This article was written by Catherine Caine, a lived experience consultant who uses a powered wheelchair
I’m dog sitting for my sister and it’s time to exercise the boys: Louis, a perpetually-worried mini whippet, and Moe, a black muscular medium-sized bitzer.
If there was just one dog I would probably be able to safely walk them next to my powered wheelchair but with two (neither trained to walk next to wheels) the risk of disaster feels too high.
So, the dog park it is.
As I pull up to the gate the dogs start to get wiggly and excited by all of the fun smells. This is the moment when I realise what my next few minutes is going to look like.
“Oh no,” I say.
Quick context: my powered wheelchair is set up for me with legs somewhat elevated and my hip angle at about 100 degrees. This is excellent for providing my body the right support, but from now on imagine that I am essentially on a small recliner with wheels.
The gate
The first gate is one of those black metal types you see at swimming pools, with the latch at about shoulder height for the average person. First problem: that gate latch is far too high for me to reach. I have a grabby doodad I use for many of these situations but it can’t navigate this angle.
The dogs are already wondering what is taking so long.
I transfer the leads to my offhand and reduce the reclining angle of my wheelchair. My hips start to hurt instantly but by contorting myself in the right configuration, I’m able to reach the latch and pull it upward.
Of course this means I am now blocking the gate I need to enter through, but my two dog nephews do not understand this and are causing endless shenanigans in their attempt to get through the gate that I am blocking. What I need to do is use one hand to hold the gate open, one hand to hold the leashes of the dogs, and one hand on the joystick of my wheelchair.
Since I do not have possess this many hands, I make do with chaos: backing and filling the wheelchair using the joystick, kicking the bars of the gate as required to stop it from getting in the way, and begging the dogs not to get crushed in the process.
I acquire a small bruise, but do not harm the dogs. I call this a success.
Trapped
Unfortunately, all three of us are now trapped in the narrow section between gates. At the first gate I’d been able to turn sideways so that the bulk of my wheelchair wasn’t in the way but that is not an option here. I sigh again and adjust my foot plate down as far as possible, ignoring all messages from my hips on this decision. I’m still far too far away to reach the latch and there’s nothing else to be done.
“Up you get, boys.”
Neither of these dogs are small and my lap is suddenly a very crowded place. Also quite a muddy one. But finally! I reach the latch and kick the gate open.
The dogs run around cheerfully, but I need a rest. We’ve still got to get back out, after all.
Inclusive design
Inclusive design isn’t a bonus, it’s essential. Catherine’s story shows how something as simple as a dog park gate can become a barrier when our environments aren’t built with everyone in mind.
Let’s change that. Let’s chat.