by Steven Wolf
Dan and Charlotte, a retired married couple, lived across the street and were the neighborhood eyes and ears. I had given Dan a key to my house in case of emergencies, and now he stood over me shaking his head as if this was exactly what he had expected.
“I knew something was wrong when your newspaper was still in the driveway,” he said.
“Can you let Comet out?” was my instant request.
As the greyhound relieved herself in the proper locale, Dan guided me to the couch and handed me the Gatorade that had escaped in the night.
“Should I take you to the hospital?”
“No, thanks. There’s nothing anybody can do about a broken rib. By tomorrow I’ll be able to get around again. I’ve got enough painkillers to get me over the hump.”
No more than a week had passed when, as I was walking Comet on a nearby trail, a desert lizard took a bite out of my big toe (with midwestern hubris I had worn open-toed sandals). The accident tally was now at three. When the skin started to turn black, I went to a podiatrist who prescribed a series of antibiotic injections and said, “If we can’t get it under control, we’ll have to consider tissue grafts.”
Undergoing tissue grafts was a much more pleasant prospect than talking to Freddie, but at this point I knew I had to bring her up to speed. These mishaps were simply bad luck, or so I told myself, but when linked together it sure looked like I wasn’t keeping my promise to her. To soften the blow, I began the conversation with a little light humor. “I always knew there was a good reason why I wouldn’t let the girls have a pet gerbil. They have teeth.”
“Steve, you have to get more help. I mean it! If I have to, I’ll quit my job right now and be on the morning plane. Don’t make jokes. C’est pas drôle!”
Humor had always been my default position when I felt cornered into dealing with my physical woes. It was the only approach I could take, given the way I was raised. My mom and dad both came from large, poor farm families who tilled the glacial soil of Iowa, the birthplace of John Wayne. My father had learned from his own family that when facing illness or injury, silence was a virtue.
Throughout his youth, Dad’s parents fought to overcome the brutal poverty of the Great Depression by selling grain for rock-bottom prices. There was no money to pay for doctors, and health insurance was a fantasy on the order of buying a brand-new tractor. When Dad’s mother and many of his eight brothers and sisters suffered severe complications from diabetes, including having limbs amputated, they did not talk about it. When some of them died young from the disease, the family bore the losses without complaint. There wasn’t any room in the emotional budget for openly grieving or railing against fate. When my father was diagnosed with diabetes in his midfifties, he carried on the tradition, never expressing fear or discomfort. It was expected that I would do the same. For me to acknowledge vulnerability, even in a self-deprecating joke, was actually an improvement over my father’s seamless stoicism.
Freddie knew all about my family history and appreciated my attempts at humor, gallows and otherwise. However, the frustration in her voice as she begged me to get with the program told me that the comedy routine was doomed. But if I couldn’t deflect my situation—particularly my physical pain—using denial and jokes, how was I supposed to handle it?
Chronic pain does more than hurt. It turns you inward and shrinks your life down to a narrow tunnel of endurance. What makes the effort bearable is the hope that someday you might find relief. But although there were specific causes for much of my pain, it had long ago defied simple treatments. Some of my problems could not be directly connected to a specific anatomical defect or identified on an x-ray. All too often in recent years, my own macho upbringing was echoed by the very experts whose help I sought. Suck it up, pilgrim! Some health providers with real medical degrees thought that chronic pain was “all in your head.” Bones heal and nerves regenerate. This attitude was always summed up with the phrase, “I don’t see anything on the MRI.” If it can’t be identified and fixed, it doesn’t exist.
The more enlightened medical practitioners recognized that injuries and trauma could impact the body in ways that are still not fully understood. Over time, constant severe pain can change the nervous system by affecting peripheral nerves. As it continues, this condition can change the spinal cord and affect different levels of the brain. Years of uncertainty and lack of a concrete treatment can depress a person to the point of contemplating suicide. Even a person like me.
At the time, ending my life seemed like a reasonable plan. The doctors had stated that my problem could not be fixed. If my spine could not be repaired, I could never have my life back. If I couldn’t regain my health, Freddie would forever remain the family breadwinner. If I couldn’t be the person my daughters had grown to know and love, what was the point of going on? None. Within six months of being fired from my law firm, I had seen the logic of cashing in on my life insurance policy. It made total sense. Without hope, nothing else did.
A war between my emotions and what passed for rational thought raged every minute of every day. Just when I would conclude that I was a born coward and grant myself permission to pull the plug, genes that had been passed on for generations would taunt, “What a baby! You goin’ to give up at the first sign of trouble?” That was always countered with a more studied argument. “You should at least leave your family with financial stability.” Detached, I would watch the drama play out at a distance. Every once in a while Freddie would telepathically detect something in the air, repeatedly calling me from work. “You aren’t acting right. You aren’t thinking of doing something stupid, are you?”
“What are you talking about? Of course I won’t do anything stupid. What do you think I am, crazy?” With that, I would hustle back to the mental movie, sitting on the edge of my seat, wondering what the outcome would be.
By the time I moved to Sedona, I had already been in significant constant pain for three full years. I was continually juggling medications in search of the right cocktail to suppress the burning and cramping. I was furious at myself, my body, my former partners, and the unfairness of it all. I believe one reason Comet decided to come home with me that day in Flagstaff was that she knew I needed to cool down. Comet’s approach to life was entirely different from what I had been taught. She was not stoically enduring her painful memories, nor was she denying them. She definitely wasn’t fuming over them. No dog, not even Comet, would calmly accept a life of cruelty. But to fret about having been born a racing greyhound, riding in cages from track to track, and then being abandoned would have been futile. It would have wasted the time she had left. Comet seemed to understand that.
With Comet more than other dogs, I was always asking myself if I was reading human motives into canine behavior. Yet I am convinced that dogs can think critically and recall past experiences. My daughters once adopted a sheltie named Chip whose former owner, a man, had abused him. Chip was unfailingly loyal to Freddie and the girls, but he wouldn’t give me or any other male the time of day. I know that Comet, too, thought about her past. I only had to watch her flinch whenever the breeze from an open window blew an interior house door shut. It wasn’t the noise that made her cringe; she wasn’t afraid of sound from any other source. It was the memory of kennel doors banging in the wind while she lay abandoned at the Tucson track. Yet Comet was not demoralized or mistrustful. Her gleeful willingness to enjoy her new life was a revelation.
J. M. Barrie, the author of Peter Pan, once observed: “The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he hoped to make it.” Consider me humbled.
IT WAS TIME to cut the excuses and get moving. I needed help more than a few times a week, and with more than just grocery shopping. A service animal was the only option anyone had suggested, so that was the one I went for. If it meant I had to accept a label I detested—disabled—then I would do it. Eight silent days had passed
since Freddie and I had spoken, and I had a strong suspicion that the next time we talked, I’d better have something new to say.
The only thing I knew about the Americans with Disabilities Act were those parts that dealt with penalties for discriminating against disabled employees. I had no clue about the provisions that applied to dogs that helped people. In fact, the only “service” dogs I was aware of served as guides for the blind. Those dogs were always Labradors, golden retrievers, or German shepherds.
A little research revealed that in 1990 the ADA had greatly expanded both the category of people needing assistance and, potentially, the type of animal who might provide the help. Disability now encompassed any “mental or physical condition which substantially limits a major life activity.” And service animals were not limited to dogs or any particular breed but were now defined as animals who were “individually trained to do work or perform tasks for the benefit of a person with a disability.” Dogs who retrieved objects from the floor, pulled wheelchairs, turned on light switches, provided balance, or alerted to seizures and other medical conditions were included, as long as the help was directly related to a disability. Medical facilities, restaurants, grocery stores, hotels, and all other businesses open to the public were required to allow service animals to accompany their “disabled” handlers.
This meant that if I had such an animal, I would be allowed to take him or her with me to all those places, and even onto airplanes. The idea was tempting. It would be nice to have a helper to hold the door open for me while I used my canes. It might hurt less to get out of a chair if there were an assistant to pull me up. And it was awfully embarrassing when a spasm hit in public and I ended up sprawled on the floor or sidewalk. A service dog could provide support when a spasm threw me off balance.
But a greyhound as a service dog? I had never seen or heard of such a thing. There were good reasons why those other breeds were the dogs of choice. They were big and strong enough to pull a wheelchair but not so large that they couldn’t lie next to a restaurant table or on the floor of public transportation. They were smart and had an intense desire to please, which made them easy to train. Most important, they were raised as pets, which meant that they were already socialized and well mannered when they entered the training program.
A rescued racer, in contrast, would seem to be a terrible choice. The typical greyhound spends most of the day resting, which certainly raises a flag about endurance. Greyhounds have little or no desire to please by fetching—it’s not an attribute of the breed—and their fragile teeth make the task even more disagreeable. Then there is the potential for getting your arm yanked from its socket if a greyhound spots a cat down the block and decides to give chase.
Yet Comet exhibited all the behavior I had witnessed in exceptional working dogs. She was curious and confident; friendly but properly focused; strong, loyal, and intelligent. The fact that greyhounds seldom bark was an added bonus. And I had reason to believe that far from being genetically inappropriate as service dogs, greyhounds might be ideally suited to the task. My forays into greyhound history had uncovered a quote written by the Greek historian Arrian in 124 AD:
I have myself bred a hound whose eyes are the greyest of grey. A swift, hardworking, courageous, sound-footed dog, and she proves a match at any time for four hares. She is moreover most gentle and kindly affectioned, and never before had I a dog with such a regard for myself.
That certainly sounded like the greyhound I lived with, and I wasn’t alone. Since adopting Comet I had spoken to a number of people in Sedona whom I had spied walking their greyhounds. Determined to learn from these other custodians, I listened carefully as they related stories about their new friends. The retired racers were unusually sweet, calm, and intelligent, the owners reported. However, some of their observations gave me pause. Nearly all of the rescued racers suffered from insecurities as a result of their mistreatment at the dog track. The most common of these were separation anxiety and timid behavior in certain situations, for instance, when it thundered loudly or when public areas became confused and noisy with activity. No matter the hound, though, they all delighted in running—stretching their muscles and exhausting their energy in the exuberant celebration of speed.
It was one of these greyhound owners who told me about a vacant horse arena where I could unleash Comet and let her race to her heart’s content. I would stand in the middle of the arena while Comet streaked around the perimeter, as smoothly powerful as a Porsche. She’d do five or six laps, and then without warning she’d rush at me at top speed. At the very last moment she would veer to the side, actually brushing my cane. Then she’d shoot off again as if fired from a slingshot, leaving nothing but the swirling air to wash over me like canine laughter. It was quite a thrill.
I was confident that Comet was exceptionally well adjusted for a retired racer, and she was clearly intelligent. Still, I wasn’t an expert on the breed. Maybe it would be wise to call Maggie, who had first introduced me to greyhounds via the regal Lance. For some reason I felt foolish asking her, “Have you ever heard of a greyhound service dog?”
Her warm chuckle made me feel a little better. “No, I’ve never heard of that. To be honest, I’ve never even thought of such a thing. But what a wonderful idea.”
At least I wasn’t a complete fool. “I’m seriously considering it. Are you still flying around the Southwest, saving the greyhound world? How’s that going?”
“Not too good,” Maggie confessed. “With so many tracks closing, there’s a glut of dogs waiting for rescue. Saving them one or two at a time with my plane isn’t helping enough. Someone needs to organize a larger effort. Funding some of the bigger rescue groups with money from a real job is probably my best bet right now. I’ve decided to move to California, sell some real estate, and see what the future holds. Whatever it is, it’ll never be as rewarding as rescuing these dogs.”
With Maggie’s reassurance, the service dog idea began to nag me as persistently as my mom’s Yorkie, a nonstop yapper. I could always check into buying a dog that’s already trained. Ah, maybe not. I think three dogs is Freddie’s limit. Maybe it’s best to give up on such a crazy stunt. Then again … Pam’s words bounced around my thoughts: “Have you asked Comet?”
“Comet, what would you think if I asked you for a little help once in a while?” Comet opened her eyes just wide enough to let me know that both of us had already made up our minds.
I started our new adventure by looking at several websites dedicated to service dog training so I could get an idea of how a good candidate behaved. Comet seemed to meet the requirements. She was “clean and healthy,” didn’t “solicit attention,” didn’t “vocalize unnecessarily,” and didn’t “urinate or defecate in inappropriate locations” (unless you were a mole).
There was also a list of minimum training standards. At the top of it: “Must be trained to perform three or more tasks to mitigate the client’s disability.” Coming up with things I needed help with was not a problem. If it required movement, I probably needed help with it. The challenge was in training a dog to assist with actions usually performed by humans, such as opening doors and helping someone in and out of a chair.
I knew from being around herding dogs that training a canine to perform tasks wasn’t as simple as issuing a command to sit or stay. A working dog needed a context: What is it that you need help with, and how does what you’re asking me to do help? Family pets and farm dogs were well acquainted with human activities. By now Comet was attuned to my daily routines, so I figured she would catch on to my requests fairly quickly. Equally important when it came to service training, family pets and farm dogs craved human approval. Retired racing greyhounds did not. After being raised like livestock, there was only the slightest human-dog connection. Pleasing someone was a concept as foreign as being loved, although the fact that Comet did not run away when she had the chance indicated she might be different. After she pulled her cot from the bedroom to sleep at my side during
the food poisoning ordeal, I was certain of her affection for me. For the most part, though, asking a greyhound to help you was like asking a chicken to take a bath. This was not going to be a run-of-the-mill obedience exercise. Maybe I needed a professional trainer.
With help from the Internet, yellow pages, and the local library staff, I cobbled together a list of people who trained assistance dogs and started calling them. My request to have a greyhound trained was met with incredulity at best.
“Greyhounds are too stupid to do anything but run.”
“A greyhound? Are you nuts?”
“You might as well try pissing up a rope.”
Angry and frustrated, I punched in the number of the last trainer on the list, a man named Charlie. I could swear I heard a muffled snicker when I asked my question, but it was better than the open guffaws of the other trainers. Without much hope, I continued. “If you won’t train the dog, can you at least give me some help with the basics, like the standards or process of accreditation or whatever?”
“Pets that just do tricks aren’t allowed,” Charlie grumbled. “And just because the mutt makes you feel good doesn’t count. Therapy dogs aren’t service dogs.”
“So I’ve been told ad nauseam.” I snapped. “Listen, all I’m trying to do is get some help with stuff I’m having trouble doing.” Stuff! My language skills were shriveling faster than my muscles.
“Why don’t you get a Lab or a regular dog that you know can do the job?”
Despite my annoyance, his gruff delivery made me laugh. “She is a regular dog. But I know what you mean. I’m finding out that greyhounds are not the breed of choice.”
“You’re right about that. But I’ve gotta tell you, I can’t really say why. I’ve never worked with one. Never had any reason to get away from what I know works. What makes you think this greyhound could be of any use to you?” His growl was still skeptical but not nearly as harsh.