Leslie Richmond Simmons

I always thought Scooter was a great name for a dog. 

‘C’mon, Scooter!   Let’s go, Scoot!  Who’s a good boy?’

I had a Keeshond named Katrina when I was three, a boxer named Brandy in my teenage years. When I had my own family, we adopted Daisy, followed by Jasmine, then Gus, and finally Wheeler; but I never had Scooter. Not until now. 

I was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis in 1996 when I was 48.

My neurologist told me I would probably end up in a wheelchair. “Not me!” I thought defiantly. “I’m a warrior. I will not let that happen!” But every year following the diagnosis, my mobility gradually worsened; and within five years I was unable to walk on my own. I had to stop driving because my right foot was not strong enough to press against the gas pedal. I saw my independence disappear right before my eyes. It was shocking.

I chose a scooter as my means of getting from here to there. I do not have to be pushed. There is no one standing right behind me, monitoring me.  I remain in control of my own domain. 

I am free.

Today I ride a scooter all the time. It is an extension of me. I am able to transfer from scooter to chair, bed, sofa, car, and back again to scooter. My scooter is my faithful companion, but doesn’t need to be taken out four times a day, regardless of rain, sleet, or snow.