have other laws and amendments, so be sure to do your own research before you start taking Toto with you to Target.

Let's start with definitions. What's the difference between a SERVICE animal, and an ASSISTANCE animal?

A service animal is defined by the Americans with Disabilities Act as a dog (or other animal, but generally a dog) that is individually trained to do work or perform tasks for people with disabilities.  Under the ADA, service animals MUST be dogs or miniature horses.  No other animal qualifies as a service animal.  Furthermore, the work or task a dog has been trained to provide must be directly related to the person's disability. Dogs whose sole function is to provide comfort or emotional support do not qualify as service animals under the ADA.

For an animal to be covered by ADA law, there must be a clear correlation between the disability and the animal; if you're blind you can't demand to be allowed gerbils in your dorm.  Your service animal must perform a specific, trained task that has a clear correlation to your disability.

What's more, a service animal cannot have service "transferred." Beware of scams that claim to have licensed "service animals" that you can buy and take anywhere. If you're not blind, you can't just go out and get a seeing-eye dog to take to Steak n' Shake with you, no matter how delicious their new Mint Oreo Cookies n' Cream Shake™ looks. Also, beware of sites like this that let you "register" your animal. This site and others like it are NOT government-supported and do NOT make your dog into a legal service animal. There is no such thing as an online registration process that magically makes your dog into a service dog, only sites that help you convincingly fake it. Misrepresenting your animal as a "service dog" is a federal offense. Laws very by state, but misrepresenting a dog as a service animal generally carries a penalty of a fine and/or jail time. In my state of California, the fine is $1,000 and/or 6 months in jail.

How do you train a service dog? There are no official federal licensing rules, with the exception of the Guide Dogs for the Blind. They are classified differently from service dogs and fall under the jurisdiction of the Department of Consumer Affairs. Training of guide dogs is done by instructors who are licensed through the state.

For other service dogs, most training is done through private organisations that have vetting processes for the disabled to obtain a trained animal.

But what about "assistance" or "therapy" dogs? An assistance animal (such as a therapy animal or an emotional support animal) (also called an "ESA") does not perform a specific task but provides general comfort or support. (Although there's some debate, federally, seizure dogs are indeed currently covered by the ADA for doing a specific task, called an "alert.)

The difference between a therapy dog and an ESA is that therapy animals help other people, while emotional support animals help their handler."  Both can be called "assistance" dogs. However, neither is a "service" animal.

Assistance animals (ESAs) are covered under the Fair Housing Act. Therapy dogs are not covered under this law. Property managers/landlords are NOT required to make a reasonable accommodation under the Fair Housing Act for either assistance or service animals in these special cases:

• Buildings with 4 or less units where the landlord occupies one of the units.
• Single family housing sold or rented without a real estate broker.
• Hotels and motels are not considered dwellings under the FHA, but are considered places of public accommodation under the Americans with Disabilities Act. So if you're blind, your dog is allowed at the Embassy Suites, but if you're depressed and have an emotional support dog, the dog doesn't need to be allowed.
• Private Clubs.

Public universities are required to comply with the Fair Housing Act, which includes allowing emotional support animals into college dormitories and residence halls. Private universities may or may not be required to comply, however. They are not allowed to charge you for keeping the animal but may request a refundable deposit in case the animal does any damage.

Laws allow a property manager to accept a letter from the tenant's licensed mental health professional (LMHP) for an ESA, and may require a verification form to be completed by a physician or LMHP, confirming the tenant's physical/emotional/psychiatric disability. You are not legally required to say what your disability or emotional problem is; you only need the letter stating that you have a disability and need the animal. Landlords may not ask you "why" you need the animal or what the animal does; this violates HIPAA privacy law.

Note that in order for verification to be accepted, it must come from a LICENSED mental health professional; a general practitioner of medicine, a non-licensed counselor, or a social worker wouldn't count.

Although your landlord cannot refuse your animal on the general basis of weight, species, or training, they CAN charge you for any damages the animal does to the property, and they CAN evict you if the animal is destructive, unruly, or causing undue disturbance or distress on the property. Please note that the law says "reasonable accommodations" must be made, so while your landlord might be forced to allow a pitbull even if he has a "no pitbull" rule, he does NOT have to allow a tiger, or to install a pool for your duck. "Reasonable accommodation" means the landlord must allow the animal but doesn't necessarily have to make extreme accommodations; for example, installing a doggy door or otherwise altering the property for the animal. It also means the burden of caring for the animal and keeping it from destroying property falls on you, the owner of the animal.

Note that under BOTH laws, private institutions and residences are not covered. A condominium, which would be a "private residence," does not have to allow your dog in.

Under the ADA, service dogs are NOT required to wear the vests we so often see them with. Your dog doesn't need a vest or a special harness or tags. It doesn't even need a lead! It DOES need a license and a rabies vaccine, just like any other dog, though. The reason for the vests are a handy way of displaying the service license to avoid unwanted attention or questions, and also a handy way of preventing other people from trying to pet the dog. (Most vests will say "DO NOT TOUCH; WORKING DOG" on them.) But strictly speaking, you cannot be turned away from a business if you have a service dog that isn't wearing his vest. A service dog is a service dog regardless of whether or not he's wearing a vest. What's more, business owners cannot legally ask you for your service dog's ID or license. If you say it's a service dog, they must allow it (provided that it is not shitting on the floor, jumping on anyone, barking, or otherwise causing mayhem). Business owners are allowed to ask what what specific task the dog is trained to do, however.

How about service puppies, or service dogs in training? NOT covered by the ADA (varies by state; clauses in Texas and Arizona allow service dogs in training to go into stores). "In training" doesn't fall under the ADA because they aren't performing a specific task, and the handler isn't themselves disabled (usually).

Disabled people are allowed to train their own service dog, but while the dog is in training, it is not considered a true service dog.

A lot of people ask why dogs aren't allowed to go with them into every business. You've all probably heard the "health issue" argument. But there's more to it than that. Even a well-trained dog that doesn't shit on the floor might cause allergic reactions in other patrons. The owner of the business also has to worry about liability/biting issues, and whether the dog might destroy something. Finally, just because YOU are comfortable with your pet doesn't mean other people will be. Some people are genuinely frightened of dogs and unfamiliar with them. Even a friendly dog might seen scary to someone who doesn't like dogs. Not allowing a dog into a business is the business owner's attempt to protect the property, merchandise, and other patrons from allergies, feces, vomit, biting, nuisance, or general unruliness.

"But my dog would never bite anyone!"

Maybe not, but the business owner doesn't know that! And let's be honest: we all have blind spots when it comes to our own pets. We love our pets, and many owners fail to see their dog's bad behaviour.

So why are service/therapy dogs different? Most service or even therapy dogs have undergone extensive training.  For therapy dogs or hospital visitation dogs, there are organizations like Pet Partners or TDI that have obedience tests that far exceed the standards set by pet organizations like the AKC.  Hospitals set their own standards; here's Cedars-Sinai's page as one example.

Service animals must demonstrate that a dog remains under the trainer or owner's control even when distracted. Part of the reason service dogs are allowed in public spaces is because of a "guarantee" of good behaviour. A service dog should, in public, keep its nose to itself, and should not whine, pace, or be distracted. A business owner can ask a person with a service animal to leave if the service animal goes berserk.

Before dragging your dog out in public, ask yourself:

• How housetrained is it? Can it/does it let you know when it has to go?
• Does your dog ever jump up when excited, either on people or furniture? Does your dog ever bark?
• If you dropped the lead, would your dog run away? What if there was another dog, or the temptation of food?
• Is your dog easily startled? When startled, does your dog become difficult to control?
• Are there "triggers" your dog has, such as loud noises, squirrels, or people wearing hats?
• How readily does your dog obey your commands? Does your dog sit, wait, lay down, and come when called EVERY TIME, even when distracted?

Here's an interesting article in the New Yorker about a journalist who went about town with various animals to see how it worked. The short answer is, if your animal is well-behaved, a lot of people won't question the animal's presence, and most people are unfamiliar with the legal difference between an emotional support animal and a service animal.

If reading over this information has caused you some internal debate about dragging your pet around town, never fear! There are pet-friendly businesses that do allow dogs, even if they are just pets and not licensed service animals. Here's some places that have been previously lauded as dog-friendly:

• Home Depot, Lowe's, and other hardware stores.
• Petco, PetSmart, or other pet stores.
• Pottery Barn, Michaels, and Jo-Ann Fabrics.
• Bed, Bath, and Beyond.
• Some Targets. (Note: many will require your dog to ride in the cart.)
• Barnes and Nobles, as well as many other book stores. (Cafes often excluded!)
• Macy's, Gap, Bloomingdale's, Urban Outfitters, Anthropologie, Footlocker, Bebe, Nordstrom, Old Navy, TJ Maxx, Homegoods,and Marshalls are all stores that, while officially refusing dogs, are known to allow some dogs.  It varies by store and by the policies of the individual store manager.
• Some Goodwills.
• Some shopping malls.
• College campuses.
• Some CVS and Walgreen's locations (double-check; in Los Angeles, you are often asked to carry the dog.)

Keep in mind, although these stores are GENERALLY dog-friendly, they allow or disallow pets at their discretion. Each franchise can make its own rules, and various states and localities have their own laws. If you're not sure, call and ask.

If you want more information about this issue, I highly recommend this article, which says pretty much everything I just did and more. Please check the legality of getting or using a service or assistance dog before you do, out of respect for both the law and the truly disabled. Misrepresenting service dogs can cause discrimination problems for the disabled.

The purpose of this post was to help educate those who find these laws complicated and want to learn more.

Thanks for reading!

Saying "Yes" To Gnotobiotics!

In case you weren't aware, "gnotobiotics" is pronounced as "NO-TOE-biotics."  So now you've learned something, maybe!

What's gnotobiotics, and why am I saying yes to it?

Back story: recently I decided that it's time for me to seek out greener pastures, career-wise.  I like my little husbandry position just fine and I love my supervisor to death, but at the end of the day, I've grown as much as I can hope to, and I'm very much over-qualified.  The last time I applied for a job it didn't end well; I was given an offer lower than what I currently make.

But I can't sit around in my underpants forever, writing Avengers/GotG crossovers, and subjecting my poor readers to them, so I decided to give the job seeking thing another go.

It's never a good thing when fandoms cross.

The thing that prompted me was an interesting post on /r/biology about, what else, gnotobiotics and the gut-brain axis.  Gnotobiotics means "known microbes."  Your body, as you probably are aware, isn't just made up for "you" cells, but also of tons of little other cells that help you out.  (Incidentally, termites have symbiotic, prokaryotic parasites that live in their guts and help them digest the wood when they chew through your porch.)

How many microbes do you have?  Roughly ten times more microbial cells than "self" cells.  You are mostly microbe.  The microbes play a key role not only in what you can digest, but also in how you develop, how you act, and your general perceptions and reactions to your environment.  They're kind of a big deal.  Studies on the "gut-brain axis" are very, very big right now in the science world.

For more information, go read this book here.

So a "gnotobiotic" animal is one in which we know what microbes inhabit its gut.  Everyone has different microbes, and they cultivate our gastrointestinal track over our lifetimes.  Because we all live in filthy, filthy environments, there's no telling what types of bacteria reside within us.  To get a gnotobiotic animal, you start with a sterile animal (called "axenic," -xenic meaning foreign and the a- prefix meaning without; these animals have no foreign microbes inside them) and then you introduce it to the bacteria you want it to have.  So if you have Mouse A, with Bacteria A, and Mouse B, with Bacteria B, and Mouse C, with no bacteria, and you notice that Mouse B can eat carrots without getting diarrhea and that Mice A and C can't, you can conclude that Bacteria B within Mouse B is helping Mouse B eat carrots somehow.  And if Mouse A is a total asshole but Mouse B and Mouse C aren't, you can conclude that Bacteria A might have some affect on aggression; perhaps Bacteria A influences the mouse's body to ramp up testosterone production.  Or perhaps Mouse A is simply an asshole.  We don't know, which is why we're studying this.

To search for jobs, I went to a few university and hospital websites and typed in the word "mouse."  Not very inspired, I know.  I just wanted to see what was out there, and I knew I wanted to keep working with rodent models.

Lo and behold, UCLA had a single opening for a researcher, and that opening was... get ready for it... in a brand-spanking-new, first-of-its-kind, state-of-the-art gnotobiotics lab.

And then I asked how much it paid and HR just mailed me back this picture.

I applied and got a call back.  The PI (aka the primary investigator; the lab boss) and I had a great chat but she expressed concern that I don't have much experience of benchwork (doing things like pipetting fluids and looking into microscopes).  I replied with an eloquent argument that basically boiled down to, "Yeah, but, this work is so interesting.  I'm really enthusiastic.  C'mon.  Just give me a chance."


I assumed that was the end of it, but a few days later she called and invited me to come tour the lab.  Joy!

On Saturday morning, Andrew asked if I'd like him to accompany me to UCLA. I said yes because I wasn't sure how easy it would be to find parking. He drove me to UCLA's campus and dropped me off. After parking, he went looking for the building I was in to wait in the lobby.

Meanwhile, I had found the building and the PI, who had locked her keys in the lab. We ended up conducting the interview outside. The campus was nearly empty and while we were talking, suddenly, Andrew appeared. He was actually heading toward us, but when he realized it was us, he changed course. Instinctively, I waved to him.

The PI paused, and then asked, "Do you know him?"

Sudden embarrassment washed over me. Oh God, I thought, How silly and childish will I look if I say that's my boyfriend?

I heard myself saying, "Yes, he's a lab manager at Cedars-Sinai."  (Important note: he actually is.)

"Oh! Do you collaborate with Cedars-Sinai?"

"Yes, we've got some mice from them in quarantine right now."

I couldn't believe how smoothly I'd managed to save a potentially devastating situation.  (Important note: without lying.  I'm not going to lie at a job interview.  Thank God Andy's a lab manager and not a musician, or I would have looked like a real chump.)

The PI told me at the end of the interview she'd like to offer me the position, so now I'm just waiting on an e-mail from HR.  I should start sometime in late September or early October.  My duties include setting up isolators, giving mice C-sections, doing fecal assays, and monitoring the colony for contamination.  Also, she's going to be sending me to the AALAS National Convention in November!  Woot!  I felt like we really clicked and I can't begin to describe how eager and excited I am to have a real influence on research being done, to contribute to the scientific community, and to feel like my work matters.  This might also be the first step on the road to my getting my Master's degree. 

For more information, here's her old website.

And here's a TED Talk she gave on her work, which I'm sure even the scientifically illiterate among you will agree is fascinating.  AND I'M GOING TO BE A PART OF IT!!

And now, for those who come here for my fiction, here is my latest and greatest work, inspired by the writing prompt, "An ancient evil awakens; a modern evil doesn't like competition."

 A Modern Curse

The door to room 309 opened slowly, casting a soft beam of fluorescent light on its occupants. Mark Horowitz, age 89, lay sleeping on the hospital bed, his heart monitor beeping out a steady tattoo.
The man who entered room 309 was not a doctor, but might have been a patient. He was gaunt and bony. His skin had a grey, waxy appearance. His teeth were too widely spaced and appeared too loose to be healthy; his eyes were rheumy and slightly yellow. His nails were too long. His hair, black, was greasy, thinning. His breath rattled in his chest, and from every pore came a sickly sweet smell that was reminiscent of rotting things. He was not wearing a patient's gown, however. He was wearing a neatly tailored pinstripe suit.

"Hey gramps."

The man in the suit stopped by Mark Horowitz's bed and noticed, for the first time, a young man sitting beside him. The young man was in jeans; his t-shirt was well-worn but clean. He had blond hair held into a stubby mohawk with gel. His chin had a few lightly colored hairs, and it was clear he was attempting, and failing at, a beard. His face was an open, honest one; he looked like a guy who might be on the football team but wasn't the star quarterback. A handsome (if forgettable) fellow.
"Hello," said the man in the pinstripe suit in a gravely voice. This prompted a wet, hacking cough. He grabbed one of the hospital bed's guard rails to steady himself. His hands shook.

The young man didn't even watch. His attention had been diverted to the phone in his hands, where he was playing Candy Crush.

"So you're Pestilence, huh?"

"H-how... did you know?" asked the man in the suit between coughs. Shakily, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. He offered it to the younger man, but he waved it away.

"I've heard about you, from Famine. I'm Disconnection. But they all call me Dis."

"A pleasure," gasped Pestilence, dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief.

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry you wasted your time but he's going to be okay."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Mark." Disconnection twisted in the chair so that his legs dangled over the armrest. He tilted back his head, holding his phone over his face. The screen illuminated his blond goatee, or what was supposed to be a goatee. His fingers texted rapidly as he spoke. "The doctors are going to get him a liver transplant so the cirrhosis is probably not going to get him. Sorry to disappoint you."

"They're curing him?" asked Pestilence, dumbfounded. "But... the pneumonia..."

"Antibiotics. Hey, do you have FaceBook?"

Pestilence looked down at Mark. He didn't look 89. He looked much younger, and his face was peaceful.

Pestilence looked up at Dis. "But where are his grandkids? They weren't vaccinated. They're supposed to be here, catching the measles."

"Sorry bro. They're not coming. Aiden's got a raid and Mackenzie is a mod for Advice Animals, so they're sort of busy."

"But he's dying."

"No he's not. Do you see Death here? Nope. Because the doctors took care of it. Modern medicine, man. It's something else. Hey, do you play Candy Crush?"

Pestilence shook his head. "I don't have a cell phone."

Dis looked up briefly in surprise. "For real? Oh man. Well... uh, good for you, I guess."

Pestilence reached out and touched Mark's face. His brow furrowed in his sleep, and the heart monitor began beeping more rapidly. In an instant, the door flew open and a nurse rushed in. She pushed Pestilence out of the way without a second thought and bent over Mark to check on him.

Mark's eyes fluttered open. "Sheila?" he gasped.

"You're okay," said the nurse, patting his chest. "It's just me. You're just fine. We're taking good care of you."

"Where's Sheila?"

"She went home, Mr. Horowitz. She'll be back first thing tomorrow, though, I'm sure."

Mark reached up weakly. "Could you stay with me?"

Disconnection grinned at Pestilence and wiggled his eyebrows. The nurse's pager began beeping. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket, checked it, and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Horowitz. I'm a bit busy right now, but I'll come back shortly." She began texting on her phone, and walked out of the room with her eyes focused on the screen.

Pestilence and Disconnection looked at each other.

"It's incredible, isn't it? People." Disconnection paused to take a selfie. "You bring them war, famine, floods, plagues, whatever, and somehow, they always find the silver lining. They unite and they grow stronger. They feed off each other. But then, you give them access to information, and it all falls apart. Knowledge is power, and power is corrupting. Humans love information, and they love stimulation. They crave amusement. Their natural curiosity is all-consuming, and they poison themselves with it. Give them access to the media, to each other, and everything good about them evaporates in a cloud of liking and sharing and inflating their sorry little egos for some virtual validation. You shrink their world, and you shrink their very souls. Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it easy?"

Pestilence took a few shaky steps back. "You... you're a monster. That's not how we do this. That's not how we do any of this! We're supposed to cause them hardship, not... not turn them against each other!"

Disconnection stood, his face illuminated by the screen of his phone, his grin manic in the electronic glow. "Wanna know a secret?" he whispered.

Pestilence shook his head, rooted to the ground, unable to run. Disconnection took a few steps toward him, his phone beeping softly over Mark's heart monitor, and spoke anyway.

"...I'm really good at Flappy Bird."

The Fifth Horseman has spoken.