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

by Luis Carlos Montalvan

  I also hadn’t anticipated how deeply my mind, still struggling with PTSD, would be unsettled by the change in routine. I may have ultimately liked Manhattan better, and ultimately felt more comfortable there, but in those first months the place was a warren of new experiences, and the uncertainty threw me into a state of anxiety. New ground meant reconnaissance and surveillance (R&S). What windows were usually open? What people usually passed my building? What did the employees of the local stores look like? What time was the garbage removed, and by whom? I had to know the ordinary, so I would recognize the extraordinary, and in a place like Manhattan, the ordinary was complicated. For the first time since Tuesday and I sealed our bond in the spring, my hypervigilance was in high gear.

  By a disastrous coincidence, my move to Manhattan also coincided with the collapse of my support network. Tuesday was the bulwark of that network, of course, but there were people vital to my progress. My therapist, Michelle, had been breaking me apart and putting me back together for a year and a half, since the summer before I adopted Tuesday. She was a former Marine, a whip-smart woman (I found, for some reason, that I couldn’t share my emotional experiences with male therapists), and someone I trusted with my deepest personal secrets and fears. Unfortunately, at the end of summer, she moved out of state. Around the same time, a health issue forced my primary-care physician to retire. This was almost as devastating as losing Michelle, because the primary-care physician was the lynchpin of treatment in the VA system. Last but not least, my wonderful psychiatrist moved to California with her family. Without my health-care trinity, I had no one I trusted to discuss problems with and oversee my health. Without their professional approvals, I couldn’t see specialists or have prescriptions refilled. Suddenly, after a year of excellent care, I was back in the muddy-boots VA bureaucracy, meeting with medical interns as a stop-gap measure and enduring the fast-moving revolving door of “health-care providers.”

  It took two months to secure a new primary-care physician, and the longer it went on the more anxious and confrontational I felt. A major course of medicine, like mine, needs constant tinkering, since the drugs interact with each other over time. That fall, my sleep medicine, Ambien, stopped working after more than a year. In fact, I was pretty sure it was keeping me up, because I felt wired after I took it. In my first month in Manhattan, I doubt I slept more than two hours a night. My other medicines began to run low, and without a doctor to refill my prescriptions I took half-pills to conserve. My back pain, diarrhea, and vertigo returned, and bad memories crowded my mind. I started hallucinating from either lack of sleep or withdrawal from my medicine, I’m not sure which. At night, I stared out my window, which looked into a glorified airshaft, or surfed the Internet for news, or just lay in my bed with my eyes open, stressed out and wondering for the first time since Tuesday where my life was headed.

  It felt different this time because, in addition to my usual symptoms, I was experiencing something I hadn’t felt since the confrontation with my father: deep disappointment. In the Army, we are taught to manage expectations. It’s important to understand what you are capable of, both as an individual and as a group, and to plan accordingly. Overextending because of unrealistic objectives can be deadly, for both a commander and his troops.

  In moving to Manhattan, I had failed to manage expectations. I assumed I had reached a permanent plateau in Sunset Park, and when I was unable to sustain my comfort level—much less raise it, as I had hoped—I felt dangerously let down. I was disappointed with my alienation, with my continued anxiety, with my failure to integrate with campus activities. But I was even more disappointed in myself. Why couldn’t I control these demons? Why couldn’t I put the past behind me? I knew the answer: I was seriously ill, and I hated that illness for clinging to me so tenaciously. And yet, despite that knowledge, I couldn’t shake the disappointment. I still chastised myself every day for failing to meet my own expectations.

  In the past, when I fell into despair, I called Father Tim, the Jesuit priest who was by then a legend in underground Alcoholics Anonymous and PTSD support circles. My early-morning calls to California had always soothed my anxiety, and his wise words had always helped put the memories into perspective. But that fall, after years of being a voice on the phone for servicemen like me, Father Tim had joined the Army. I knew he was helping more soldiers in his capacity as an official military chaplain, and that this was undoubtedly his calling, but when he shipped to Iraq and then Kosovo, in eastern Europe, I lost my ability to contact him at any time. In my darkest periods, I had talked with Father Tim every day. Now, he was only available a few hours a week, and in my wretched condition I felt unworthy of taking up his meager free time.

  That left only Tuesday, my companion, my better half, my friend. I knew the situation was bad. I could see it in Tuesday. He was exhausted from worry and lack of sleep, his posture was slack instead of alert. He didn’t have the energy, much of the time, to hold up his tail, and more than once I spotted him with his head down in what I can only describe as a standing sleep. He had developed a cough for the first time late that summer—probably caught from the dogs in Sunset Park—and that fall it progressed into bronchitis. I took him to the veterinarian for a course of antibiotics, and although his coughing improved he continued dragging through the day and, when he thought I wasn’t watching, examining me closely with anxious eyes.

  We needed something: a talisman, a routine, a lift out of the rut. To my surprise, the secret turned out to be grooming. Brushing Tuesday had always been part of our daily ritual. It was my responsibility, after all, to keep him looking good, because I took him into places no other dogs were allowed. How could I ask that if I hadn’t put in the work to make the situation as comfortable and pleasant as possible? Could I really demand that a restaurant seat my mangy dog? Or even my average dog? If I came into their establishment with a poorly groomed canine, they would have every right, in my opinion, to kick me out. It was my duty as a service dog owner to make sure Tuesday wasn’t just passable, but better groomed and behaved than even the best pet dog.

  The grooming we did in those first months in Manhattan, though, went beyond anything we had done before. We would sit for an hour sometimes, Tuesday at my feet or across my lap as I focused on the long slow brushstrokes and the supple beauty they brought out in Tuesday’s fur. I always started with his back, running the brush and then my bare hands across his shoulders and down his spine to his tail, feeling his heat. I brushed his tail, including the underside, where the long fur was matted. I brushed the top of his head, starting above his eyebrows and progressing straight back between his ears. I held him lightly around the shoulders and brushed a hundred gentle strokes through the thick fur of his throat while Tuesday leaned on my shoulder and closed his eyes. When he’d had enough, he rolled onto his back so that I could brush his armpits and belly, then down his legs to the thick hair along the back of his calves. It may not seem like much, but it was like communion for us, a solemn ceremony of unity, and we passed whole mornings on the floor, with Tuesday pressed beside me on his back and my arm going back and forth hypnotically as I pulled every lump and tangle from his fur.

  We had a ritual after outdoor trips, as well. I had my courses at Columbia, of course, and that semester there were several group projects that forced me to meet with my fellow students outside of class, so no matter how bad I felt I was often on the move. (And that doesn’t include our trips to the dog run three blocks away in Morningside Park.) When we returned to my apartment, I always spent a few minutes caring for Tuesday. I kept a container of baby wipes by the front door, and after removing and hanging up his service dog vest, I always wiped down each of Tuesday’s paws. I had learned the value of baby wipes, one of humankind’s most underrated inventions, in the Army. At Al-Waleed, we often wiped ourselves down with a handful, since there were no convenient bathing facilities. We called it a whore’s bath, because it removed the worst of the stink between missions. (Sorry about the image
ry. We were soldiers; this was tame.) Almost every soldier I knew carried baby wipes, even on long patrols. The sand in Iraq infiltrated everything, and baby wipes were the best way to remove it from elbow folds, hairlines, lips, nostrils, ears, and every other awful place you can think of. They were also a great way to wipe down weapons. I spent many evenings, and many water breaks on patrol, wiping down my M4 carbine and Beretta 9 mm pistol with baby wipes. If it wasn’t for Pampers brand butt cleaners, there would be a lot more jammed equipment in Iraq, and probably a few more dead soldiers, too.

  (Of course, the Army doesn’t supply them, so baby wipe purchases are out-of-pocket expenses. If you really want to send something useful to the troops, send baby wipes.)

  In Manhattan, I cleaned Tuesday’s paws as carefully as I cleaned my weapon in Iraq. I rubbed each of his toe pads and nails separately, before wiping the center of his paw. This wasn’t just to keep New York out of our apartment; it was for Tuesday’s health and comfort, too. Small rocks, splinters, and grime from the sidewalks tended to stick in his foot crevices, and I didn’t want him to develop infections.

  Tuesday always stood patiently for his foot bath, carefully lifting one paw, then the other. It wasn’t his favorite activity, but he tolerated it. When I was done, he usually ran either to his water bowl, if he was thirsty, or to the end of my bed, where the grooming began.

  I brushed Tuesday anywhere and everywhere, but our major grooming sessions were on the floor at the foot of the bed. When Tuesday saw me gathering the accessories, he always got excited. This wasn’t rowdy excitement; this was Tuesday excitement, like the calm that comes over you when anticipating a nice long bubble bath. He helped me gather my things with a laconic joy, his tail whapping lazily from side to side. When I eased down cross-legged on the floor, with my grooming tools scattered around me, Tuesday calmly moseyed over and settled into my lap.

  I usually started with his toenails, which I clipped once a week. I trimmed the hair between his toes and around his footpads, a prime collector of burrs, seeds, sidewalk gunk, and other annoying hitchhikers. Then I brushed him, running first a brush and then a hand across his body. I felt for tender places in his flesh, for signs of bruising, for hot spots and lumps to make sure they were nothing more than muscle knots or insect bites. When I found a cyst one day on Tuesday’s side, I sterilized a razor blade, sliced it, drained it, then covered the wound with a bandage. We performed a lot of injury maintenance at Al-Waleed, since the nearest medical tent was sixty miles away, so this little operation was nothing. Combat soldiers know how important it is to keep in top physical condition, and my men never let small problems linger (except the mental ones, of course).

  “You have a little blood, Tuesday, a little scrape on your front leg,” I told him, keeping up a steady patter. “I’m going under your chin now, Tuesday, just a little brush under your chin.” He had an odd way of pushing toward me while I brushed his armpits and chin. There was a butt wiggle in it, and that always made me smile. “That’s a good boy, Toopy, just getting the belly now.” The nickname was a combination of Tuesday and Snoopy. I don’t know how it started, but that fall it became my go-to term of affection. “That’s it, Toopy. That’s a good boy, Toopy.”

  After grooming, I cleaned his ears, and he let me scrounge not just the outside ridges but down into the holes. They were grotesquely dirty from the city air, and each cleaning covered eight to ten Q-tips with foul brown gunk. Tuesday never complained, not once, about having a Q-tip pushed three inches into his head. He never complained about my brushing his teeth with specialized equipment I can best describe as a stick covered with chicken-flavored grit. In fact, he loved it. As soon as the tube came out, Tuesday flipped onto his feet with a big grin so that I could rub it all over his teeth. Afterward, he licked his tongue around his mouth, searching out every morsel while I petted him for a few quiet minutes. That was also part of our routine; I gave Tuesday a nice rub before and after each individual task in our grooming ritual.

  In the end, after all the Toopy talk was stowed and the accessories put away, Tuesday looked good. In fact, he practically glistened, and since he was the better part of me I assume I looked better, too. I know I felt better—more relaxed, more content, more in the moment—and that not only carried over into the rest of my day but was reflected in Tuesday’s mood: his lazy smile and the way he bumped me two times, then rubbed against my shoulder, then licked my neck to return the grooming before settling in for a nap on my cool bathroom floor.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE LITTLE THINGS

  We can do no great things, only small things with great love.

  —MOTHER TERESA

  It’s hard for me to quantify what Tuesday does for me. I mean, what doesn’t he do? Every morning, as soon as I stir, he walks to my bed. The first thing I see when I open my eyes is his snout plopped on the covers; the first thing I hear is the happy huff of his breathing and the sound of his tail whapping against my dresser. Once he’s confident I’m not going back to sleep, he walks to the foot of the bed—his launching spot—jumps halfway to the headboard in one bound, and curls up next to me. I pet him for ten or fifteen minutes, while any lingering anxiety or bad dreams float out the window. There is nothing more calming in the morning than petting a dog.

  When I’m ready for the day, Tuesday brings me my shoes. He used to bring my socks, too. He still opens the drawer, but it takes him too long to decide on a pair, not to mention he’s a little heavy on the drool, so I retrieve them myself. I brush him first, even on my good days an important ritual, then give him his food while I brush my own hair and teeth. After he’s eaten, Tuesday does his happy dance, ducking his front half and raising his behind and sort of pounding his head and shoulders into the rug with a scrape and a wiggle, first one side and then the other. Have you seen this in your own dog? It is energetic, goofily joyful, and mesmerizing. I suspect Tuesday is either rubbing off loose hair or scenting his spot, claiming this apartment as his own, but it’s an endorphin rush for both of us. I leave the apartment laughing every morning, and then I laugh again when I drop the leash as we exit the elevator on the ground floor and Tuesday runs to the lobby rug and does his happy dance again. I mean, is there a better way to start a day than that?

  He does the ordinary things, of course—he balances me on the stairs, walks me out into the world, and stays alert to all possible dangers, from homeless people in bushes to cracks in the sidewalk. When I’m overwhelmed, he’s there for me to pet. When I want to speak up in class, glancing at Tuesday calms my nerves. When I have a tough therapy session, Tuesday rises from where he waits for me under a side table and stands by my side until the anguish or guilt or sadness subsides. That’s one of the gifts of a service dog; he can be there for me wherever I am, even when no other dogs are allowed. When I start down the rabbit hole of anxiety or agoraphobia, even in a restaurant, Tuesday can nudge me back to the present with his dog-eyed optimism and tongue-wagging charm.

  He can do all the other tasks he’s trained for, too: opening doors and cabinets, turning on lights, retrieving medicine, canes, dropped objects, newspapers, and pretty much anything else under ten or twenty pounds. But my physical wounds have begun to heal and I don’t need him for that as much. Often, I just need his courage to push me over the threshold, because with agoraphobia and PTSD the first step is the hardest of all. Twice during those terrible months after my move to Manhattan, I planned desperate trips to my parents’ house in Washington, D.C. My father, especially, had done a complete about-face since the fall of 2007. He had studied PTSD; he had continued to work on himself and our relationship after admitting his mistake. Instead of being my biggest critic, by the fall of 2009, he was my most ardent supporter. I wanted to be with him in my time of trial, but the fear of the crowds and the trains between us made me stop at my door. Tuesday dragged me across, and once I was on the subway to Penn Station, it was relatively easy. Tuesday took over and guided me four hundred miles to home.

 
It’s not just his understanding of me, although that’s part of it. With a word, Tuesday can guide me to dozens of places. He can be my surrogate or a mirror to my heart. He was like a child at my parents’ house that fall, discombobulated by joy. Papá, I think, was the only person he ever jumped on. He loved to jam his head under Papá’s arm to read the newspaper and to lounge in his comfortable chair. That excitement and comfort were invaluable to me. It reminded me that this was my safe place. That these were the people who loved me and, despite everything, still cared.

  It’s that sociability, that eagerness to interact with the world, that I find so valuable. Wherever he is, Tuesday emanates happiness and affection. He wants to be noticed; there is something about him—I think it’s in his eyes and maybe that goofy grin—that invites people to approach him. After class, or even out on campus, pretty girls I don’t recognize say, “Hi, Tuesday” and smile. People wave on the street, or stop to say, “What a beautiful dog.” I still hate going to the VA hospital, but even on my worst days, when I don’t want to look at anyone, Tuesday’s vibrancy and affection pull me through. I see him sitting beside me, looking at me, and I know he wants a hug. So I hug him, and the buzzing lights and grimy walls don’t seem so bad.

  On better days, when I don’t feel compelled to sit quietly and leave as quickly as possible, I’ll even nudge him, then motion with my head toward a veteran nearby. Tuesday’s eyes, when he looks in your face, are so innocent and playful that they draw you in. He’s almost impossible to ignore.