The Seeing-Eye Dog

The section of Bank Street where my work is located seems to generate its own special brand of oddities. I have a few stories stockpiled, the following being the most recent.

Dude comes in with a young dog on a "leash" (in this case, a rope tied around the dog's chest). My co-worker kindly informs the man that he cannot bring a dog into the coffee shop. To which he replies, in a possibly-affected British accent, "It's my seeing-eye dog."

Allison and I look at each other and shrug, 'cause it's not even 6pm and the evening's already been kind of weird. The place is packed, except for a single seat in the front window. Our man saunters the vacant table and starts yelling at the dog -- whose name is Whiskey -- to lie down.
At top volume.
"Whiskey, lie down!! Lie down, Whiskey! I said, lie down!!!" and so on.

Allison brings him his tea and quietly tells him he can stay with the dog, but he really has to keep his voice down. The reply:

"I have to yell; it's my seeing-eye dog."

***

After he finished his tea, he strolled up to where I was at the cash sans Whiskey and thanked me for what was the finest cup of tea he'd had in ages.

You Can't Honk Your Bus Every Time I'm Doing Something Stupid.

To the bus driver who took it upon himself to honk at me and stop in the middle of Bank Street as I carefully walked across the cement blocks at the corner of Sommerset:

At no point did I think my behavior was either a good or particularly safe idea. Thus, your ever-so artful "use your brain" tapping of finger-to-head achieved zero percent of its intended shaming and succeeded only in making you look like a doofus.

You are not Superman. Your little display doesn't even qualify for Green Hornet status. Sorry.
Better luck next time.