Comet's Tale

by Steven Wolf

  I wasn’t exactly shocked when our entrance was met with alarmed glances from the clerks. When they began to stalk our progress, I felt like a water buffalo being surrounded by lions. Comet, meanwhile, decided to impersonate a prairie dog. Standing straight up and balancing on her hind legs, she popped her head above the rows of merchandise and whined at some tantalizing object across the store. Her sudden movement tipped me off balance and I started to topple over. As my slow-motion death spiral unwound, Comet tugged the leash from my hand and scooted away.

  “Comet! Come here, girl!” She didn’t even glance back but instead glided around the end of the aisle, her eyes pinned on a distant target.

  And what was so alluring? A security guard. Not once, not twice, but three times, Comet yanked the leash from my grasp and hightailed it to a side entrance where her prince stood scanning the aisles for shoplifters.

  “I’m so sorry!” I said as I approached the guard a final time.

  He was kneeling and scratching Comet’s ears while she gaped at him like a lovelorn teenager.

  “That’s why we don’t allow dogs in here,” he scolded, briefly glancing up at me. The authoritarian tone slid into baby talk as he turned back to Comet. “Although you sure are a polite young thing, aren’t you … girl or boy?”

  Since I seemed to be the only one present who realized that Comet couldn’t talk, I introduced her. “This is Comet. She’s a female greyhound who’s in training to be a service dog.” Seeing a total blackout behind the guard’s eyes, I motioned to my canes. “She’s being trained to help me get around and open doors, things like that.”

  “Not working out too well, is it? Maybe she’s already worked hard enough trying to race. Right, girl?” I blushed deep red and pulled Comet out the door. She dragged at the leash, twisting her neck to gaze back at the guard.

  “Why don’t you blow him a kiss?” I muttered.

  I felt like I had just been kicked out of a basketball game for the rookie mistake of not checking in at the scorer’s table. The crowd was jeering and I hadn’t even gotten into the game. Fifteen miles down the road back to Sedona, I recovered enough to reflect on Comet’s odd behavior. This was the second time she had totally lost her head around a man in uniform. George, our lake security guard, had been on the receiving end of Comet’s nudging, tail-wagging flirtation the first time he investigated the fable of the striped coyote. From that day forward, she fawned over him in a way that bordered on disturbing.

  Now fragments of a conversation were floating back to me from the ether of all things greyhound. Somewhere I had heard about a racer being saved by a security guard who called a veterinarian after the dog had been deserted at the track. The guard had checked on the hound every night until she was well enough to be rescued. Whether Comet was that dog or not, I firmly believed that such a uniformed man had been kind to her in the past. “Comet, I think there might be a more subdued way of saying thank you.” In the rearview mirror I saw her staring out the window, ignoring me. I was all too familiar with that female attitude from my daughters: What do you know about these things? You’re old—and a guy!

  If I was going to be so totally humiliated, there was no reason to go all the way to Flagstaff to do it. The drive had not been kind to me, and I was confined inside for several days afterward. Fortunately, Rindy had given me the name of an energetic neighbor who loved to exercise dogs. Between her and Emily, I now had full coverage for days when I couldn’t walk Comet. I had also taken Rindy’s advice about having the store deliver groceries. Comet was proving to be a good influence.

  As I developed my strategy for our occupation of Sedona, I searched for some legal backup. My goal was to avoid as much confrontation as possible. Comet’s service vest should have been enough to reassure people of her higher purpose, but that hadn’t been the case in Flagstaff. I scoured the Internet and found that, legally, business owners were allowed to ask whether I had a disability and whether Comet was a service dog. If they asked for details about my handicap or what specific assistance the dog was providing, though, they could be fined. And if someone denied Comet access to the store or told us to leave, well, the Office of the Attorney General had a department dedicated to prosecuting such people. But my profession had taught me that there was a big difference between citing the law and switching on the legal machinery that would force someone to comply. Avoiding conflict was an easier path.

  Along those lines, it occurred to me that Comet and I could continue our public training outdoors instead of in a place of business. We could concentrate on stairs, which were always a challenge for me and which Comet did not yet trust. Like other racers, she had not been exposed to steps during her life at the track. At the lake house she had picked her way up and down the stairs to the beach, but she had never really gotten the hang of it. A wide set of outdoor public stairs at a shopping center in Sedona would be an ideal place for us to practice.

  We made our first attempt midmorning on a weekday. After a few minutes of fumbling in the parking lot next to the stairs as I attached the vest fasteners at Comet’s chest and tummy level, the splendidly attired greyhound emerged from my SUV. Following behind her, I could see she had the preening confidence of a guide escorting a group of tourists through Red Rock country. I let Comet choose her path, her nose leading the way. Eventually she inventoried every scent within reasonable distance and allowed me to lead her to the stairway.

  “Whaddaya think?” I was talking to Comet, but my eyes were watching people climbing up and down the stairs. I set both of my walking sticks down on a nearby bench and, with my left hand, gripped the handrail that bisected the wide steps. Cinching the leash around my right hand, I climbed up one step at a time, resting at each interval. During the first few steps, Comet hung behind me like an anchor, only following when I tugged on her leash and clicked my tongue. At each stop, I scratched her chin, reciting what a good girl she was. I had elected not to use one of the metallic clickers the professional trainers prefer because Comet had always reacted so positively to the sound of my voice.

  By the time we reached the landing almost halfway to the summit, Comet was negotiating each step in stride with me. Several times I wobbled back and forth like a chain-sawed tree about to topple, but I regained my balance by placing my palm on Comet’s back. She accepted the weight as a thoroughbred would a jockey’s, never once shying away. As we rested, I could hear murmurs from people passing by. “What kind of a dog is that? She’s gorgeous! Look at her helping that man. Amazing!” As I regained strength and basked in the reflected praise, my eyes were drawn to the top of the stairs, where a man in white—shoes, sweater, slacks, socks—stood stiffly, a cat nestled in his arms. His glare was fixed on Comet. I gazed directly back at him and continued with our tortured journey to the peak.

  “What are you doing here?” the man demanded.

  “Do I know you?” I lobbed back.

  “I hope not,” came the snide reply. “Dogs are not allowed on these premises.”

  “Who says so?”

  “The signs by the entrance, for one! And I’m in charge of this shopping center.” Before I could slam home a shot about the Americans with Disabilities Act, Comet got bored. She strolled up to the kitty, her approach freezing the gentleman to the concrete. Without a drop of malice, she elevated and placed her cold, dripping nose directly on the cat’s face. With a scratching, scrambling screech, it leaped from the man’s arms and shot into some nearby shrubs. Game, set, match! We left them searching for each other in the tangled undergrowth. Comet and I reveled in our teamwork as we strolled down the walkway that circled back to the parking lot.

  With newfound confidence, we began exploring the various Sedona business districts in the weeks that followed. A foam dog bed in the back of the SUV turned it into a posh canine hotel on wheels. Comet was perfectly at peace, patiently waiting to launch into each new adventure. The growing winter throngs in Sedona’s Uptown presented an excellent training opportunity, and at first I con
tented myself with disciplined walks through the jostling crowds. It didn’t take long before Comet slowed to match my pace and learned to ignore the menagerie of visiting pets and the occasional stray dog. Her nostrils would quiver (as would mine) at the exquisite scents of burning mesquite and barbecued beef that drifted from the many restaurants, but Comet didn’t pull me into any doorways, no matter how tempting.

  Wherever we went, being out in public with Comet was like traveling with a rock star. People would gawk, point, do double takes, and approach us to ask the same questions I had asked Maggie about Lance: “What kind of dog is that? Is she always so calm?” I didn’t always want to stop and chat, but Comet soon learned that my comment “You can say hi, Comet” was like a page announcing that the Queen would now allow peasants to greet her. She would slowly turn and stand with a fake reluctance as compliments dripped all around her. “She’s so soft! Her hair is like rabbit fur. She’s so elegant! What sweet eyes.” She ate it up like liver treats.

  As the weather warmed, the traffic through Uptown increased. More tourists supposedly were always welcome, but many shop owners reacted to the mounting crowds like farmers: when it rained, it was too wet; when it dried, it was too dry. When tourists finally emerged from a winter lull, it was too many, too quickly. Tolerance became as scarce as a real saguaro cactus in Monument Valley (despite all the westerns, they don’t grow there).

  Aware of the cranky attitude, I practiced outdoors with Comet for several more weeks before feeling bold enough to take her into a local store. I chose an art gallery facing the busy Uptown main street, Highway 89A. I was admiring a bronze sculpture of an adolescent Navajo girl when I heard a choking, coughing sound behind me. I turned to meet the unfriendly gaze of a chubby, nattily dressed middle-aged man.

  “Dogs are not welcome in this store.” Here we go again. I held my ground, and as the man realized that I would not be scurrying from the store, his face slowly turned red. He had set a large painting on the floor beside him, and it was actually vibrating from his touch.

  “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to break any rules, but Comet is in training to be a service dog.” I gestured dramatically at the words on her vest. Comet was acting strangely, ears at attention and gleaming eyes conveying something that looked like a challenge. She walked slowly toward the painting and rudely poked her dripping nose right onto the glass, leaving behind a small, slimed signature.

  “No. Dogs. Allowed! What part of that don’t you two understand?” The sneer was especially unattractive on a face that was now the color of a bad bruise.

  “Here’s. What. I. Understand.” I kept my voice low. “I understand that the U.S. attorney general will not consider your ignorance of the law to be a very good defense.” I turned and stomped away. At the door, I pointed my walking stick in the man’s direction. “I’ll give you a couple of days to talk to an attorney. Then I’ll be back for your apology.”

  On the street I chided Comet, “Gee, if only you hadn’t been with me, I could have stayed and talked with the nice man all day!” Fuming, I allowed myself a brief fantasy that had the clerk frantically scrubbing Comet’s slime mark off the glass, popping an artery, and keeling over with the painting smashing down on top of him. We hopped into the SUV and searched for greener pastures in a business section a little farther from the tourist crowds. Soon I spotted a gallery situated in a modern stone and glass two-story building. It featured a grand, wide staircase in the middle of the main floor, opening to a bright and colorful upper level.

  A youngish blond woman greeted us warmly, in sharp contrast to what we had just encountered. My anger floated away.

  “Hi.” I extended my hand. “My name is Wolf. This is Comet.”

  “I’m Linda Goldenstein. Nice to meet you.” She bent over to look into Comet’s face without touching her. “A real pleasure to meet you, too, Comet,” she said gravely.

  “So you don’t shoot people who bring dogs in here?”

  “Technically the owner doesn’t allow pets, but well-mannered dogs aren’t a problem. Especially a dog trained to help somebody.” Linda was eyeing Comet’s vest. Perhaps I wasn’t trapped in some kind of time warp after all.

  “Maybe you could give seminars to your fellow businessmen.” I recapped our recent encounter. “Trust me. In two days, I’m going back there and I’ll be expecting a whole new perspective.”

  “Are you here to see a particular exhibit?” Linda asked.

  Little did she know I was entirely ignorant of the southwestern art scene; I had just thought the gallery would be a good training opportunity. “I don’t know enough about art to know what I’m looking at. But I’d like to see what you have.”

  When Freddie visited me, she regularly flipped through magazines about southwestern art. Once she had shown me a portrait of a Native American man that had struck her as especially evocative. I was surprised to see that same painting hanging in the upper floor of the gallery. The image was at once realistic and otherworldly, the saturated colors seeming to shimmer on the surface of the canvas. A shirtless young Indian stared directly at the viewer, his skin faintly glowing, his expression forthright and somehow modern. He was set against a stark white background in which a distant moon hung. His spare headdress—just two feathers—was visually balanced against the moon, and circular tribal tattoos covered his shoulders. Perhaps because of the precise, almost mystical balance of the visual elements, and the frank yet unreadable expression on the young man’s face, it was difficult for me to take my eyes off the painting once I started looking at it.

  “What do you think?” Linda had walked up behind me, but I was so captivated that I didn’t even turn around. “The artist’s name is Ben Wright. He’s part Cherokee. Ben’s work deals with ancient Plains cultures—Crow, Lakota, Cheyenne, and others.”

  Born in Iowa and living in Nebraska, a man didn’t use expressions like spiritual, moving, or engaging, especially in public. “Wow,” was the best I could muster.

  I wasn’t a player in the art acquisition market, but this day became the genesis of a fascinating education into that world. Over subsequent visits, Linda taught me the basics of emerging and established artists and gave me a primer on art, from furniture to glass to bronze to acrylics. Comet was the Wal-Mart greeter on those occasions, though politely keeping her distance from the other customers until I gave permission to say hello. The gallery’s staircase became our training area. Comet’s stoic stance while steadying me was a far cry from her former furtive sprints up and down stairways. Fortunately, she showed no interest in any further artistic investigation. The apology that stammered from clerk and owner alike on our return visit to the first gallery seemed to have cured her brief dalliance as an art critic. Still, it was nice to know that my sidekick, like my wife, wasn’t shy about finding unique ways to make a point.

  9

  FEBRUARY–MAY 2001—ARIZONA

  All that winter I focused on training Comet. Now that she understood what the goal was, she eagerly absorbed new duties. I taught her to brace me from the front when I got in and out of chairs. If I needed her to, she supported my weight when I walked. She waited patiently in front of automatic doors, allowing me time to get through. When spasms threw me to the floor, she learned to lean down, let me grasp her collar, and pull myself to my knees and up.

  Before training Comet as a service dog, I had watched her interact with the various stuffed animals she collected on our shopping trips. When torturing these toys, she used her front paws and feet like a cat, pulling and swatting the animal, then prying it far enough off of the floor with a paw for a firm mouth clinch. It was this dexterity that I had taken advantage of when teaching her to open doors. At first she had mouthed the animal attached to the door lever, pulling it down. By now, though, Comet had learned that it was easier to utilize a front leg and paw to push the lever down like a human.

  When I saw how easily Comet thrashed the stuffed animals, I realized that I would have to teach her how to temper
her powerful touch. Because greyhounds are tall and lanky, many people assume they’re also fragile. Their unusually flexible spine allows them to curl into a sleeping posture (again, like a cat) that takes up far less room than required by most large breeds. But the feline delicacy is all an optical illusion. Greyhounds are not only tall, they’re big and strong. People are amazed after examining Comet’s spread footprint that it is actually as large or larger than that of most retrievers and labs. And greyhounds make up for lack of fat or body mass with lean, strong, fast-twitching muscle fiber. In fact, greys have a larger heart and a higher percentage of fast-twitch muscle than almost any other breed. Their structural strength, from spine to leg muscles, allows all four feet to be off the ground during each running stride, both when contracted and extended. This double-suspension rotary gallop is the fastest of all canine running gaits. What all this means is that nothing on this dog is dainty or merely decorative, including the neck, which, as I observed, can propel a stuffed animal across a room at warp speed until something solid intervenes.

  That was my challenge when it came to teaching Comet a potentially lifesaving skill: fetching a recent addition to our lives, my new cell phone. The first few times I threw the phone across the carpeted room and ordered Comet to fetch it, she tasted the plastic and spat it out like a rancher tasting escargot. I figured I’d solve that problem by tucking the phone inside a stuffed animal—I had plenty of fodder in the box of plush toys I had stashed in the garage. Comet quickly learned that if she brought me the ringing animal on the floor, she’d get a liver treat. The problem was, Comet wasn’t a retriever. She didn’t “fetch.” Instead, she would grasp the monkey-phone in her teeth, retract her long, muscular neck, and fling the thing at rocket speed across the room. Her first phone delivery was via airmail at ninety miles per hour aimed straight at my face. The bruise went away in about a week. After that, I learned to duck during our phone-training sessions. Two broken lamps and a few holes in the drywall were a small price to pay for intact cheekbones.