Comet's Tale

by Steven Wolf

  11

  MID-SEPTEMBER 2001—ARIZONA

  Freddie smiled briefly and waved from the window of the airport shuttle, and as it pulled away I lifted my hand in a salute. This time there had been no tears or urgent pleas for me to take better care of myself. “And that’s a good thing,” I said aloud as Comet and I turned and walked back inside the Sedona house. But a nagging worry lay just beneath the surface. The damping down of Freddie’s emotions had me concerned, especially because once she admitted what was causing it, I might become a permanent resident of Arizona. We were farther apart than ever, yet I didn’t know what I could do about it.

  Unlike me, Comet was blooming with health and eager to explore the savory Sedona autumn. Emily was growing up and less likely to be around to walk Comet on a moment’s notice, so Comet worked out her own solution. After one early afternoon nap I grudgingly peeled the sheets away, intending to let her out back for her break. She refused to exit. “Fine. Don’t go to the bathroom. I don’t care.” I left her by the slider and closed my bedroom door. Comet opened it. I slammed it shut. Comet opened it. I glared at her shameless expression. “What?” I demanded.

  I settled on the end of the bed and peevishly watched Comet trot out of the room. I was just about to slam the door again when she returned, lowering her chest and thumping the floor with her front paws in a drum roll, repeating the sequence several more times with a couple of spinning twists thrown in for dramatic effect. I rolled my eyes in frustration, recalling Mark Twain’s astute observation: “Comet, I want you to know that few things are harder to put up with than the annoyance of a good example.”

  I felt like Victor Frankenstein. Comet was my monster. She now had a job to do, and she was going to do it—period, exclamation mark. Her duty didn’t end at getting me out of bed; it included getting me out of the house. She was through with allowing me to skimp on her daily walks. Within a few days, I found that the time outside cleared my head. After a week, I had mentally assembled a to-do list for Comet and me to tackle together. The first item on the list was something I knew would take a burden off Freddie: I wanted to be able to travel without her help. Now that I was using a fentanyl patch, I had to get recertified at my Omaha doctor’s office every few months, but the drive was too grueling for me to tackle alone. I was going to have to fly back and forth either by myself or with Comet. Luckily, most of my trips began and ended in Phoenix, where my mother lived, or in Omaha, where I had family to pick me up. I could always check my bags at the curb. That left just one hurdle: getting from the curb to the gate on time. Although every airport has porters who can push a wheelchair or provide a cart for transportation, at busy hubs like Phoenix the odds of getting that help when you need it are remote. A better way would be to have a personal assistant pull me through the terminal.

  Pulling something, especially if it’s heavy and hard to get moving, is not a natural activity for dogs. Huskies are trained to pull sleds, but would Comet be strong enough to pull a wheelchair with a full-grown man in it? I had no doubt that she would. Not only are greys strong, they also have a high pain threshold and know how to use their energy efficiently. A greyhound probably couldn’t pull a heavily loaded sled through the snow like a husky, but I wasn’t asking for that. I didn’t even need to start with a wheelchair.

  “Comet, you have no idea how much I hate trying to grocery shop while pushing that damn cart,” I told her. My little pride demon kept me from using the motorized carts at the store. A shopping cart could be an ideal vehicle for Comet to practice on before we braved a wheelchair in an airport. My first step would be to get her accustomed to being in the grocery store while I pushed the cart. Weber’s IGA would be a good place to practice. It wasn’t a large supermarket, and the staff knew every regular shopper by name. The family owners had allowed Maggie to conduct greyhound fund-raising on site for several years, and they had come to adore the breed as much as I did.

  On our first visit to the IGA, I walked inside with Comet as if we shopped together all the time. Looping one end of her leash over my left wrist while I leaned on the cane in my right hand, I slowly nudged a shopping cart down an aisle. The assistant manager, who examined Comet’s service vest and the card explaining the ADA, spied on our circus act from the fresh vegetable section, then lurked behind us and monitored our progress from aisle to aisle. Dogs were prohibited from entering the store for good reason, and he wasn’t about to be fooled by this service stuff, even if I was somebody he knew. After all, who wanted dog hair in their celery?

  Comet and I inched our way down the aisle, Comet tracing my steps from the shelves back to the cart. Then I would try to balance on my cane as I pushed the cart with one hand, often leaning on Comet for support. It was a ponderous, time-consuming process but surprisingly enjoyable. I found myself watching Comet like a proud daddy as her nose twitched, absorbing yeasty fresh-baked-bread smells mingling with metallic, primal blood odors from butchered slabs of steak. Although her eyes hungrily scanned the slick packages of meat and poultry, she refrained from ripping open the prizes inside. Good girl! By the time we reached the frozen food section that ran down the center of the store, we were a well-coordinated vision of competence. I was a rooster at dawn as we strolled along, silently crowing about Comet’s working attitude. She didn’t even startle when I dropped grocery items.

  At the far end of each aisle I could see Inspector Clouseau of the IGA peeking around the corner, probably anticipating Comet attacking the nearest shopper like a starving hyena. He was rewarded only because my path to the checkout lane took us through an assortment of dog food and pet supplies. I didn’t see Comet’s head move at all, but there was no mistaking the squeaking noise as she crunched on a rubber bone.

  “Comet! Give me that!”

  “You’re going to have to buy that toy. There’s no way we could sell it now!” An I knew it! expression radiated from Clouseau’s red face.

  “Is Comet’s breath so bad that it scarred that bone for life?” The employee squirmed and looked at me uncertainly. “I’ll have you know that she has stolen toys from better places than this without anybody protesting. She is, after all, Comet,” I proclaimed.

  “Well, I suppose we could put the bone back on the shelf.” He reached out and tried to swipe the toy from Comet’s mouth. Comet clenched down on it and ignored him, fixing her glare on a shelf over his shoulder as if to indicate that she did not understand his peasant language. I decided some mercy was in order.

  “Oh, I guess we’ll just have to buy the darn thing,” I said, laughing. “Come on, Comet, let’s go check out.”

  Before our next in-store session, I made sure Comet’s kleptomania was extinguished. Figuring that her attraction to a squeaky toy would be far less intense than her slobbering desire to nab a liver treat, I placed said treat at nose level on the kitchen table. It took me less than an hour to teach Comet that when she was wearing her service vest she was not entitled to grab a treat or anything else. During our training excursions, I had noticed a subtle change in Comet’s posture whenever someone exclaimed, “You look so pretty in your purple vest.” Her head would rise a few inches and her ears would almost imperceptibly perk, a canine version of a puffed chest. Comet had gradually connected her finery to her right to adopt a standoffish attitude around strangers—You can look, but don’t touch. That was precisely the type of demeanor that I wanted when she was wearing her working clothes. On those occasions, she should focus on me unless I gave her express permission to do otherwise, and that included resisting toys at the grocery store.

  After several successful training forays into the IGA, I felt comfortable enough to proceed to the next step. Freddie was coming to Sedona for a brief visit, so she could team-teach with me. This time I would pick her up at Phoenix’s Sky Harbor airport. I was hoping that in Phoenix I could find a crucial item that none of Sedona’s pet supply stores seemed to carry, a working harness for Comet. None of the harnesses I had found were designed for an abnormally lar
ge chest that tapered sharply to a dainty stomach more suited to a toy poodle. I had seen boxers wearing harnesses, and their anatomy was not entirely different; it was just smaller. My best chance of finding something like that was at a large chain pet supply store, one of which was on the way to the airport.

  “What do you think, Comet?” She and I stood just inside the store entrance. My question was rhetorical—Comet’s ears were pointing straight at the ceiling, her eyes were stretched wide, and her nose twitched at the mysterious scents flying through the air. Her body was frozen in place, shivering with delight at the sights and smells. If ever there was a kid in a candy store … She was so entranced that she didn’t even notice the other dogs and owners wandering through the store. I decided that a tour was in order, giving Comet’s mind a chance to catch up to her vibrating senses while she examined hamsters and snakes, fish and reptiles, and every type of pet food known to mankind.

  As we approached the back of the store, a painfully high-pitched shriek blared from a far corner. Comet stopped in her tracks. Her body began to palpitate so rapidly I thought her heart was fibrillating. Suddenly she yanked on the leash and started dragging me toward the sound. Seconds later we were standing in front of a parrot cage, where the orange and green bird strutted back and forth squawking and screeching. Ears perked and eyes like lasers, Comet hunkered down into a stalking-cat position, ready to pounce. “No!” I shouted, tugging her away. “I can’t afford a thousand-dollar bag of feathers.” From that day forward, any time we entered a large pet store, Comet prowled around looking for that annoying parrot.

  We had better luck in the leash and harness aisle. After wrestling Comet into a number of harnesses, I settled on a black and saddle-toned rig with gold fittings. Comet approved. The look was striking against her cinnamon and black striped coat, and I think she knew it. She didn’t object one bit when I left the harness on her for our drive to pick up Freddie.

  As we approached the airport, it occurred to me that Comet might have a complete sensory overload if I took her into the terminal. But the greyhound’s enthusiasm with her new harness was infectious. “I guess you’ll have to get used to the airport sometime,” I said, attaching her leash. Comet jumped from the back hatch with the alacrity of a panther.

  We took the elevator from the parking garage and exited on the third floor. As we rounded a corner, the retail midway of Sky Harbor unfolded in a splash of neon signs and an undulating rainbow of cultures and clothing. The air was humming with cell phone conversations, laughter, a loudspeaker announcing arrivals and departures, and the eager voices of hundreds of travelers. Comet’s jaw all but dropped.

  I vividly recall my first time at the circus: flashing lights, air-whistling calliope sounds, smells of cotton candy and peanut shells, lions and elephants, freaks of the midway, and sequined aerialists swinging through the smoky heights of the big top. It was a sensory banquet so rich that I was dizzy, almost ill, even before my cousin handed me my first cigarette. I’m sure I looked as dumbstruck as I felt.

  The same openmouthed, eye-bulging expression was on Comet’s face as we took in the sights and sounds of Concourse A. She repeatedly stopped in the middle of traffic, her eyes roaming in a 180-degree panorama, digesting everything in sight before turning her body in the other direction to complete the dazed inventory. It was one of the few times in our relationship that Comet had no idea if I was anywhere in the vicinity. When we spotted Freddie at her arrival gate, Comet pranced at the end of the lead as if she couldn’t wait to tell her about the astounding experience that lay in store for us on our journey back through the crowds.

  “Comet, you look so elegantly professional in your new outfit,” Freddie gushed. We giggled like a junior high couple on a first date as we followed Comet back through the terminal. Now she sped along as if she owned the place, tugging us this way and that to show us the scent of cinnamon rolls or grilling burgers. We were barely at one location before Comet zoomed off toward something else.

  After we climbed into the SUV and Freddie settled into the driver’s seat, she grinned at me. “I was going to tell you how pale you look, but I’d rather talk about that big smile stuck on your mug. I didn’t realize that you missed me so much.”

  “I can’t even tell you how much fun that was!” I chortled, quickly adding, “But I’m smiling because you’re here.”

  “That’s okay, Wolfie.” There was a quiet pause as our eyes briefly locked. “I almost forgot what a happy Wolf looked like.” She glanced at Comet in the rearview mirror. “We might have to get Comet a different outfit. That purple vest under the harness won’t be up to her standards.”

  The drive back to Sedona gave me time to explain my thoughts about flying home with Comet as my assistant. “My plan is to train her to pull a grocery cart first, then a wheelchair.” Freddie’s eyes narrowed in an amused squint as she continued driving. “You got here just in time to help.” Her eyebrows shot up and her mouth pursed in an “uh-oh” shape, but at least she didn’t say no.

  I gave Freddie a full day to unwind before hustling her over to the IGA. Because Comet was now an accepted customer, Inspector Clouseau no longer tailed us. I filled a shopping cart with a few heavy items, looped Comet’s leash through the front frame of the cart, and handed the leash to Freddie. “Snap that onto Comet’s harness,” I directed her. “The cart has some load, but I don’t think it’s too much to start out with. I’ll handle the cart from behind so it doesn’t run into Comet’s heels when she stops. Plus she’ll get used to me being back here while she’s working.”

  “Am I supposed to give her a treat to get her moving or just as a reward for pulling?” Freddie whispered the question and hunkered in front of the cart, obviously trying to hide.

  I had no idea how to teach a dog to pull, so it would have to be trial and error. “If you walk in front, Comet will try to walk with you. Just don’t let her panic when she feels the leash tighten. We’ll start by giving her a treat if she doesn’t spook when she feels the weight.” I took a sheepish peek down the aisle to see if we were attracting attention.

  “Come here, Comet—here, girl.” Freddie backed down the aisle several paces, facing Comet while maintaining her stealth posture. Comet watched Freddie’s progress for a brief moment and then turned her head, glaring a demand that I call a halt to this humiliating public display. “Come here, sweetie,” coaxed Freddie. Comet refused to move. “I thought you said she would walk with me.”

  Several people passed by with loaded carts and quizzical looks. I suspected that the grocery patrol would not be far behind. “Let’s try something else. Why don’t I walk in front while you drive the cart?” Come on, Comet—we have to get moving if we don’t want to get kicked out of here! I exchanged places with Freddie, scratched Comet’s ears, and caned farther down the aisle. Comet immediately followed, only to come to an abrupt stop when she felt the weight pull at her harness. Comet turned to admonish Freddie, clearly communicating that practical jokes were not appreciated at work. “Come on, girl, I need the cart.” I laughed softly, encouraging Comet with an outstretched hand and a liver snap. “Come on!” I was starting to sound desperate.

  Comet strained, then stopped, once again taking a backward glance. Freddie pushed the cart forward, relieving the tension on Comet’s harness. Comet turned back to me, taking another step and tugging as Freddie pushed. After two more steps Comet pulled the treat from my hand. We slowly made our way past assorted groceries, the cart jumping and jerking each time Comet popped the clutch. Tasty treats and my joy at her willingness to keep going increased Comet’s confidence.

  By the time we passed the bread and made our way across the store to the drinks, the cart followed Comet like a beer wagon behind Clydesdales. I added a twelve-pack of Oak Creek lager to complete the effect. Employees stopped stocking shelves when we passed by, greeting us with wide eyes and smiles of disbelief. I returned their looks with a posture of worldly condescension. These people act like they’ve never seen a
greyhound pulling a grocery cart before!

  Over the next couple of days we bought a whole lot of groceries and fine-tuned our cart-pulling routine. On one occasion, after Comet’s lurch toward the treat in Freddie’s hand caused me to lose my grip on the cart and crash to the floor, I decided that Comet should not pull until I gave the command with a click of my tongue. Comet herself figured out that standing too close to the glass door in the frozen goods section was another hazard. If I lost my balance, the door had a tendency to fly open and smack any nose within its radius. Comet developed her own version of respectful distance, seeking refuge by the cart whenever we came to a stop. Good thinking, Comet!

  We also developed a game plan for restricted traffic flow, especially in areas crowded by stacks of breakable items. On our final trip through IGA before Freddie’s departure, we left Comet parked between cardboard display columns while we decided on a bottle of wine to accompany Freddie’s planned rack of lamb. Comet wasn’t quite sure of the protocol for times when I wandered away from our groceries, and as she edged closer to us, several stacked cases of expensive wine began to wobble. One toppled over, but it fell directly onto our groceries, saving us from permanent exile. Good catch, Comet.

  In the days that followed, Comet and I worked out the kinks. It wasn’t long before she would stand and stay wherever she was left with the cart. She knew not to move forward without my command and to halt slowly when I said stop, so as not to get hit from behind. Comet’s dedication to her shopping cart training was difficult to put into perspective. Was this behavior as unusual as I thought it was?

  Members of the greyhound community with whom I periodically talked expressed dead certainty that their greyhounds would never even consider pulling a load of any type. Most of these people thought I was exaggerating until several of them had the opportunity to see Comet at work. Their amazement matched mine. I think that their laugh-aloud astonishment was due to the fact that Comet’s work wasn’t some kind of trick. She wasn’t balancing on her hind legs while wearing a frilly dress and dancing to the rhythms of the merengue. She was assisting me with tasks that were becoming impossible to do alone—opening doors, helping me lift myself from chairs and climb up and down stairs, and now pulling my grocery cart.