Trusting Calvin

by Sharon Peters

  With Max this wouldn’t be easy.

  Two days after the students had arrived on campus, on a misty Wednesday afternoon, an excited buzz thrummed around the lunch tables. This was the day. In a few minutes they would go to their rooms, and each would wait there to meet the dog that would serve as his or her eyes for the next several years. Eleven of the students were punchy with excitement.

  Max was drenched in sweat.

  Knowing this would be a rough pivot point for Max, the trainers had gone to special lengths the night before to prepare him, sharing some information about the dog he would receive—a deviation from standard protocol, but important for this student, they believed. Jan Abbott, the instructor assigned to Max, had pulled him aside after dinner for a private conversation.

  “I want to talk with you about the dog you will get tomorrow,” she had said. “I won’t tell you his name; you’ll have to wait for that. But I do want to tell you these things: I know your dog. I’ve worked with him. He’s a beautiful chocolate brown Labrador retriever, and he’s a good dog, a very good dog. He’s the right dog for you, and I know you will make a very good team.”

  Knowing some specifics about a process or event likely to induce some measure of distress can sometimes help to reduce anxiety, and Max understood that this had been the goal of these few bits of information. Now he could let these few facts brew in his mind before the actual encounter the next day. Maybe that will help, he thought. Also, it was not insignificant that Jan, whose direct manner and obvious depth of knowledge Max had appreciated from the moment he had met her, had handpicked the Lab.

  This was information to take to bed, good to have, he thought.

  Whatever part of him believed that, however, couldn’t convince the part that didn’t.

  He didn’t wring much sleep from the anxious wee hours, and what he did was fitful. Brown dogs everywhere.

  And now the time had come to join up with this animal.

  His room felt too hot, too close as he sat with the balls and chew bones they had given him to greet the dog and play with him as first steps toward developing a relationship. They felt a little strange, silly even, in his hand.

  Max could hear the rubber-soled sounds of trainers walking dogs through the hallways, the opening and closing of doors as one dog after another was introduced. Emotions were running high, he could tell. Some of his fellow students laughed and made high-pitched baby-talk noises; some gulped out a sob when they finally felt the warmth of the animal against them, a devoted being who would be always with them, eager to participate in whatever adventures they sought, whatever routines they established.

  The sounds came closer. The room felt smaller, stuffier. This was worse than he had expected. Max was next.

  He heard the sound of soft padding feet, four of them, approaching. A warm leather leash was pressed into his hand.

  “This is Calvin, Max,” Jan said. “He is a big brown Labrador retriever.”

  Max grasped the leash, awaiting further instruction.

  “You can pet him, Max,” she said.

  “Good dog,” Max said, and plopped his hand onto the big dog’s neck. It felt silky, but he didn’t especially like having his hand there. Calvin looked at him expectantly.

  Max repositioned himself into a straighter posture. “Well, soon it will be time to get to work.”

  Mahogany-colored Calvin, exceptionally handsome even in this crowd of extremely good-looking dogs, had been teamed up with him, Max later learned, partly because the dog was an enthusiastic walker whose natural gait was quite similar to that of the man, a matter of importance in making any guide-dog assignment. Equally important was that, although Calvin was a genial, affable sort, he had a much lower need for affection, physical contact, and murmured endearments than most Labs. This exceptionally strong emotional constitution, this get-it-done channel of resolve, the trainers believed, was the special trait a dog would need to cope with the fact that Max, although he would be kind and treat the dog well, might never be especially affectionate.

  Born in January, two years earlier, of Deacon and Francie, Labradors with impressive bloodlines from outside breeders, Calvin was one of the “C88” litter. There had been seven pups, four of them chocolate males and three black females, all with names starting with the letter C. Three of them, Calvin, Claire, and Curry, had cleared every hurdle and expectation and were aiming for their assignments as guide dogs. Calvin was the most unflappable, the most phlegmatic of the three.

  As the halls of the school filled with the excited babble of his classmates introducing their just-received dogs to one another, Max sat quietly, irked that something that seemed so natural and joyful to everyone else continued to be, despite determined effort, so tough for him.

  This day of the dog assignments also happened to be Max’s wedding anniversary, and he called Barbara late that afternoon to commemorate the date.

  “The day has been very trying, but I have a dog,” he said. “His name is Calvin.”

  “Do you think it will be all right? How are you holding up?” she asked.

  “I don’t know what to make of any of it.”

  For the next twenty-four days and nights, Max and Calvin were together around the clock, like two pieces of the same organism, walking and working several hours a day, learning to maneuver the various obstacles, risks, and predicaments that a blind man and his dog have to face together, attempting to forge the kind of relationship vital to being an effective team.

  Max felt the eyes of Jan and Charlie on him almost constantly, assessing not only his ability to develop the handling skills they were teaching, but also his comfort level.

  “Creating a bond is important anytime a person gets a dog, any kind of dog, even a pet,” the instructors, every one of them, said repeatedly. “It is vital beyond all measure in the guide-dog relationship, where the person and the dog must put absolute trust in each other.”

  Max and Calvin and Jan walked the paths of the ten-acre campus and along the back roads, man and dog learning from each other, Jan regularly offering tips and suggesting small adjustments to improve how they operated together.

  Every hour, many times an hour, the students were instructed and coached about the truths and realities of the dogs, what the dogs needed, what the dogs could do.

  “A guide dog simply can’t help a person who isn’t doing his part,” they heard.

  The animal will not stride in and take control of a person’s life; a person must contribute information. So it is important to always be confident, clear about what you want, and to signal your belief in the animal’s ability and willingness to respond appropriately. The guide dog won’t watch at crosswalks for walk signals but will stop if there is an obstacle, alerting the person to the potential hazard. A dog will not make assumptions about a probable destination; he must be cued by the person about where to go, and then the animal will get the person there as directly as possible, avoiding overhangs and obstacles, stopping when there is a curb or steps or torn-up sidewalk or a stack of construction material.

  It’s an especially tough transition, Max learned, when a person is moving from a cane to working with a guide dog. A cane is an obstacle finder, whereas a dog is an obstacle avoider. Cane users receive frequent feedback from the environment by acquiring, through the cane, information about what’s ahead: changes in underfooting, mailboxes, fallen limbs. Guide-dog users not only have to place enormous trust in their dogs to guide them safely, but they also have to learn to be comfortable traveling without the same level of constant, ongoing information they received from the cane.

  Even as he strained and pushed himself to grow more comfortable with Calvin as his constant companion, there was a great deal of classroom instruction to grasp, and Max was a diligent if challenging student. During lectures about risks to the dogs and to themselves, how to care for the
dogs and groom them, how to tell if a dog is sick even without being able to see, he regularly questioned the instructors about their assumptions and guidance regarding dog training and behavior. This may have been due to his innate tendency to want to turn all things of an imprecise or sentimental nature into something linear and black-and-white; it may have been due to his deep ignorance of anything dog-related. Whatever the reason or combination of reasons, he insisted upon further explanation of much of the most routine information presented.

  “You are speaking as if to experts. I am not an expert,” he said more than once in class.

  Decades of students had followed these presentations without difficulty, and some of his classmates released a quiet, smiling groan after yet another demand from Max for deeper information, clarification, or reframed explanations.

  This didn’t bother him. His knowledge about dogs was lower than anyone else’s, and the only way to fix that was to learn on his own terms.

  As days passed, the situations Max and Calvin tackled outside the classroom together grew increasingly complex, ending up finally in New York City, where they navigated busy sidewalks, rode buses and subway cars, stepped aboard elevators and escalators, and successfully met each urban challenge they encountered. These were the kinds of activities Calvin would face in Cleveland—if without quite that level of noise and bustle—and it was important that Calvin demonstrate that he was as competent with Max as he had been with the trainers before his assignment. Equally important was for Max to know that Calvin would guide him calmly through the crowds and the sirens and the distractions onto buses and into buildings when they returned home to Ohio.

  Calvin gamely tackled it all, and proved that he possessed many laudable qualities.

  He also proved himself a gifted food thief.

  On one of their early days together Calvin purposefully maneuvered Max up the stairs to the dining room, took him directly to his place at the table, glanced around quickly to judge his prospects, and promptly snatched the hamburger resting on the plate.

  Jan leapt in and corrected the dog before Max had had time to process what was happening. Here, then, was evidence of what the instructors had been talking about: These dogs are extremely well trained. They are aware of acceptable and unacceptable behavior. And, more important than either of those facts is this: They are dogs. It’s important never to forget that, to always be aware of your particular dog’s quirks, be vigilant about his little issues, and keep ahead of situations where these might cause problems.

  “No dog is perfect,” Jan reminded Max. “Each one requires a handler who is solid and alert at all times.”

  This was not the only time that Calvin demonstrated quick thinking and fast jaws around people food. Even before the great hamburger caper, he had managed to snatch the corned beef out of a bun—displaying a finely tuned preference for meat over bread when given sufficient time to think through a strategy. Years later he bolted down a small bowl of Hershey’s kisses when Barbara turned her back for a few seconds to answer the telephone. Calvin didn’t fall ill, though some dogs would have, and the silver wrappings passed through him without issue as well, sparkling in the sunshine in the midst of his droppings the next day.

  A good lesson, these food thefts, Max concluded. Unexpected, as so many things about this species were. He hadn’t anticipated the particularities that he and his fellow students were working through with their animals, having never thought about dogs as having personalities, especially dogs of this sort, trained, he had imagined, to be almost robotic in their obedience and responsiveness. And he certainly hadn’t imagined how big his role would be in getting what he wanted from this dog.

  But he was learning and absorbing as fast as the instructors could toss their hundreds of facts and tips and recommendations at him. He was adapting, and he felt he was working past his dog fear.

  As the end of the training session approached, Max’s classmates chose him to be a speaker at the graduation ceremony. On that late-May day, Max stood before the audience and declared that he had experienced a profound reversal of thought while on campus.

  “As a survivor of World War II concentration camps I became afraid of dogs. I viewed them as terrible, vicious creatures. I know now the difference. Those people in the camps were very bad people who taught dogs very bad things. Here at Guiding Eyes for the Blind, very, very good people teach dogs very good things.”

  He may have thought that having spoken—and believed—those words, his transformation was complete.

  It was not.

  That afternoon, after much back-slapping and many congratulations from trainers and students, Max grasped Calvin’s work harness, boarded a plane, and returned to his Cleveland townhouse.

  Barbara, unpracticed and unsure in the ways of dogs, welcomed Calvin into her home as she had welcomed every kid from the neighborhood who had come by to visit Rich or Steve—with a quick hug and a couple of cookies. Calvin found her irresistible. He fixed upon her his most beguiling gaze, and, completely undone by his charm, she invited him up on the sofa, where he snuggled happily against her hip. With that, everything that needed to be settled between them had been, and there were no reservations on either side.

  Max set about working Calvin through the handful of minor adjustments to be expected when a service dog moves into a completely new, unfamiliar environment, removed from anything familiar. He began to believe it was possible this could work out even better than he had dared imagine, that he would achieve a level of independence unavailable to him for fifty years. He was feeling positive.

  But Calvin, sensitive and wise, was not.

  Not long after arriving in his new home, Calvin stopped following Max’s commands. The dog exited the apartment door with the man each morning, and after a few steps he usually stopped, refusing to go another step. It was shocking to both of them, this absolute abnegation, Calvin glumly ignoring Max’s commands.

  Barbara, stationed at the window, watched the two of them frozen in place at the spot beyond which Calvin would not go. It went on day after day, man bewildered, dog unhappy. This regular replay, she knew, must be taking an awful emotional toll not only on her husband but also on the dog, and she worried that this sudden blast of unpredictability from Calvin might disintegrate into something that could put the lives of both in jeopardy.

  Sometimes Barbara walked out the door with Max and Calvin, and if she positioned herself next to her husband, a body’s width from the dog, stepping forward when Max did, Calvin would move along the sidewalk as he was supposed to move. Without her—nothing.

  Calvin simply couldn’t bring himself to take Max out into the world. That the dog was fighting against every fiber of the breeding and training that insisted he move forward with this man was written clearly and miserably across his face, Barbara told Max.

  “He’s not just being stubborn, Max,” she said. “He hates that he is doing this.”

  “I must not be handling him in the right way,” Max concluded. “Obviously, the problem is me.”

  Max phoned Jan for advice. She had a great deal. It sometimes happens that when the guide dog and the person leave the comforting oversight of the instructors scurrying about, reassuring them, making sure everything is done exactly as the dog is accustomed to having it done, things can temporarily go a bit bad. The handler must convince the dog to work as he has been trained, must reassure the dog that belief in him is strong, that there are no reservations about his ability to do the job. Some dogs and handlers bond very fast, almost instantly, she reminded him; sometimes it can take months. This lack of a bond is what had to be fixed, she said. Calvin sensed Max’s unwillingness to turn himself over, and without that, work stalls.

  Jan knew that this burst of obstinacy had rattled Max; it would have had that effect on anyone, even someone without his lack of confidence in dogs. But, she said, he needed to thin
k back to those days at the school, how well he and Calvin had worked with each other, and tap into the belief that Calvin could do the work, let the dog know he believed in him.

  “Be patient,” she said. “Give Calvin more time to adjust. It’s extremely important to work on building that bond. You must have the bond. It’s vital.”

  Max paid close attention, recording every suggestion in his mind as Jan emptied her enormous bag of tricks into his ear, and he promptly employed the advice.

  It did no good. Calvin began to lose weight.

  That’s the explanation, Max thought. The dog is sick.

  “He’s healthy and sound,” the vet proclaimed after a thorough exam. “The problem with Calvin is the way you are with him, Max. His behavior is a reflection of your behavior. I can see that just by watching the two of you together. You need to work on yourself, the way you are with him. You obviously have no relationship with him.”

  If Max could correct this, the vet predicted, the problems would resolve. Calvin would be happy. Calvin would eat. Calvin would work.

  It didn’t happen. The dog’s sadness seemed to escalate.

  As June ground into July, Charlie arrived at the Edelmans’ townhouse to observe and to offer suggestions. As soon as he came through the door, Calvin’s demeanor changed. His eyes brightened. His posture grew straighter. He radiated excitement. Max could instantly sense the change in energy. Though glad the dog had perked up, he didn’t think this sudden change in attitude boded well for their prospects as a team.