I thought she might be furious with him, but she seemed to feel more the way I did—just helpless.
My father was angry for a moment or two but also ended up shaking his head in despair.
I offered to pay for all the damage, but he just groaned.
However, on Saturday, Father installed thirty feet of heavy steel chain, attaching it to the foundation of the house. I saw him testing it, heaving back on it, and it was plain that a twoton Percheron would have trouble with it.
Tuck was stopped.
I passed my mother in the downstairs hallway that gloomy morning and said, “I hate that chain already.”
She answered calmly, “We're not in love with it either. It's necessary, Helen.”
The rope had been bad enough, but now to have Tuck shackled to steel was almost more than I could bear, or watch, despite all the problems.
Day after day, Tuck fought back. He went to the chain's full length and pulled against it, as if he were pulling a sled. Or he'd turn the other way, rearing on his hind legs the way a wild stallion fights a rope in a corral. He would try to pull the choke collar from his neck, over his head and ears. The fur around his neck was being worn off.
Failing to break the chain or get loose from it, he paced in a long, tight oval, wearing the grass away. Though Tuck himself never made a sound, we could hear the clanking of the chain from inside the house and knew that Tuck was waging his lonely battle. Within a month, not a blade of grass was growing where he paced.
It was terrible to watch and hear. When I was home, I walked him for hours, just to keep him off the hated chain. I kept up walking him every morning before school; then after school, I'd run straight home and have him off the chain within a few minutes, sometimes not even going to the bathroom. My mind wasn't on school or books, and my grades, which had always been good, began to slip.
Other inner things were happening to me, I guess. Even my brothers were worried, I suppose. Stan said, “Hey, Sis, you don't whistle anymore. I miss it.” They'd always been the first ones to hassle me about the tweeting.
One evening just before Thanksgiving, when my brothers weren't around, my parents sat down to talk to me about a lot of things, mainly Tuck and myself. They talked about school and my grades; then they talked about my health. Finally my father said, “Helen, maybe we should seriously think about what Dr. Tobin said, about giving Tuck to the university at Davis. He's more than any of us can handle now …”
Stricken with grief, I ran from the room. My best defense now was to run.
Then, just before Christmas, I was in the den. There was a half-written letter on the desk from my mother to my grandmother, back in North Carolina. I read some of it:
… It has been three months since we put Tuck on the chain, and he's finally given up. He no longer has the will to resist. He fought the chain valiantly, even wearing all the grass away. But, at last, we have subdued him, and none of us is proud.
Helen's mind hasn't been on school or books, and she's doing very badly. She is “Nurse Helen” or “Mother Helen” or counsel for the defendant. At times, I think she blames us for what is happening with Tuck. We cannot go along this way for very much longer …
I didn't read any more.
It was raining hard that chill afternoon but I decided to take Tuck for a walk anyway. After I got a half block from 911 West Cheltenham, I repeated to Tuck that I'd never let anyone take him to Davis or any other place like that. Nor would I ever let anyone put him to sleep. The two of us would be long gone before that happened. Just where, I didn't know.
13
Two nights after New Year's, I happened to overhear a conversation that was taking place in the den. Passing by the door, I heard my parents talking, and unfortunately I listened for a few seconds before going on upstairs. Dangerously, I didn't hear the beginning of the conversation or the end.
What I heard was: “Tony, I'm just not willing to start another year of this. Her health is too important.” That was my mother's firm voice. She'd made up her mind about something.
“All right, I agree. I'll call Dr. Tobin in the morning.” That was my father talking, of course.
In my frame of mind, that was quite enough to hear. I pulled away from the door and hurried up the stairs, already convinced that Tuck would either be put to sleep or be given to the doctors at Davis for experimentation.
Until that long and mostly sleepless night, I'd never thought about running away from home for any reason. Knowing I was loved, I only had to look around my room to see I was properly cared for. The thought of being somewhere else just never occurred to me.
But the months of worry about the yellow-haired dog with the pinkish nose, now safe and sound asleep beside me, suddenly went off with a silent bang. Looking back, I'd been preparing myself for this crisis ever since the Saturday morning in Dr. Tobin's clinic when Tuck was pronounced to be on the brink of blindness.
Likely, the idea had been building steadily even though I don't think I was aware of it. Now it was time to go, for Tuck's sake.
I thought about calling my grandmother in North Carolina for help but knew she'd be back on the phone in two minutes asking my mother, “What in the world is that child thinking about?”
Mr. Ishihara? He'd do the same thing, I knew. He'd never let me stay in his apartment or help me leave town. He'd quickly call 911 West Cheltenham.
Though Tuck was welcome in the homes of most of my friends, there wasn't a one, including Steffie Pyle, who would take us in because of this trouble.
Tossing around in bed, I'd never thought so hard in all my life. By ten o'clock I'd sorted some things out and, considering my age then, I believe the sorting was very correct and even wise. Transportation for a thirteen-year-old girl and a blind dog was not going to be easy, no matter the destination.
Buses do let blind people and guide dogs aboard; but I didn't think the drivers would accept the reverse. For a while, I had in mind just showing up unannounced with Tuck at my grandmother's in Hickory, North Carolina. By that time, say after a week of travel, my parents would know just how desperate we were, and they might change their minds.
I ruled out airlines right away. That kind of money was not available, and the airlines would put Tuck in a box down in the cold cargo space.
Hitchhiking along a freeway was certain to bring a highway patrol car sooner or later, and a call to my par-ents. Besides, I was not too keen on sticking my thumb up, anyway, and it would take a real dog-lover to stop and load us in.
There was only one choice left, a terrible one— walking.
Only where to?
I guess it was almost midnight when I finally decided what to do and where to go—temporarily, at least, until I could make long-range plans. My uncle Ray's cabin at Lake Angeles was closed for the winter, but I knew I could break into it. He had a lot of canned goods stored there, so we'd have plenty to eat; there was always a big stack of firewood on his porch, so we'd have heat. Though snow was on the ground up there from December to March, it was never too deep.
Lake Angeles was fifty-five miles away, but I figured we could walk it in two days.
Just after I made the decision to hide out at Uncle Ray's for a while, I went to sleep.
In the morning I tried to act as if it were any other day—taking Tuck for an early walk, having breakfast, dressing for school. As the family went off, my father first and then my brothers, I said good-bye as if I'd be there for dinner, as usual.
Then the station wagon, bearing my mother, backed away and I ran upstairs to pack a TWA airline bag, taking underwear, socks, an extra shirt and pair of jeans. I planned to dress warmly for the walk up the mountains. I'd been on that road many times in the summer but only once or twice in the winter.
I talked to Tuck occasionally while pulling everything together, though I was talking more to myself, I suppose, trying to think of what I should take. I had a dollar and forty cents in my top bureau drawer and stuffed that into my pocket. There was
always money in the kitchen.
Down there, in the utility drawer, where housekeeping bills were tossed and car keys dropped, I found eleven dollars more and added that to my treasury. There'd now be plenty for food until we reached Uncle Ray's. Then I packed a lunch.
Not once did I think about doing anything wrong. My goal was to take Tuck away from danger, and nothing else mattered.
My final act that morning, just before nine o'clock, was to write a note to them all, and that was the hardest part. I told them I was doing this to protect Tuck and hoped they'd understand. I signed it, “Love, Helen and Tuck,” then gathered my parka and the airline bag, in which I'd placed the lunch, and out we went.
I had vague plans to be on the other side of Glendale and Pasadena, where the Crest Highway starts up into the mountains, by nighttime. I was a little worried about where we'd spend the night, but with Tuck along I knew I'd be safe. We could sleep almost anywhere.
I took one look back at 911 West Cheltenham, wavered a moment, and pressed on.
That January day was unusually sunny and warm. The parka which I was carrying and the airline bag in my right hand became heavy before we'd gone a mile.
By noon, when the temperature must have been sev-enty degrees, I was almost out of it. My feet hurt, and we stopped on the other side of Griffith Park, over in Glendale, at a hamburger place with outdoor seating. I ordered a burger for Tuck and ate the lunch I'd packed, just to lighten the load.
For quite a while I'd been hoping that someone would stop us and ask, “Where you going?” but no one had paid the slightest attention. We'd passed a patrol car parked on Los Feliz, and the cops had only looked at us, saying nothing.
We went on slowly and, for me, painfully.
I can still see myself that late afternoon as we reached the outskirts of Glendale, nearing the beginning of the Crest Highway. With Tuck moving along at my knees, each step hurt. My arms ached from carrying the bag and the parka; my legs ached, and I'd worn a blister on my left heel. I hurt all over.
I sat down for a while, wondering if I should try to hitchhike or pay someone to take me up the mountains, which were already turning blue in the distance. The sun would set within a half hour. The longer I sat, the more I knew I could never make it to Uncle Ray's, that night or the next.
Finally, surrendering, I got up and dialed 911 West Cheltenham and said, “It's me,” when my mother answered.
What came out of the phone next was a mixture of relief and anger. They'd called the police, for one thing. Furthermore, I was informed that they'd been talking about Dr. Tobin consulting with experts at Davis to see if there was any last possibility of surgery for Tuck. They weren't talking about putting him away.
My father picked me up at the filling station, where I'd made the call, shortly before six. He said, “Maybe this will teach you not to eavesdrop.”
In addition to being sore and tired, I felt very foolish.
14
The rains started again in mid-January when winter storms from the Pacific, driven by high winds, came ashore to wet down Los Angeles off and on for about ten days. I clearly remember those days because of sloshing along the sidewalks in my red boots with Friar Tuck. It was just too muddy to visit Montclair Park.
I also remember coming back from a damp sidewalk tour one of those afternoons—the exact date was January 16, 1957—to find my mother waiting for me in the kitchen.
She said, withholding news, “Go hop in the car.”
“Where are we going?”
“You'll see.”
So Tuck and I went out to the station wagon, and in a moment we were gliding over the slick streets.
“Remember Mrs. Chaffey?” asked my mother.
Of course I did. She was the woman at the San Carlos school.
“She called just after I came home.”
Mother took her eyes off the road a second. “There's a dog that they may retire.”
My heart beat a little faster. “That's where we're going?” Under my breath, I said, “Oh, God, thank you.”
My mother nodded.
“Will they give us a dog?”
“I don't know. She didn't say. She just said we should come out there if we were interested.”
“You said we were?”
My mother laughed. “What do you think?”
“I wonder what kind of dog it is.”
“Does it make any difference? They only train the four types.”
It made no difference. I would have taken a purple poodle guide dog, and I don't really like poodles, espe-cially little ones.
Mother went on. “Now, don't get your hopes up high. Last time you moped for days.”
How could I keep from getting my hopes up? They'd gone up out of sight already.
Mother kept on talking, driving through the pelting showers. “Even if they do lend us a dog, it may not work. Remember Mrs. Chaffey said she didn't think it had ever been done before.”
I finally refused to believe that it wouldn't work and said so. How did anyone know?
I sat there as the bright green winter countryside, washed in rain, whirled by, already positive that Tuck could be led everywhere by the companion dog. Such was my faith.
In just over an hour, we eased through the entrance to the school and went directly to Mrs. Chaffey's office, saying hello to old Henry on the way.
She said, “I suppose I should be surprised that you'd drive this far in bad weather, but I knew you'd come. I've thought of Tuck so many times—I couldn't get him out of my mind.”
She stood and crossed over to the big status board and put her finger on one particular line. “Lawrence Stafford,” she said. “He was in his early seventies and died of a heart attack this morning.”
By Mr. Stafford's name was another name, Lady Daisy.
Mrs. Chaffey went on. “He lived alone in an apartment in Irwindale, which isn't too far away, and the para-medics took his dog to the animal shelter. One of our trainers picked her up around noontime.”
Lady Daisy! I thought. Heaven had sent her to the rescue.
Mrs. Chaffey went back to her desk and sat down. “I remembered Tuck …”
Balanced on the edge of the chair, I held my breath. My mouth had gone completely dry. Daisy!
“… and wondered if you still had the problem. If you do, we might think about lending Daisy, who was Mr. Stafford's companion dog.”
Words rushed like spilled beans. “Tuck's problem is bigger than ever,” I said. “He's on a chain. On rainy days, he's locked in the garage. He eats the doors and windows. He stays in trouble and gets me in trouble.”
Mrs. Chaffey laughed. “I'm sure you don't want that. So, would you like to see Daisy?”
I was standing upright before Mrs. Chaffey could even finish the sentence.
We followed her out. The dogs were noisy, since it was once again near feeding time.
The kennel buildings were long and low, with high chain-link pens extending out from each side, so the dogs could have outside air and sunlight when they wanted it. Each pen had a little open doorway to the inside of the kennel building for bad-weather sleeping and living.
As we went along, Mrs. Chaffey said, “We have ken-nels for the mothers and their puppies. Also places for the puppies during their testing period. We test them for reactions to strange sounds and obstacles, as well as gen-eral intelligence.”
“Some are rejected?” my mother asked.
Mrs. Chaffey nodded. “Then we have kennels for the dogs in training after they've been out with farm families for a year and a half. They're here for about six months, including the time they train with their blind masters or mistresses. They have to learn to work in harness and master all the commands.”
“Has Daisy done all that?” I asked.
“She was born here, tested here, and then spent eighteen months with the McIver family in the Imperial Valley. Then she was six months back here again and was graduated, along with Mr. Stafford, in 1953.”
&n
bsp; We stopped by a small office building to add a trainer to the party. Introduced as Harry Peterson, he had a leather dog leash wrapped twice around his hips, like a belt. It was easier than carrying it everywhere, he said.
Momentarily, we turned into one of the kennel buildings, full of happy, barking dogs, and about eight pens down, we stopped. So did my heart and whole body.
There was Lady Daisy, sitting on her haunches, looking at us through the triangles of pen wire. She was a brown and black German shepherd and had soft, kind eyes. A little chubby, she looked like a very motherly dog.
She's so right for Tuck, I immediately thought. Saint Lady Daisy!
While Mother and I stood in the aisle between the long rows of pens, the trainer and Mrs. Chaffey went inside. Mrs. Chaffey squatted down by Daisy, asking the companion dog, “How would you like to retire at the age of six?”
Daisy was very dignified, standing quietly, wagging her tail in response, looking in my direction.
Then Mrs. Chaffey said to the trainer, “She's really too old to start retraining with a new master, isn't she?”
Peterson answered, “Borderline, at best.”
Then Mrs. Chaffey said to Daisy, “I think I know of a super home for you and a super job.”
Harry Peterson said, “I trained her well.”
Mrs. Chaffey smiled up at him quizzically. “Well enough to guide a blind dog?”
“Oops,” said the trainer.
Mrs. Chaffey arose. “Daisy, I'd like you to meet some people.”
Then she brought Lady Daisy out, and I sank beside her on the concrete floor, whispering to her, “Wait until you see Tuck.”
She turned her lovely head to look at me, full face, and there was an ancient calmness in her brown eyes, as if she knew many things.
I heard Mrs. Chaffey saying to my mother, “Even under normal circumstances, we'd retire her in another two years. The dogs begin to lose their sharpness about the age of eight. But Daisy has a lot of life ahead, I think.”
The Trouble with Tuck Page 6