Beyond the Bear (25 page)

They were different in many ways, each with their own strengths and weaknesses. Chandler was amazing with “find” commands. As long as he’d been there a time or two, I could say, “Chandler, find a bathroom,” and he’d take me down a corridor, into the men’s room, and straight to an empty urinal. Anderson was more likely to take me down a corridor, into the men’s room, and up to a urinal that somebody was in the process of using. On the other hand, Chandler was like a four-wheel-drive pickup truck. Anderson was a Ferrari. The first ride I took with him was like
Vrrrrooom
. I practically had to hold onto my hat. He loved his job and was eager to work with me.

He aced his distraction tests, too. He walked right by the loose cat and other anarchists of the animal world brought in for training purposes. He kept his cool amid the chaos of ducks, and ignored the annoying chattering squirrel. He even held his head high as he passed by the trail of sliced deli ham that trainers had laid in his path.

Trainers have all kinds of tricks for teaching students to trust their dogs. Like getting behind the wheel of a car and coming at us as if they’re going to run us down. In one session, they came at us five times in five different ways—running a red light, backing out of a driveway, and other fun-filled scenarios. Dogs don’t naturally go in reverse, but guide dogs do. Either that or they hit the gas and pull us full-speed out of harm’s way. Anderson nailed them all.

At the end of my four weeks, the volunteer who’d raised him from a puppy, Angela Schwab, came from Colorado with her fiancé and brother to watch us graduate together. It’s a proud moment for puppy raisers to watch their dogs make guide-dog rank since many don’t make the cut, ending up instead as “career change” dogs, doing search and rescue or pet therapy or going back to live with those who raised them. She told me stories of Anderson’s hellion puppy days, gave me a photo album of his puppyhood pictures, and brought him his favorite puppy toy—a chew ring that he loved tossing into the air that would occasionally land around his neck. After caring for him for a year, putting him in a crate and sending him off to guide-dog school had been bittersweet. She’d worried about who would get him, and was relieved to hear that he’d be going to school and eventually to work with me, that he’d be going hiking and camping and fishing.

After graduation, she took us to the Olive Garden for dinner, where Anderson was the perfect gentleman beneath our table. At the end of the night, we said our goodbyes back at the school. We hugged, and then she bent down and hugged Anderson one last time. After we turned and headed down the long corridor to my room, I could sense her standing there watching us go.

Bringing Anderson home changed the family dynamics. Amber is one of those women who feels compelled to do it all herself, and on a certain level, she got displaced. When I wasn’t using my cane, “hopping on” to her elbow, as I call it, had been my primary mode of transportation. Now it was me and Anderson. When she was along, unless we were in wide-open spaces, she’d have to walk behind us; otherwise he’d be looking for enough room to accommodate all three of us. Since Amber is easily distracted, she’s walked me into things, like display pyramids at grocery stores. Anderson, I’d tell her, wouldn’t do that.

“Fine,” she’d say. “Sleep with Anderson then.”

So having a guide dog as a roommate took some getting used to. So did a lot of things. If there was no sidewalk, as is the case in many parts of Anchorage, I’d have to walk on the left side of the road, even if I was just strolling through our neighborhood, because in that situation Anderson was trained to face traffic. I couldn’t just make a beeline across the cul-de-sac to my neighbor’s house. I’d have to be robotic about it. I’d have to make a ninety-degree turn, then walk straight across the street.

The adjustment was just as hard for Anderson. At guide school, it had been just the two of us. Once I got him home, he seemed taken aback to discover I came with a pack. Amber and I introduced him to the others slowly and cautiously. They bonked noses and inspected posteriors. After they’d exchanged information and everything seemed cool, Amber took off for the store.

Anderson’s attention to me must have gotten Hobbit’s goat because as soon as I was alone, I heard this terrible screech at my feet. Hobbit had jumped Anderson on the deck and was giving him a brutal hazing—just in case he had any doubts about who was in charge around there. Dogfights sound much worse than they are, but you would have thought Anderson was being skinned alive. I’m absolutely certain he had never been in, or even around, a dogfight in his life.
I have no doubt he was dumbfounded that another dog would behave in such a manner. I reached down, grabbed Hobbit by the scruff of his ornery neck, pulled him off, and herded him inside. Anderson bolted.

I knew he was somewhere in the backyard, which was fenced, but I had no idea where, and he wouldn’t come when I called. I had to wait until Amber got home to find out he was hunkered down in the farthest part of the yard, in a corner backed up against the fence, just sitting there, head slumped, staring at the house. I felt sick about it.

I’d like to say they’ve since worked it out, but it’s more like Anderson has learned to dodge hot-headed Hobbit like he would an oncoming car or any other hazard. I wouldn’t call them friends but they’ve learned to tolerate each other.

Anderson may tread lightly around Hobbit, but he’s fearless around traffic and golden at crossing roads. He’s pretty good at figuring things out, too, although he gets frustrated and a little panicky when he can’t. In an unfamiliar area, when he can’t figure out what I want and I’m not entirely sure myself, he’ll just start showing me things. He’ll take me to the bottom of an escalator: “Is this what you’re looking for? No?” He’ll take me to an open doorway: “How about this?” If I can’t help him out, he’ll tell me through unmistakable body language: “Okay, this is getting annoying. Where the hell is it you want to go? No, I’m not going to let you walk into a wall to get your bearings. No, I do not see your point.”

Crowded cafeterias and restaurants, with their mazes of tables and chairs, are a problem. Anderson is trained to tune into spaces big enough for us to walk through side by side, so he’s not going to let me turn sideways and squeeze between two tables. If he doesn’t see an opening, he’ll park it. I’ll say, “Forward.” He’ll say, “Nope.” But I’ll still need to get through. Just about the time he’d be dialing 9-1-1 if he could, I’ll drop his harness, he’ll instantly heel, and I’ll start feeling my way out of the jam, hoping not to touch anyone’s head or privates, and then
I’m the one in the lead, the blind guy leading his guide dog.

A refresher in the power of positive reinforcement came the day we were on campus working our way from one building to another when we came to an intersection of sidewalks that’s challenging under the best of circumstances, and we’d just had our first big snow dump of the year. It was still snowing and nothing had been shoveled, so the campus was one big blanket of confusion. I got disoriented and started looking for a way to get my bearings. “Anderson, find it,” I said; find anything I’m familiar with, was what I was thinking. He took me to some door, but I didn’t know it. He took me to another. I didn’t know that one, either. He took me out to some post-holed path others had blazed, but that didn’t feel right. Then he threw in the towel. We were lost. We were just standing there stuck. In a snowstorm. In the cold. The way snow muffles sound, I couldn’t hear anything or anybody. I got frustrated and lost my cool.

“Damn it, Anderson! We need to go somewhere, I don’t care where. Let’s just
go
.”

I felt his head sink. This is a dog that thrives on doing a good job, and I’d shamed the spirit right out of him. I was instantly remorseful. I reached down and patted his side, but it was a bit late for that. Five minutes passed, then ten. At last I heard footsteps in the snow.

“Hey there, sorry to bother you, but we’re a little disoriented. Do you mind telling me where the BMH building is from here?”

A couple of minutes later we walked into class twenty minutes late.

I felt terrible about losing it with Anderson, and was determined to make it up to him. I took him back to campus the next day with a pocket full of treats to practice that route, to make it successful and fun for him, to rebuild his confidence. Every time he got something right, I praised the hell out of him.
“Anderson, halt,” I’d say. “Anderson, okay.” That’s his cue that he can take a break from guiding, that it’s okay to celebrate.
I scratched his ears and patted his rump and praised him so much he was dancing around and I was dancing with him.
Anderson, it seemed to me, knew this was my way of apologizing. He was pumped and proud and forgiving.

I will always have issues with
Anderson that I don’t have with a cane. He’s a dog, he’s got quirks. Like refusing to do his business on any kind of artificial surface, which is a problem when we travel. One time in Los Angeles, I walked several blocks from my hotel trying to find him a spot. Then I heard some guys standing at a street corner talking. I walked up.

“Hey, do you guys know where I can find some grass?”

“Ah, yeah, man, no problem. We can set you up.”

Pause.

“Oh. I mean, for my dog here. He’s really got to go.”

Silence.

“Naaah, man. Around here? Nah. We don’t know nothin’ about no grass.”

With a guide dog, it’s important to have a sense of humor. I mean, what else can you do but laugh when you find out, as an acquaintance of mine did, that you’ve been walking about in public with your girlfriend’s bra wrapped around your dog’s neck?

This is an old joke amongst we guide-dog people, but it really does happen all the time: People ask, “Is that a blind dog?”

“Actually,” we say, “he sees just fine. It’s me who’s blind.”

Anderson is my eyes, my companion, my protector, and my security blanket. As a blind person out in the community, I feel a fair amount of awkwardness and anxiety in social situations. Unless someone is talking to me, it’s lonely out there, especially in a room full of people. It’s hard to start conversations without a meeting of eyes or a nod of recognition. With Anderson beside me, I always have a friend. When I’m alone, surrounded by people, I can always bend down and give him a pat. And having Anderson makes it easier for people to strike up a conversation with me.

“Nice dog. I have a Lab at home, too. What’s his name?”

There’s a huge distinction between a blind man with a cane and a blind man with a dog. When people see a blind man with a cane tapping along the side of a building, they assume he needs help. When I use a cane, strangers are constantly grabbing my arm and trying to take me somewhere, like they’re the bellboy and I am a luggage cart. With Anderson, that never happens. He takes me straight to the door. Or straight down a sidewalk without bashing into sandwich boards or parking meters or hanging flower baskets. People no longer see me as a blind man with a cane who needs help, but as a blind man with a dog who’s doing just fine.