by Amy Newmark
When Leo and I arrived, we entered a room full of people from all over the city. I was dressed up in a long, shiny, silver dress and high heels. This was not my normal attire when out with Leo, so he was already a little surprised. Dressed in his usual green guide-dog training vest, my puppy sat patiently and obediently under the table, and was well behaved during both the dinner and the awards ceremony. In fact, most of the attendees did not even know a dog was present.
After two hours, much to my surprise, they announced that I had won the Volunteer of the Year award. Leo and I were seated at a table way in the back, and I was expected to come all the way up on stage. Since guide dogs in training need to accompany their owners everywhere, I quickly pulled Leo from under the table to maneuver through the crowded room to go up front with me.
Music was blaring and balloons were waving around, while the audience was clapping and cheering loudly. I was in shock and Leo could sense how tense I was. When the two of us finally reached the stage steps, flashbulbs were going off, and the large trophy up on the stage was reflecting bright light about the room. Amidst this blaring music, thunderous clapping, cheering, and a flurry of camera flashes, I sensed Leo’s tense mood. In the back of my mind, I realized I had not prepared him for this moment.
For the first time ever, Leo put on the skids! It was like he was saying, “No way am I going up on those steps with you!” So I said, “Okay, SIT and STAY!” Leo obeyed.
I continued up the stage steps alone, almost tripping on my dress, but my obedient companion remained in place. He was focused on me, as he was taught. I was proud of him. Then the Master of Ceremonies said, “Will you say a few words?” He handed me the microphone, and in agreement, I said a nice and loud, “Okay!” Besides meaning “yes,” this word also happens to be the “release word” for dogs to break from their last command. In the excitement of the moment, I forgot that detail.
Leo looked up at me, and I realized my mistake. He still was not going to come up on the stage. It was the worst, most confusing command for poor Leo. He turned and ran to the mayor and the chief of police in the front row! Everyone in the room exploded with laughter, and the photographers were taking his photo. I began my speech by saying, “I was going to compliment Leo for being so good here tonight, but now…,” and everyone burst into laughter again.
When I walked back down from the stage, Leo was once again the perfect, well-behaved dog, posing in the photos with me and the other nominees.
But for that one moment, when he forgot his manners, I had to remember that he was just a puppy in training. Perhaps he thought that if we went on those narrow steps together, with me in my outfit, we could trip. Or maybe he wanted me to have all the attention for myself. His reaction certainly did get me all sorts of attention. For the next several months, people teased the mayor and me about the event. It became the talk of the town and was on all the social-media pages, as well as the local newspaper.
Most of the time, I feel I can read a dog’s mind, but not this time. It was a moment I will always remember. In April 2015, I even ended up sharing that story at his graduation ceremony, when Leo did indeed become an official Guide Dog for the Blind.
~Marcia Lee Harris
When the Dogs Come
Fun fact: The word “schnauzer” means “walrus moustache” in German.
I adopted Ebony, a black Miniature Schnauzer, from a local shelter. It quickly became obvious her past must have included some sort of trauma. My heart went out to her. She kept her head low and seldom made even the slightest sound. Although she would climb eagerly into my lap, she tucked in her tail when she was around people she didn’t know.
The shelter’s adoption counselor suggested I take Ebony to obedience classes. It would help her become more confident when she needed to interact with other people and dogs. This didn’t sound appealing to me, but for Ebony’s sake, I swallowed my own reluctance and signed us up to begin the next course.
At the first class, Ebony and I tangled around each other during every exercise. It seemed we’d never achieve the smooth precision demonstrated by the trainer. But with each passing week, we worked together more efficiently. It wasn’t long before I smiled proudly with the other participants when our instructor took a group graduation picture. Best of all, I noticed Ebony had begun to lift her head higher and didn’t shy away from strangers. We attended another series of classes. Then we went on to complete a Canine Good Citizen course. When the instructor handed me Ebony’s certificate, he had a surprising suggestion.
“Ebony has such a sweet personality. I think she’d be a natural for our pet visiting team. Would you come with us on Saturday when we visit the Twin Oaks assisted-living facility?”
I hesitated before answering. It wasn’t that I didn’t think Ebony could do it. She’d blossomed during our training classes. Rather, I worried about how I’d handle visiting with the elderly and frail residents who could no longer live in their own homes. I had no clue what I should say to them. But the trainer’s hopeful face made me put aside my fears and agree.
On Saturday, I dragged my feet along the sidewalk to Twin Oaks, reminding myself that we had only committed to one visit. Fortunately, my feelings didn’t travel down the leash to Ebony. She wore a colorful bandana, and her ears were perked up at attention. She trotted forward as though on a mission.
Inside, a group of people had already gathered in the sun-filled visiting area. Some were seated in chairs and others in wheelchairs. I watched as one of the handlers began talking to a resident. Ebony waited patiently at my feet until I took a deep breath and walked toward a woman in a wheelchair near the back of the group. I smiled at her.
“Hello. Would you like to pet Ebony?”
The woman’s faded blue eyes were fixed on my dog. She smiled and patted her lap. Words weren’t necessary for me to understand what she wanted. I lifted Ebony and settled her carefully on the woman’s thin legs. She smoothed Ebony’s fur from head to tail, over and over in a soothing rhythm. The woman’s face beamed. She repeated the same words.
“Just like Sadie. Just like Sadie.”
A neatly dressed woman appeared beside me. She wore a badge identifying her as Doris, the facility’s Activities Director. Doris whispered, “That’s Berta. She has trouble remembering things and sometimes is a bit withdrawn. But when the dogs come, it really lifts her spirit.”
Berta was completely absorbed with Ebony, sometimes uttering sounds I couldn’t fully understand. Ebony lay on Berta’s lap without squirming or changing position. It was as though she sensed that now was the time to be still and simply let Berta touch her. I knelt beside the wheelchair and watched Berta’s face soften and her eyes begin to sparkle. Suddenly, my worries about how to act or what to say seemed inconsequential.
By the time we left Twin Oaks, I agreed to continue making weekly visits. Ebony’s ability to connect with the residents convinced me we had to return. My dog had traveled from fear to confidence and even acquired a job she loved. I only needed to tie a bandana around her neck to see her tail wag.
When the dogs entered the room, they transformed it. Downturned faces and listless arms changed to wide-open eyes and hands outstretched like colorful day lilies unfolding in the morning sun. My own self-doubts disappeared, and strangers turned into friends.
I realized being part of a pet visiting team didn’t require extraordinary skill. It only took a smile, an open heart, and the healing power of a dog’s love.
~Pat Wahler
Service with a Smile
Fun fact: The first prison-based dog-training program was established by a nun in the early 1980s in Washington State. Hundreds of these programs now exist in the U.S.
My neighbor arrived at my door eleven years ago, clutching a tiny, skeletal ice cube under her jacket. I turned on the heating pad as she unwrapped a purebred, red-nosed Pit Bull puppy, about ten days old. As I wrapped her in the heating pad, I remembered the promise that I had made to my husband when the last of my Pit Bulls died at th
e age of sixteen. During our years together, he had asked only one thing of me: that I bring home no more Pit Bulls.
When I heard his car come down the driveway, I dreaded his reaction when he saw what I was holding. But he merely took the dog, about the size of a soda can, from my arms and leaned back in his recliner while she cuddled up beneath his chin. Each time she woke up for feeding and cleaning, he put her back on his chest.
By morning, she had demonstrated her will to live by learning how to slurp up her formula from a shallow bowl. Our Manx kitten, Clyde, happily shared it with her. My husband declared that her name should be Bonnie. I questioned whether we should name her, since I only planned on keeping her until she was old enough to be spayed. He repeated, “Her name is Bonnie.”
The deadly duo proved to be well named. Together, they terrorized our other animals, including my retired service dog, a German Shepherd capable of squashing Bonnie with a well-aimed paw. By the time she was a month old, Bonnie was escaping from every enclosure I put her in. It was time for crate training.
In addition to being small for her age, Bonnie suffered from severe separation anxiety. Each time I left home, unless she was held on my husband’s lap, she would scream until I returned. My solution was to bring home a big bone that she could only have when she was in her crate. In less than a week, she was sitting in front of the refrigerator when I dressed in my town clothes, and headed straight for her crate when I pulled out her bone.
Bonnie was just four months old when I began retrieval training with my new service-dog prospect. I had great hopes for her, as her leash work was perfect, and she would even pull my wheelchair with me walking behind it.
Armed with a pocket full of dog treats, we went to police and fire stations so she could learn that people in uniform are friends. We went to restaurants, grocery stores, and casinos. Bonnie was a social butterfly. She would sit and politely greet everyone who spoke to us. To this day, more people in town know her name than mine. I remain the woman who comes in with Bonnie.
When my husband passed away in his sleep I woke up to find Bonnie pounding his chest with her front paws and licking his face as hard as she could. It looked exactly like a canine version of CPR. When the funeral home took him away, she expressed her grief loudly with a sound I had never heard a dog make before. It sounded exactly like a human crying.
Five years ago, we left on a five-hundred-mile trip to visit family in north Idaho. About halfway there, an elk jumped in front of my pickup, and I drove off the road to avoid hitting it. My truck rolled, coming to rest on its top in the middle of the road. Both doors were jammed, and my legs were pinned under the steering wheel. Bonnie was safe, as I had thrown myself on top of her, hanging on to the seat rails.
When help arrived, they first tried to force open the doors, and then broke out a window. They pulled Bonnie out and held her out of the way. She was lunging and barking, trying to get back to me. I was actually afraid that she would bite someone in order to get free. The last thing I needed was to have my service dog in quarantine in the middle of Nowhere, Idaho. My rescuers finally turned her loose, and she rushed back to my truck, turning around so I could reach the handle on her harness. She pulled, slowly and steadily, while I worked to free my legs. The ambulance arrived just as she finally pulled me free.
Bonnie stood with her paw on my knee while the EMTs examined me, watching everything that they did. She then stood like a statue while they also gave her a thorough exam. They determined that I needed to be hospitalized and loaded me into the ambulance. Bonnie rode the entire thirty-five miles with her paw on the foot of the gurney, observing everything that was done to me. At the hospital, she heeled beside the gurney and sat by my bed in the emergency room. A CAT scan showed that I had broken my neck and back, but it was determined that I could continue my trip if I wore neck and back braces. I attended the reunion, had a nice visit with family members whom I had not seen for many years, and was driven home by my brother.
I knew that my life would change with the unexpected arrival of the tiny Pit Bull, but had no idea how much until the day she decided to become my new service dog. Somehow, she knows what I need before I know it myself.
The tiny, dying puppy that my neighbor fished out of a dumpster seemed to realize that she had a mission to complete and intended to live to fulfill it — and fulfill it she did. At the age of eleven, Bonnie is ready to retire. Eventually, I will find a dog capable of performing the tasks I need, but there will never be another Bonnie, the dog that changed my world.
~Kathryn Hackett Bales
The Reluctant Volunteer
Fun fact: There are two types of wilderness search-and-rescue dogs: air scent dogs can pick up the scent of any human, while trailing dogs pick up the scent of a specific person.
When my husband joined the New Mexico Wilderness Search and Rescue team as a communications volunteer, I cheered him on. What better way for him to make good use of his amateur radio license?
Then he started coming home from his training sessions talking about the various dogs in training. Uh-oh. I knew what was coming.
He wanted to train a dog to join him in the woods as they conducted search-and-rescue missions. Please don’t get me wrong. I love dogs. I love all animals. But we already had a black Lab, a huge German Shepherd, four cats, countless fish, desert toad guppies, and a turtle… all in a 1,000-square-foot home. Oh, and lest I forget, we had three children under the age of eight.
While my husband would technically be the volunteer who trained her for search and rescue eight hours a week, you-know-who was going to be the reluctant volunteer for the rest of the week.
My suspicions were confirmed. At dinner one night, Paul said, “What do you think about getting another dog?”
Even though I knew what he was getting at, I pretended otherwise. “We already have two.”
“Well, I was thinking about training my own search-and-rescue dog.”
There it was. Out on the table.
“How will you know a dog is good enough to train?” Yep, I opened that door.
And he was off at a full gallop. “Well, first you look for a dog with a strong play drive. They need to be intelligent, so I’d want a German Shepherd.”
“We have one,” I pointed out.
“He’s a little old. I want a puppy.”
Oh, dear. This was worse than I thought. It was one thing to get a dog, but a puppy? I’d already done that, over and over. No thank you. We didn’t argue. After that night, we just avoided talking about it. I didn’t bring it up because I knew he would see it as tacit permission. He didn’t because he didn’t want to hear an explicit “no.”
Then one day, he phoned from work. “Our team trainer just called. There’s a female German Shepherd, six months old, and she needs rescuing.” I could hear it in his voice, the cautious enthusiasm.
Darn him. He knew how to get me. But I wasn’t going to give in quite that easily. “Why does she need to be rescued?”
“Well, it sounds like she’s a busy girl. Um… she chews things.”
Like what? Bones? Shoes? Small children?
“And when her owner’s away, she tends to damage things.”
I cringed at that.
“Then last night she dug up about 100 feet of newly installed television cable and chewed it into one-foot hunks. I guess that was the last straw.”
Wasn’t this just sounding better and better?
“The owner is going to put her down tonight if someone doesn’t take her.” I could hear in his voice he wanted this dog. He hadn’t seen her. He hadn’t evaluated her. But another woman had already stolen his heart.
Because I love my husband, I said, “Go see her. If she has any potential at all, bring her home.”
“Thanks, honey.”
What had I done? Exactly the opposite of everything I’d intended. But I wouldn’t ignore an animal in need.
I got home shortly after sunset and saw my husband was already home. When he o
pened the front door, the distinctive silhouette of an erect, alert profile with its characteristic pointed ears appeared.
As I came up the walkway, my husband opened the door, and the dog approached.
“Her name’s Sadie.”
I knelt down and crooned to her, “Aren’t you a beauty.”
Sadie buried her head in my chest and was still. Silently, she begged me to open my heart and allow her to stay.
“Welcome to the family, you sweet thing.”
The next day, after my husband went to work, my true volunteer work began.
Sadie chewed everything. Socks, shoes, the edge of the dog-food bag, raw potatoes, even wallboard. At least she didn’t chew the small children.
Every time I left the house for even the shortest of errands, she caused significant damage. Once she pulled down a wall of pegboard that held our pots and pans. Fortunately, they were aluminum and didn’t harm her. The next time she knocked an entire Costco-sized box of powdered detergent into a newly opened bag of Science Diet dog food. Neither the detergent nor the dog food was salvageable.
Something had to be done.
I took my volunteer duties seriously. By leashing Sadie to my waist, I encouraged her to bond with me and lose her fear of abandonment. During the day, Sadie and I were constant companions… until my husband came home. I figured my volunteer stint was up in the evenings. Sadie soon bonded with both of us. She loved playing with the kids and seemed to really enjoy playing dress-up.
“You really think she’s going to be a good search-and-rescue dog?” I asked. We looked at Sadie, the longest tongue I’d ever seen hanging out the side of her mouth. She wore a gold bolero, a green bandana around her neck, and a green pair of clown-sized sunglasses on her nose. “That’s the goofiest-looking dog I’ve ever seen.”
Paul laughed and said, “Well, at least she’s socialized and likes kids. That’s a good sign.” Leave it to him to look on the bright side of things.