by Colleen Sell
It was getting late, and Tommy and I had to take the subway early the next morning to Haymarket Square for the weekly grocery shopping. After ten o'clock, the cheapest cuts of meat dwindled and the day old bread was gone. What was taking Gran so long to get ready?
We went back into the house and found her in the kitchen, putting down a line of newspapers. The black pup was tied to a leg of the gas stove. His bowls of food and water were neatly placed. Gran was twisting a couple of holey socks together to form a knot. She dangled the socks in front of the pup, and he grabbed on fiercely and shook his head and hummed a playful growl. We could almost jig to it. We witnessed a rarity that morning: Gran was laughing.
“That's right, boy. This is your chew toy. Shoes and slippers are off-limits.”
Was the world coming to an end?
“Watch this, kids.” She stretched out her hand. “Shake, boy, shake.” He lifted his paw, and Gran announced triumphantly, “Such a smart dog!”
She noticed Tommy and me eyeballing the scene and explained, “Animals need routine and discipline, just like we do. They need order. See how quickly he learned to shake hands. In a day, he could be trained to do his duties outdoors. In a day. Today, in fact.”
It turned out that Tommy and I were on our own at the markets. Trying to figure out what was happening in my world, I asked, “Gran, aren't we going to Simione's to call Angell Memorial?”
It took her off-guard, but she had a quick save. “And I've always believed you are such a smart girl, Priscilla. Are you crazy?”
Our lieutenant stepped aside and made way for the major that morning, and that name stuck for our mutt. Dad gave Major the once over and said, “You've moved a mountain, boy. My hat's off to you.”
Major loved us unconditionally; and he was our confidant, playmate, and faithful friend. Gran always took him for his walk just before bedtime, and she always looked a little younger when they came back.
Seven years after he came into our lives, Major died. Tommy and I were absent from school that day and the next, and the neighbors contacted the truant officer. He admonished Gran, “These children must attend school tomorrow.” The poor guy had no idea how ridiculous his proposal was or what he was bumping up against. His white flag was about to unfurl. Gran squared off, stomped her tiny foot, set her jaw, and resolved, “My grandchildren shall be absent from school the rest of the week, sir. We've had a death in the family. Show some respect.” He had no quick save, and she finished him off with “Are you crazy?”
˜Priscilla Carr
Blind Trust
Never run with your dog.” That was the advice from the trainer. “When you're holding onto that harness, he needs to be in control, and if you run, he doesn't have enough time to control your reactions.”
Of course, I ignored that advice. I liked being in control. I liked running up one of the hills in my urban neighborhood. Rising gently along a side street, it gave me a challenge without overtaxing me. My daily jog up that incline made me feel strong, in control of at least part of my life, and, above all, normal, despite the fact that I held the harness of a guide dog.
The day started out no differently than any other. A light mist lent coolness to the day and brought out the scents of pine and lilac. In running shoes and shorts, I left my apartment and headed up the street at my usual brisk pace with Raider, my golden retriever, trotting at my side. At four years old, he was in prime condition. At twenty-seven, I wanted to stay in prime condition. A little matter of not being able to see should never stop me from anything.
Raider and I rounded the corner, and I “hupped” him up. We charged up the hill. Five yards. Ten yards. My feet skimmed over cracks and humps of concrete. Raider jerked me hard to the left; I didn't follow. I didn't have time because I was running and taking control, as I'd been instructed not to do.
I went face-first into a steel pole. Then landed flat on my back on the sidewalk.
“Woof! Woof! Woof!” Raider's bark rang echoed off of the houses, a clear cry of “Help! Help! Help!”
Speech, let alone cries for help, proved beyond my ability. With my nose broken and bleeding, I could do nothing to help myself. I couldn't even control my dog. Somewhere in my fall, I'd lost hold of leash and harness. No matter. Raider stood beside me, calling for someone to pay attention and bring us aid. People came.
“Will he bite me if I come close to you?” a woman asked.
“No.” That was as much as I could manage with my nose swelling to the size, and more than likely the color, of a plum.
“I called an ambulance.” A second woman knelt beside me and pressed a cool, wet washcloth against my face. “Can you breathe?”
“Sort of.”
I hoped I would not drown in my own blood. Strangers made sure I didn't. Having responded to Raider's pleas for help, the two women stayed with me until the paramedics arrived. Raider stayed too. Once help arrived in human form, he settled down beside me, a small golden retriever at sixty pounds, as red as a copper teakettle, my guide and, at that moment, my guardian.
He would not leave my side even when the paramedics lifted me onto a stretcher. As though he performed the trick every day, he hopped into the back of the ambulance and sat beside the gurney, his chin next to my hand. I felt his eyes upon me, watching, comforting.
At the emergency room, no one even thought to separate Raider from my side. Hospital personnel lifted me on a bed too high for Raider to touch me or for me to hold onto his leash, but he sat next to it like a sentry.
“Can you move him elsewhere?” The nurse needed Raider out of her way. He simply looked at her, she told me, and she laughed. “Okay, I'll go to the other side.”
Questions were asked about insurance and all that, an icepack applied to my nose, and then everyone left me alone until the doctor was available. I did not have a life-threatening condition, so I was not top priority in the busy city hospital. Or so they presumed, under the circumstances. It was only a broken nose.
But I began to shiver. The world commenced to tilt and spin. Sound faded in and out. I fumbled for a call button, knowing something was wrong, but could find none. My hands would not work right anyway, so it may have been only a few inches away.
“Someone help me?” I thought I called out.
No one responded. Flat on my back and out of control of my body's reactions to trauma, I could do nothing to help myself. But Raider wasn't out of his ability to control the situation. All of a sudden, I heard the click, click, click of doggy toenails on tile.
“Oh no, there's the dog running down the hall.” The person sounded concerned, alarmed.
“Raider, come.” I did not know what would happen to my dog if someone caught him and placed him far away from me. What if he ran out the automatic doors and ended up on a dangerous street? Smart as he was, he was a dog, and I could do nothing to stop him.
I tried to get out of bed. Futile. Dizziness plagued me while lying flat. Half upright, I felt the world spinning into blackness.
“Oh no, the dog.” Someone else sounded upset, as well he should, to have a dog loose in an emergency room. “Somebody — wait, I know where you came from. You go back and tell her I'll be right there.”
Click. Click. Click. Nails on tiles again. Paws on the edge of the bed. A warm tongue on my cheek. “The doctor is coming.” Of course, Raider could not say that, but the message came through loud and clear.
Moments later, the doctor did indeed come into my cubicle. “She's going into shock.”
His words frightened me. I knew people died from shock. The doctor's announcement galvanized the ER staff into action. Someone wrapped me in a hot blanket. Another person started an intravenous line in my arm. Everything else became a blur until the plastic surgeon arrived to reset my nose. Raider sat beside my bed the whole time.
In picking a doctor out of everyone in the emergency room, Raider had very possibly saved my life. By seizing control when I was flat on my back, he had shown me that sometimes I had to
trust others to assist me on my journey of independence — even if the help came in the way of a four-footed being.
˜Laurie Alice Skonicki-Eakes
The Escape Artist
I guarantee this will keep your dog from escaping.”Across the pet store's linoleum floor, the sales clerk unfurled part of a 5' × 30' mesh dog run. The clerk's fleshy face burned red with the effort.
“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “Can we return it if it fails?”
“You did say you had a six-pound dog, right?” He failed to contain the scorn from his voice.
“Yes, but can we return it if it doesn't work?”
“Sure.” He shook his head in exasperation.
Later that day when my husband helped me unload the roll of fencing from my soccer-mom minivan, he laughed. “Overkill, don't you think, honey?”
I ignored his sarcasm while we struggled with the unwieldy roll. We lugged it around the house into the backyard.
“Okay, now where do you want to put this monstrosity?”
“Under the cedar trees, I think. Shade in the summer and some rain protection in the winter.”
When we unrolled the fencing, it did look a bit much for a toy poodle, but so far she'd lived up to her given name, Mischief. The dog had proven to be wily and cunning.
Both of us struggled to keep the cumbersome metal upright. My husband anchored the circular dog run with a series of stakes. He tested its sturdiness with several tugs.
“If this doesn't hold her …”
“Nothing will,” I said, completing his sentence as wives often do.
When we stepped back and saw the completed structure sheltered by the Pacific Northwest cedars, I thought to myself that it did appear to be excessive. It was certainly an eyesore too. Still I felt a sense of relief. Mischief's safety was my primary concern.
Sad memories of another dog heightened my frustration and worry. One Thanksgiving, my childhood pet, a toy poodle named Pepé, maneuvered his way between my aunt's gate and fence post. Before I could catch him, he raced down the alley. I became one hysterical thirteen-year-old as I ran after him. He ran only faster. To him, it was game time. I lost sight of him. Sobbing and out of breath, I returned to the family gathering.
Frantic and fearful aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents searched the surrounding neighborhood. The unsuccessful foot canvas spurred Dad, Mom, and me to pile into the family car and drive the streets. A sense of hopelessness sucked the air from the sedan's interior. When the car turned onto a busy thoroughfare, my pulse quickened. I couldn't bear to look at the pavement. Cars whizzed by as thoughts of “what if” silenced me.
Then I saw him, his white fluff shivering as he stood frozen and unmoving on the grassy center median. “There he is!” I yelled.
My dad braked and turned on the hazard lights. As horns honked, I jumped from the car and backtracked to the frightened dog. When I leaned down, Pepé jumped into my outstretched arms. Once his shaking stopped, I cried with relief, and he licked my tears away.
Months later, Pepé slid out the front door past a delivery man and ran into the street. That time, there was no happy ending. Determined that Mischief would not meet a similar fate, the dog run loomed in the yard.
We had adopted Mischief at Christmas and spent several days trying to find the perfect name for our new puppy, who was pitch black, fluffy, and tiny. Name suggestions included Midnight, Magic, Midget, and Blackie. The name debate continued until the pup's personality revealed itself. She shredded Christmas paper, untied ribbons and shoelaces, batted down tree ornaments, and lapped water from the tree stand. By unanimous vote, she was dubbed Mischief. I wondered now if that name had influenced her ongoing behavior. To cordon her off from Christmas packages, everyone's shoes, and other temptations, we had erected baby gates — which the two-pound, black, fuzzy puppy scaled immediately. Finally, Plexiglas affixed to the gates did the trick. Much to her dismay, her nails failed to grasp the slick surface.
In the following months, she slid beneath the garden gate. So we added chicken wire that extended from the bottom of the gate to the concrete. That same wire covered a knot hole on a wooden fence plank, which she had shimmied through, as well as several getaway sections at the fence's base, which she had crawled through.
Now, my nine-year-old daughter glared at the backyard's newest addition and said, “It looks like a prison.” She shielded Mischief's eyes by curling the dog into the folds of her voluminous sweatshirt.
“Let's test it out,” my husband said.
“Not yet. Mischief's going to help me with my homework.” Daughter and dog scurried upstairs.
That evening my son, age ten, hovered while Mischief visited the pen. He eyed the enclosure with horror and commented that it wasn't fair to trap his dog in a torture chamber.
The next day when I could avoid the scrutiny of an amused husband and two adolescent critics, I set Mischief inside the dog run and left the yard. I stood watching at the kitchen window while she sniffed, explored, rolled onto her back, and then marked her territory.
An hour later, when I went to pick her up, she stretched all of her twenty-four inches up the fence, ready for me to lift her. She licked my hand with enthusiasm. “See, she's fine with it,” I said out loud. Of course, there was no one else there to nod their approval.
All went well until the fourth day. The doorbell rang, and I chatted for a few minutes with a neighbor about an upcoming block party. When I returned to the kitchen and looked out the back door, I saw Mischief careen over the top of the dog run.
“Impossible,” my husband said that evening.
“I saw her myself.”
Disbelief clouded his eyes as he carried her outside to the metal cage. She plopped onto the grass, sniffed, and then curled into a black, fuzzy ball.
At dinner the conversation strayed to my overactive imagination. When the laughter subsided, we heard the doggie door open. Mischief sashayed into the kitchen.
Fortunately, Mischief has transferred her challenges to new avenues. She remains safe, and the pet store clerk remains incredulous.
˜Sharyn L. Bolton
My Saving Grace
I finished my riding lesson shortly after noon, grabbed Cinder, my toy poodle, and headed for the trail. It was one of the first days of spring. The warm afternoon sun melted away the winter chill. The vibrant green of new growth contrasted with the dark evergreens, and the grass was twice as high as Cinder.
Cinder trotted briskly beside me as I powered my wheelchair along the bumpy dirt road, her long wavy ears blowing back, exposing a look of profound contentment. Since she was familiar with the route, I'd let Cinder off her leash, so she could explore. She'd disappear into the tall grass and enthusiastically dart in and out while hunting imaginary prey. Every so often she'd run back to me and look up with that silly grin and expectant look in her big brown eyes. Watching her carefree meanderings lifted my spirits, and I forgot my own physical limitations.
That day we were taking the less-traveled route up a steep hill. As we approached the top, I noticed a lone dog loping toward us. He looked small and unassuming, so we cautiously continued in his direction, and he in ours. I soon realized that he wasn't that small and looked suspiciously like a coyote. We'd taken this trail for years without incident, so I didn't expect to come face-to-face with a wild animal, especially this close to civilization, but I decided to trust my instincts.
I called Cinder as calmly as possible, trying to get her attention before she noticed the potential danger. Having grown up with dogs, horses, and other large animals, Cinder fears nothing. If she saw the coyote, she would think it was just another dog to play with. When Cinder didn't come to my call, I tried again, struggling to keep the panic out of my voice. I knew the coyote wasn't interested in me, but Cinder is about ten pounds soaking wet, a perfect size for a snack.
The trail picks up behind Little Bit Therapeutic Riding Center, where I take horseback-riding lessons. Every week after my lesson, Cinder happ
ily runs beside my wheelchair as we explore the trail, encountering all kinds of interesting smells and great adventures in the tall grass and woodsy terrain. On hot days, she particularly loves racing down to the creek and taking a quick dip. I wait at the top of the steep path and can't help laughing when she comes back, looking very pleased with herself, her ears dripping and her legs wet and scrawny.
Cinder was born at the riding facility, which is where we'd found each other. Before I met Cinder, I felt that caring for dogs was a huge burden and that the last thing I needed in my life was a puppy. At the same time, I was struggling with the decision of whether to end my twenty-five-year career. To my surprise, it was a very emotional decision to make, even though my disability was making it increasingly difficult to cope with the daily requirements of my job. I'd spent my entire adult life working; the thought of staying home all day, every day, terrified me. I didn't know what I'd do with myself or how I'd replace the companionship I had at the office. I was fearful that if I didn't find something to keep me occupied, I'd be lost.
Each week as I hung around the barn after my lesson, the facility manager, Taffy, brought out her dog, Mischief's, litter of puppies, two brown and three black adorable, wiggly, balls of fur. Though I enjoyed playing with the puppies, I was determined to keep my emotional distance, just as I had with Mischief's first litter. All but one was spoken for, anyway, and as I played with that last adventurous runt of the litter, I'd tell myself it wouldn't be long before she, too, would find a home.
As the weeks passed and I spent time with the unclaimed pup, I noticed how desperately she tried to get any passerby's attention — her little tail wagging vigorously, her tiny tongue hanging out of her smiling mouth, and a look of eager anticipation on her face. In comparison, the other puppies quivered fearfully whenever strangers approached. The pup's display of friendly boldness gradually won me over, making it impossible to resist her the night she curled up in a little black ball and fell asleep on my lap, her nose tucked securely under my arm. Not long afterward, I became the anxious owner of my very first dog, whom I named Cinder.