Thunder Dog

by Michael Hingson

  A feisty and opinionated New Yorker, Kevin was a huge help in dealing with the New York cabdrivers. Many of them were uncomfortable with dogs in their cabs, and if I stood on the curb, they’d pass me by. It wasn’t easy for me to catch a cab. So Kevin would stand at the curb and hail a cab while I stayed back out of sight. When the taxi stopped, I’d run forward with Roselle and join him. If the driver still balked, Kevin would unleash his New York City bluster. “Look, this is a working dog. You pull away and we’ll report you to the Taxi License Commission. And I have friends in Homeland Security. Don’t mess with us.” We did file a few complaints to the NYC Taxi and Limo Commission against cabdrivers who refused to transport us. We probably helped finance the city budget with those complaints.

  On September 11, Kevin happened to oversleep because he’d been up late the night before playing with his beautiful one-year-old baby girl. He ended up going into work late and was on the PATH train, just entering the tube under the Hudson River, when the first plane hit our tower. The ground vibrated, and the train stopped then reversed and went back to Jersey City. With the trains stopped, he was stuck in Jersey City. He watched the towers fall, not knowing whether his Quantum colleagues were dead or alive. I had expected Kevin that morning, as he had a 10 a.m. appointment with people from Cantor Fitzgerald on the 102nd floor of Tower 1. He had not arrived by the time we left, but I didn’t know until later what had happened to him.

  When David, Roselle, and I hit the concourse, the shopping mall under the World Trade Center, we begin to run. More water. We still don’t know exactly what is going on, but from the commotion in the lobby, it’s pretty clear that we need to get out and away. The shops in the mall are deserted, and the human traffic is flowing the same direction: up and out. We take an escalator and ride it up and outside to the second-floor plaza.

  For the first time since the chaos began, we step into New York sunlight. We stop and breathe in some fresh air. It seems like a lifetime since we heard the explosion. I check my watch. It’s been an hour, almost to the minute.

  David looks around, then up at the towers. “There’s a fire in Tower 2, up high,” he says.

  What? The explosion was in Tower 1. What is going on?

  We’re confused. What is happening? Maybe when our building tipped, the fire jumped to the other tower. We can’t think of any other explanation. The stairwell had been like an isolation chamber, blocking us from any outside news.

  But we’re about to find out.

  9

  RUNNING

  WITH ROSELLE

  Faith is taking the first step even when

  you don’t see the whole staircase.

  MARTIN LUTHER KING JR.

  Waves of people approach. First, the paramedics. “Thank you, but we’re fine. No injuries here.”

  Next come the television reporters, asking for comments, but we are still in flight mode, and we keep moving. People fill the streets, streaming in all directions.

  We pause for a moment on the southwest corner of Broadway and Ann, about a hundred yards away from Tower 2, the South Tower. David takes out his camera to take a picture of the gray and black smoke billowing upward from the towers while I try to reach Karen on my cell phone to let her know we are safe. All I can get, though, is an “All circuits are busy” message. We learned later that that the overloading of the cellular phone system was due to the many trapped people on the upper floors calling loved ones to say good-bye.

  We still don’t know exactly what happened to cause the explosion and the fires. We won’t find out until later that the blaze in the towers is so intense it is reaching temperatures as high as 2,000 degrees and generating heat equivalent to three to five times the energy output of a nuclear power plant.1 Fireproofing, sprinkler systems, and the water supply for fire hoses have been knocked out, although the fire is so extensive that sprinklers might not be much help anyway. The plane’s impact between the 78th and 84th floors destroyed exterior columns and may have also damaged interior columns and the floor plate. The floors near the impact suffered severe damage. But the fire is the key problem, heating up the structure to a critical point. Molten aluminum from the plane is flowing down the side of the building opposite the initial impact.

  It’s 9:59 a.m., just over an hour since we left our offices. David puts away his camera, and I am closing up my cell phone, unable to reach Karen, when a police officer screams, “Get out of here! It’s coming down!”

  The South Tower emits a deep rumble that becomes a deafening roar. I hear glass breaking and metal tearing, accompanied by a chorus of shrill and terrified screams. I will never forget that sound as long as I live. It was like a cross between a freight train and a waterfall of breaking glass.

  A floor up in the southeast corner started the ball rolling with a partial collapse, along with columns along the east face buckling near the floor from south to north. Then the top of the building twisted to the east and south, crashing downward and taking successive floors out like dominoes. The South Tower was down in just ten seconds in a cacophonous waterfall of glass, steel, and people.

  The impact creates a vibration that travels through my feet and up my legs, and the street feels like a trampoline bouncing. A jolt of fear rips through me and my throat freezes; I can’t even scream.

  David cries, “Oh, my God!” and starts running. In a split second’s time I swing 180 degrees, lifting Roselle up bodily and spinning around with a death grip on her harness, and we break into a run too. We are running for our lives. No one is helping anyone anymore.

  Except for Roselle and me. We are still there for each other.

  Rocks, metal, and glass fall around us, and small hard objects pelt my head and face.

  For the second time today, I think that I might die, this time without even being able to say good-bye to Karen.

  Many people did perish in the streets surrounding the towers, crushed by the falling building, flattened by debris, or blasted by the shock wave. There were eyewitness reports of eight-ton steel I-beams tumbling end over end. Cars launched through the air along with chunks of concrete, metal ductwork, and shards of glass. One report tells of an EMT firefighter who survived while a flying I-beam killed his partner right next to him.

  Roselle and I run away from the noise. I don’t understand why this is happening. My heart cries out to God in anguish.

  How could you get us out of the building only to have it fall on us?

  As soon as I silently scream out the question, God answers. I hear his voice inside my head and my heart. He speaks directly to me.

  Don’t worry about what you cannot control. Focus on running with Roselle, and the rest will take care of itself.

  I’d never before heard God’s voice so close and so clearly. Immediately I feel peace and a sense of protection. My mind and my heart begin to settle down, and I start to focus on Roselle. The harness feels solid in my hand, and our bond is sure.

  But now I am stronger and more confident. I know beyond any shadow of a doubt that God is directing me just as I direct Roselle.

  The noise becomes more intense, debris showering the streets. We reach Fulton Street, which we had crossed only a few moments before. After turning right on Fulton, David and I somehow find each other, and we stop for a moment, all of us panting from the adrenaline-powered flight. It turns out he had run in the same direction.

  Then comes the cloud.

  A monstrous dust cloud three hundred feet high roars at us, enveloping us in a thick, toxic blanket of smoke, gases, vapors, and pulverized concrete dust. The cloud moves too fast and we cannot get away. We’re blasted with sand and gravel.

  My body tenses up but there is nothing else to do but inhale. The dust and debris fill my throat and my lungs. I am drowning, trying to breathe through dirt. The dust is so thick I can feel it going down my throat every time I take a breath. I feel like I’m dying, the dust filling up my body and choking the life out of me.

  Somehow I hang on to Roselle’
s harness and we keep moving. Roselle is right alongside, guiding perfectly. She never stops.

  Guide dogs are specially bred and trained to focus. When they are first received from the puppy raisers and brought back to the Guide Dogs for the Blind school for training with a certified guide dog instructor, each dog is given a temperament assessment during which the instructors note the dog’s reaction to different situations such as run-ins with other dogs and cats, exposure to food, noise, and other circumstances likely to produce anxiety in the average dog. Fifty percent of the puppies wash out. Dogs who maintain concentration and focus move forward in the training; they have the potential to do well in the intensive months-long course of guide dog training.

  Roselle passed that test back when she was a puppy, demonstrating the intelligence and steadfastness I need now. Enveloped in the cloud, she continues to work and to guide even though her eyes, nose, and mouth are full of dust and debris too. Roselle’s guide dog training could never have prepared her for anything like this, but she is brave and she does not quit; instead, she uses whatever senses she can muster to watch out for me.

  Whatever happens, whether we live or whether we die, we are in this together. If we don’t make it out alive, I hope we stay together, my hand on Roselle’s harness. I will never let go.

  In tough times one of my favorite biblical passages is Psalm 23, and the older I get, the more I realize that life isn’t just about green pastures and still water. Just like in the psalm, life also includes hot, dusty roads; deserts; enemies; and sometimes, fire.

  Psalm 23

  The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters.

  He restores my soul; He leads me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil;

  For You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

  You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; my cup runs over.

  Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me

  All the days of my life;

  And I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

  My dad taught me to love God. Not only did we spend a lot of time over the years working together on electronics, math, scouting, and doing ham radio but we also talked about bigger things like: Who created the universe? Why are we here? Who is in control? What is the purpose of life? I could bring just about any question to my dad and he was willing to talk to me about it. In a lot of ways, we were kindred spirits.

  My father did a lot of reading on Christianity, and he read to me often. When I was in fourth grade, I came home from school one day to find several big boxes waiting for me. Inside was a Braille Bible, King James Version, in eighteen large volumes. It takes up almost five feet of shelf space and still occupies prime real estate in my home office.

  My mother was Jewish, and her ideas about religion tended to be wrapped up in Jewish holidays and challah and chicken soup with delicious matzo balls. She never attended synagogue, but she did go to church with us at St. Stephen’s Lutheran Church in Palmdale. I sang tenor in the choir and we attended services every Sunday, although I sometimes found the sermons boring. Rather than sitting and listening to the preacher, I liked exploring the Bible on my own and having discussions with my dad. Our talks ranged all over the place, and we talked about different faiths and ways that people worshipped God. But for me, faith always comes back to a friendship with God.

  “There is not in the world a kind of life more sweet and delightful than that of a continual conversation with God,” said Brother Lawrence. A lay brother in a Carmelite monastery in Paris, Brother Lawrence wrote The Practice of the Presence of God about maintaining a profound awareness of God moment by moment, no matter the situation.

  On the ground in desperate flight from the collapsing tower is not the first time I prayed on September 11. I started praying up in the tower after the first explosion, listening for anything God had to say. Just as listening is the most important part of successful selling, it is also the most important part of prayer. It’s how I try to live my life, constantly asking, Am I doing the right thing? Is this what I’m supposed to do? Is this the right path to take?

  Looking to God for direction is where Psalm 23 starts. Its first words are a simple statement of trust in God with “The Lord is my shepherd.” In fact, the whole psalm is one of trust, a vow to put oneself in the hands of the living God.

  The psalm’s author, David, had been a shepherd in his youth, just like my father, so the psalm is very special to me. But the shepherd-and-sheep image also reminds me of the relationship between my guide dog and me. Everything hinges on Roselle’s initial acceptance of me as her leader. While she helps me in very important ways by keeping me out of holes and making sure I don’t walk in front of a speeding electric car (which doesn’t make much noise), it is ultimately my job to plan out our route and to direct her. If she doesn’t trust me as her shepherd and respond to my tugs on her harness or my verbal commands, our relationship can’t work.

  Because Roselle and I are a team, I take care of her. I provide for her wants with food and water, usually in the evenings, in order to minimize her need to relieve herself during the day, especially during long days of air or train travel. She isn’t allowed to eat from the table at home or in restaurants. This is a constant temptation for her because many people would like to feed her, and I often have to turn down succulent bits of steak and chicken from well-meaning restaurant owners and servers.

  Roselle’s fear of thunderstorms reminds me of my dad telling me about how fearful sheep are, afraid of anything new or unexpected. Sheep can’t sleep and won’t eat unless they feel safe and secure. They’re also afraid of fast-moving water, so it’s up to the shepherd to find quiet, comfortable places, green pastures, and still waters where the sheep can sleep, eat, and drink. During thunderstorms, Roselle’s safe haven was under my desk in the basement at home, her head on my feet. When the South Tower suddenly gave way and we were overtaken by the airborne dust and debris, we needed a sanctuary too.

  Because Roselle trusts me and because we’ve worked together enough to become a team and to know each other’s habits, she listens to my voice. When I correct her, she stops and listens, trying to figure out what I want her to do. It’s the same with the shepherd. As the relationship grows, the sheep learn to follow his voice “in the paths of righteousness.” Then, when difficult times come and the sheep have to walk through dangerous situations, God is there, guiding.

  When he worked as a shepherd, my dad used a rod and staff to guide and protect the sheep. I have my white cane and the guide dog harness instead. God uses more sophisticated and even mysterious ways to guide and protect, but even though I don’t always understand how he works, I am comforted and confident knowing that he is at work in my life.

  When the day ends and Roselle’s harness comes off, she can rest. She knows she’s part of the family, and she has her own bed, her own dog toys and chew bone, and her own food and water bowl. When work is over, she can play, eat, and relax. She is an important part of our family, just as I’m an important part of God’s family and an honored guest at God’s table. Even when there are enemies about, I can eat and drink of God’s goodness in safety at his side. I am special to him.

  I’ve had many other dogs, but there is only one Roselle. And I know her. I know the feel of her ears and her neck, the nudge of her nose against my hand, and the lean of her powerful body against my calf. I know the sound of her happy bark, her drowsy snore, and her sad little whine. She was specially trained and set apart for me by Guide Dogs for the Blind, and she is unique. There is no other guide dog, or any dog, exactly like her.

  And God knows me. He made me. He has studied me and watched over me, and he loves me. He “anoints my head with oil.” In the Middle East, hosts used to anoint their honored guests at banquets
with oil on their hair and beards; it was meant to invigorate and refresh. Anointing also could be used to set someone aside as holy or sacred, meant for a special purpose. Part of the fun and challenge of living has been discovering my purpose. What was I designed for? How can I use what I have learned and the experiences I’ve been through to help others? Roselle knows her purpose. I am still discovering and living out mine.

  God’s goodness and mercy follow me every day, like the shepherd follows after his sheep. He pursues each one until he brings it safely home, as in the story told by Jesus of the shepherd who left his flock of ninety-nine to find one lost sheep, rejoicing when he found and rescued it.

  I heard a story about a man visiting Yellowstone National Park with his dog. They were hiking among the mineral springs, some of which contain water superheated by geothermal forces above the boiling point to temperatures of two hundred degrees Fahrenheit and above. He unleashed his dog, which promptly ran off and jumped into one of the springs. The dog yelped and began to struggle as the water seared his flesh. His owner hesitated for a moment then jumped in after his dog. There is no happy ending to this story; both perished. But I have always remembered the man’s extravagant love for his dog and his decision to chance death in the boiling water.

  When the tower fell and I cried out to God, his answer gave me hope. When God is for us, who can be against us? There is hope for the future. I am part of God’s family, and “I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”