Until Tuesday: A Wounded Warrior and the Golden Retriever Who Saved Him

by Luis Carlos Montalvan

  So I’d playfully insult Ricky. Ricky would respond with his Mr. T impersonation. His dog, Raeburn, would stare at him in complete confusion and Tuesday, seeing Raeburn’s look, would turn to me as if wondering what was going on. So Rick and I would laugh at both our dogs and ourselves, both of us with our hands on our dogs for comfort, and Mary would come walking in with Remy tied to her belt. “If you guys don’t stop it,” she’d say with a smile, “I’m going to beat you to death with my stumps.”

  That was big for her. I don’t think Mary had ever joked about losing her arms before. Losing a limb in combat is not a tidy thing. It’s sudden, bloody, and extremely violent, but it’s also a long and painful process of surgeries and rehab. Mary had lost her arms less than six months before. She was still in the middle of a series of surgeries; she was in a lot of pain. She was trying to figure out how to put her life back together, and she was so young, not more than twenty-one and looking more like sixteen. Jared, her husband, also a soldier, was with her at ECAD. He was a wholesome guy, very quiet but polite. They were just a couple of kids from a small town in Montana, unfailingly friendly, ordinary people, and I swear I spent hours wanting to throw my arms around them and protect them from the world. We all did. Even Tuesday.

  But she was tough as nails, too. As Mary wrote of her experiences in a bomb disposal unit in Iraq: “I was shot at, sniped, stabbed, smashed, run over, blown up four times, rocketed, mortared, had to clear sites that my friends were just killed at, had an Iraqi man try to buy me and had an ovarian cyst rupture, all before having an IED go off while holding it, taking off my arms.” It was a litany of trauma, wounds, and pride that only a soldier could understand, and only the strong could endure. You don’t give up easily after experiences like that. You don’t talk much about them either.

  And then, on the fourth or fifth day at ECAD, Mary came waltzing in with Remy and threatened to beat Ricky and me to death . . . with her stumps! Her word: stumps. That’s the fighting spirit of an American soldier. That’s a testament to the power of service dogs. They’re psychological bodyguards. They make you feel secure and comfortable, merely by their presence. Especially in the honeymoon period, when you first get them, they are the embodiment of your new and better life. They give you confidence, when there was little but doubt and anxiety before.

  That is not to say my days at ECAD with Tuesday were easy. I had classes at Columbia most days, so the schedule was grueling. Drill, drill, drill, then off to class, take a break, then drill some more. Tuesday was trained, but I was not, and I had only two weeks to learn the basics of a new life. It was hours of frustration, punctuated by short bursts of accomplishment and joy. Tuesday knew eighty commands, and that’s a lot to remember—for a human being. Especially one with PTSD. And especially when Lu kept raising the bar for success.

  When I finally learned “Heel” and “Side” and we became competent at walking together, Lu added other commands. “Tell him to climb onto the box.”

  “Stop, Tuesday. Good boy. Jump on.”

  “He knows the box. You can say box. Now tell him to look out the window.”

  “Let’s go, Tuesday. Good boy. Heel. Heel. Window.”

  “He doesn’t know ‘window.’ What do you think we teach him here, Luis?”

  “Up, Tuesday. That’s a window. Win-dow. Good boy.”

  “Now try your cane.”

  “Look, Tuesday. Get my cane. That’s it. Get it! That’s right. Bring it here. Good boy!”

  Lu and her staff tried their best to disrupt us. They opened doors as we walked past or dropped treats in Tuesday’s path that he was supposed to ignore. We were told to use the “Go” command, which tells Tuesday the next commands will be given from a distance, then distracted him with wheelchairs, chew toys, the mailman (she wanted to see how Tuesday would react to a stranger), other dogs, and umbrellas. The world is a complicated place; out there, an umbrella suddenly opening was the least of the distractions.

  On the fourth day, when Ricky and Andrew were matched with their dogs, we started walking around the campus at Children’s Village. The next day, we took a van to a local mall for public practice, then returned to walk around the table in the big room at ECAD, following the ever-present painted yellow line. It was a topsy-turvy time, both highly stressful and blissfully freeing. Sometimes it felt like Tuesday and I were making progress. Other times it seemed we were losing the basic commands we had mastered three days before. Ricky bought a blinged-out gold collar for Raeburn, and I went around for two days saying, in my best Mr. T impersonation (which unfortunately sounded more like Hulk Hogan), “I pity the dog that has to be seen with Ricky Boone.” The next day, my hand shook when I reached out to touch Tuesday, and I knew that contact with him was the only thing keeping me nailed to the ground.

  I didn’t realize how far we’d progressed until we took the train to a nearby town for our first long outing, a morning in the park. It sounds easy, I know, but it’s not. Parks are crowded, distracting Tuesday and me for entirely different reasons. I was hypervigilant and nervous; Tuesday was fascinated by the squirrels. My failure to reach him, combined with the pressure of being in public for several hours, had a strong effect on my mood. I had left my medicine back at ECAD, and as noon approached my back began to hurt and my head to swim. I could feel the drugs leaving my bloodstream, and by the time we headed for the train station for our return to Dobbs Ferry, I was so anxious and unnerved I had almost forgotten Tuesday was at my side.

  By the time the train approached, I was on the edge. I could feel the emptiness in my veins, and my brain was pounding against my skull. I needed to get on that train so I could get to my medicine, but Ricky was having trouble with Raeburn. They weren’t going to make it to the platform in time, and with the complexity of the midday schedules on the Metro-North Railroad nobody was even sure if this was the right train. As the train slowed to a stop, the sound around me grew into a buzzing, then a throbbing, then a confused cacophony as everyone blathered about whether we should get on the train or wait for Ricky or go and patrol that house or bomb that building or . . . or . . . or . . .

  In the past, the situation would have overwhelmed me, leading to a migraine and, more often than not, a round of violent vomiting. But this time, instead of spiraling, I looked down at Tuesday. He was standing calmly against my right leg, looking up at me. He knew I was agitated, but he wasn’t discouraged. In fact, he was more focused than he’d been all day. He wasn’t encouraging me; the relationship doesn’t work that way. He was simply expecting me to make a decision that he could follow. So I did. I got on the train, leaving the rest of the group behind. As I settled into my seat, Tuesday looked at me again. There was no doubt about it, he was giving me an Atta-boy. My dog was proud of me, and that made me proud of myself. By the time the others arrived, I was lounging in the kitchen at ECAD with Tuesday at my side, the medicines racing through my system.

  “What took you so long?” I said with a smile.

  “I oughta whack you,” Mary said, raising her stump.

  “Why don’t you grab a chair,” I joked, “and sit down!”

  And then, like she so often did, Mary smiled.

  CHAPTER 11

  THE RIGHT DOG

  Nothing can dim the light that shines from within.

  —MAYA ANGELOU

  After the train, I felt confident. That was a major test, but I faced down my anxiety and, with Tuesday’s help, quieted my mind. I could tell Tuesday respected me more after that, or maybe he just felt more comfortable with me as his alpha dog, and with comfort came more responsiveness to my commands. By the second week together, we were knocking our training out. Walk around the block. No problem. Turn on the lights. No problem. Walk, stop, step onto a chair, back down, pick up the cane, switch sides . . . that’s all you’ve got? We could do that in our sleep, even in our tiny bunk bed with our roommates Andrew and Blue snoring ten feet away.

  Sure, Tuesday wasn’t the best-behaved dog. He was good at comm
ands, but he still tended to get distracted. Instead of staring at the road ahead, he’d wag his head from side to side, his tongue hanging out when he saw someone he wanted to impress. We practiced drills where Lu piled ten or twelve objects together and I told Tuesday to fetch one in particular.

  “Get the ball, Tuesday. Good boy. Now get the sock.”

  He didn’t have trouble identifying the right object, but after a few runs he couldn’t help taking a victory lap around all the dogs and people in the room, the object bobbing in his mouth while his ears and long leg hair flowed beautifully behind him.

  “You can’t let him do that, Luis,” Lu told me. “You’ve got to be the boss.”

  There was never any doubt of the leader between Tuesday and me. Lu always says: “A service dog should be more enthusiastic and less assertive than its owner.” That’s her mantra. Well, Tuesday wasn’t more enthusiastic than me, but that wasn’t his fault. No dog could have been as enthusiastic as I was for those two weeks. We were a perfect match, though, on assertiveness. I had a leader’s mentality from my years as an officer, plus I was a stubborn, hardheaded soldier, and Tuesday was a natural wingman. He liked to have fun, to be the jokester in our pack, and I like that about him. I took the training seriously, and I always listened to Lu, but I could also see Tuesday’s smile behind that sock in his mouth, and I didn’t put much heart into disciplining him. He was a happy-go-lucky dog, making everyone smile. Didn’t I want him to be himself? Wasn’t that one of the reasons I chose him?

  It was impossible for me, blinded by joy as I was, to see the problem. Tuesday followed all my commands. He was attentive, at my side, and always snuggled tightly against me in bed, although I must admit that might have been to keep from falling off. Compared to even the most loving, devoted, and affectionate “normal” dog, Tuesday was an octopus impaled to my face with its tentacles wrapped tightly around my head. I couldn’t get away from that dog, even if I had wanted to. I couldn’t look around without seeing Tuesday in my peripheral vision. I couldn’t take a step without feeling the tug on the leash as Tuesday stood up and followed. He was with me in the bathroom, for Christ’s sake! (Fortunately, the Army had destroyed my need for comfort and privacy.) Whenever I needed a reassuring touch, Tuesday was there. He was my miracle dog. I already loved him and depended on him more than any other animal I’d ever known—and most other people, too.

  So how was I to know we weren’t connecting, that there was more to a service dog relationship than following orders and standing side by side? I had been told that the leash, not the voice, was the ultimate connection. Tuesday, Lu told me, felt everything I communicated down the leash: fear, anxiety, distrust, hesitation, pride, power, respect, and love. Eventually, when the leash became an umbilical cord between us rather than a means of control, I would feel Tuesday’s emotions, too. I heard that, but I didn’t understand it. When I held the leash, I felt slackness and pulling. I felt when Tuesday wanted to go in a different direction, when he was impatient to walk faster, when he wanted to stop and rest, and I thought that was how it worked.

  If I had been able to read the leash, I would have felt . . . apathy. Well, not apathy, exactly. Tuesday liked me, I have no doubt of that. He enjoyed being there for me, because he knew that made me happy. But he didn’t have a connection with me. Not really. It’s so easy to overanalyze the moment on our second day together when I saw potential in Tuesday’s eyes. It’s easy to imagine it had all been planned. Tuesday had been watching me. He knew I was the one. He was testing me, opening up to me alone, saying, This is who I am. I am loving but wounded, and I need someone to take me as I am.

  But that wasn’t how it worked. To Tuesday, I was just another special trainer, like Brendan or Tom. I was a great trainer, mind you, and he appreciated that. After all, he got to stay with me all the time, even at night. When he did something well, I gave him treats, which he hadn’t received much of in the past year. I was extremely affectionate. Every ten minutes, I knelt down and gave him a big burly two-armed hug, roughhousing with his head and neck and saying in that enthusiastic, almost raspy talking-to-a-dog voice, “You’re a good boy, Tuesday. I love you, Tuesday. You’re a good, good dog.” He ate that up. He puffed out his chest, lifted his head, and curled his lips into a smile. When I was finished, he’d spring up and look at me, ready for his next command. I was using classic touch-talk affirmation, but I was using it with an enthusiasm he’d never experienced. How was Tuesday to know I wasn’t using a training technique, that I was petting him from the heart?

  I could see the difference in the other dogs. Mary and Remy, for instance, were bonded from the start. Remy didn’t need a reward; she would have done anything for her friend. Mary improvised a system anyway. She had her husband wrap two-sided duct tape around each of her upper arms, then pressed them against a pile of dog treats until she had ten or twelve stuck to each piece. When she wanted to give Remy a reward, Mary bit a dog treat off the tape and held it in her teeth. Remy slowly stretched up and, with a gentleness I’ve never seen in any other dog, grasped the treat in her own teeth. For a long moment, they would linger with their lips together until Mary pulled away with a smile. Remy was even happier, judging by the way her tail whapped the floor. She was exactly the kind of dog Lu intended to provide: a well-trained obedient animal salivating for a loving bond. If Remy threw her arms enthusiastically around Mary from the moment they met, then Mary was no less enthusiastic in return. I know, I know, Mary didn’t have arms. Neither did Remy. When I say arms, I mean heart. The thing war can break, even mangle, but never destroy.

  Tuesday and I didn’t have that relationship. Not to put those guys down, but we were both more complicated—or wounded, if you prefer—than that. We were more like Ricky and Raeburn, who, despite their Wonder Twins–style matching gold jewelry, were feeling their way toward a relationship.

  We were tighter, though, than Andrew and Blue, who were clearly working hard to reach an understanding. Andrew was funny, but he was also quiet, a laid-back small-town Minnesota kind of guy, never caused any trouble. Between his Hogan’s Heroes DVDs and his nightly dose of South Park, he was pretty much set. I needed a go-getter, a dog that liked getting out of the house and stretching his world; Andrew needed a chill partner. He also needed a patient dog, because he was a double amputee recently fitted with prosthetic legs, and he wasn’t too good at getting around on them yet.

  Blue wasn’t that dog. He was the alpha of Tuesday’s litter, and he liked being in charge. That’s fine for a type A owner, but that wasn’t so good for laid-back, physically awkward Andrew. Several times, I saw Blue almost pull Andrew off balance, and there was a certain lack of enthusiasm when it came to commands. But Andrew stood by Blue, even when it became clear that trying to corral the headstrong dog was stressing him out, and for a few days Lu let the relationship ride.

  “I’ve got no patience,” Lu told me once, but that’s just the New Yorker talking. Lu Picard has more patience, and a bigger heart, than anyone I know. It takes patience, after all, to train a dog. And it takes patience to lead hurt and scared people through the training they need to change their lives. Imagine all the disabled people who have come through her doors, desperate for a better life but barely able to hold a leash. She helped them. Think of all the mothers who cried themselves to sleep for years, praying for a way to empower their sick children. She relieved their pain.

  Think of the people like me. I was all in for Tuesday. If it didn’t work out, I don’t think I could have gone back to living on my own. I had pinned so many hopes on finding a partner that returning to Brooklyn without a dog would have sent my life into an irreversible spin. At best, I’d probably be a broken veteran, as my father feared. At worst, I’d be homeless or dead. Lu understood that when she took me into the program. She knew this was my chance. She understood that with all of us, which is why she kept asking, “Are you all right with that dog, Andrew?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  There were times I w
ondered if she was pressuring him. There were times I thought she was wrong to keep asking, “Are you sure you’re all right, Andrew? Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” Andrew kept saying. He didn’t like to cause a fuss. And he hated the attention. I think he just wanted Lu to leave him alone.

  Near the beginning of the second week, we took our dogs to the movies. It was a treat, but also a challenge—two hours together in a dark, cramped space. Before we left, Lu pulled Andrew aside.

  “I want you to take Jackie instead of Blue.”

  “No, Lu. I’m fine. Really.”

  “It’s a movie, Andrew. It’s not a commitment.”

  He hesitated. “All right.”

  By the time the lights came on at the end of the movie, it was a love affair. For a week, Andrew and Blue had waged a war of the leash, trying to figure out who was boss. Within two hours, Andrew and Jackie were hugging and rubbing noses like teenagers in love. “Feel her ears, Luis,” he said in a dreamy voice. “They’re so soft.”