A Matter of Dignity

by Andrew Potok

  “At home, we have three dogs,” Jane says. “We have Matthew and Matthew's father, Finnegan, a retired breeder. When we go out walking, Matthew and I lead, Pete and old Finnegan follow. We also have Clancy, a retired yellow Lab who spent her life working in New York City.”

  I've known several Seeing Eye trainers and can hardly believe the number of animals they leave at home when they come to work. Lee, the woman who trained my second dog, Topper, maintained a household of one boyfriend and sixty-two creatures of every imaginable kind. Among them were goats and pigs and Newfoundlands, parakeets, cats and who knows what else. Kris, who trained Dash, then Tobias, describes the witnesses to her wedding ceremony in Maine. “We had a couple of friends looking on, together with one seal, two loons and six of our dogs.”

  “When I began my apprenticeship,” Pete tells us over coffee, “I worked for two weeks cleaning up at the breeding station, then a month at the kennels. A couple of months after that, I began to train a string of dogs, all part of the three years of apprenticeship, which included instructing blind people on working the dogs I had trained for them. I loved seeing the dogs develop, loved the relationships I made with them. They were my dogs. They belonged to me. The very first dog I trained who made it into class was named Sabre, a German shepherd. I can't describe my elation when I saw how beautifully Sabre was doing with her new master. There are some dogs you never forget.”

  Another unforgettable experience Pete had during his first year was taking six old dogs from the kennels to the vet to be put down. “It was horrible,” he remembers, “holding each dog as he died. But it gave me an appreciation for what each of our students has to go through every ten or fifteen years.”

  Remembering my own primordial fears on first meeting a lot of newly blinded adults like myself, I wondered if Pete had had to fight his own stereotypes when he faced his first class. “My only anxiety,” he says, “was about the performance of my dogs. Other than that, I was thrilled that finally I was about to do what I had only dreamed of doing before, teaching people how to use the dogs I'd trained for them. But, you know, I probably felt totally comfortable with blind people because I was so painfully shy. Come to think of it, I guess I had a harder time with people who weren't blind.”

  Pete met Jane during his second year at the Seeing Eye. “She was a student here for her first dog,” he says. “We sat next to each other at a picnic. We talked and talked. I felt crazy, strange, confused. I'd never felt anything like it before. So this is love, I thought. I let a couple of weeks go by before I called her and then began to travel to Boston to see her, which I was able to do only two weekends a month. I took a crash course in braille and wrote her daily. On my summer vacation back in Ohio, I tried to explain this to my parents. They couldn't believe it. Not only was their son a dog trainer but now he was madly in love with a blind girl.” He laughs. “I began pursuing Jane in July and married her in September. I proposed in the Boston Christian Science church. I figured she'd have a hard time refusing me there.”

  There are roughly 300 dogs on the Seeing Eye property, 40 on each of three floors of the older of the two kennels, some 180 in the new one with its quarantine areas, state-of-the-art surgical and treatment rooms. Both kennels are as elegant and pristine as the main building.

  “The number-one thing about training a dog,” Pete says, “is to respect the dog, a magnificent creature with feelings. From this underlying respect we build a relationship. We need to develop the dog's trust. It's essential that we get this across to all our trainers, who must have respect and reverence. They must treat the dog fairly at all times, never losing their temper, though we're only human and it isn't always easy.”

  When my first guide dog, Dash, smacked me hard into a parking meter, my response was strictly from the Old Testament. “You son of a bitch,” I cried, indignant, humiliated and bloodied. I snapped the leash back as hard as I could, cinching the choke collar tight around his neck.

  “Good correction, Mr. Potok,” my trainer said cheerfully, but when, five blocks after my meeting with the parking meter, I was still enraged because, well, I couldn't let it go, Kris instructed me with a wisdom given to these extraordinary trainers, from where? From Pete Lang, without doubt.

  “Dash has no idea why you're still angry, Mr. Potok,” she said. “You must learn to forget your anger right after you correct him.” Ah, dear Kris, if only you could have followed me everywhere, my life's journey would undoubtedly have gone more smoothly.

  “When the dog is taken from his mother and put into the new puppy-raiser's home,” Pete says, “he begins an interesting and wrenching journey. The philosophy we thrust upon the family is simply to nurture and love the dog, as well as to subject him to lots of different social situations and experiences, lots of kids, lots of other animals. Of course the dog also has to be taught good manners. A year later comes another major trauma when the dog is wrenched from his puppy-raising family. On his return to the Seeing Eye, he spends three or four weeks pretty much without human contact, in our kennels. Some dogs come back showing a lot of resilience, probably affected internally but happy,” Pete says. “Others suffer a lot more and show it. Typically, at this stage the dog is confused, worried, nervous, even fearful. This is a key moment and we want our kennel staff to be supremely sensitive to it, to give these dogs as much attention as they possibly can. Being pack animals, it's healthy for them to have this social activity.”

  Trainers, instructors and kennel workers begin their careful observation of how each dog interacts in the pack, which dogs are more submissive, which more dominant. The kennel workers keep an eye on all this and bring the overaggressive or fearful dogs to Pete's attention. Notes about behavior are passed on to the instructor once the dogs are assigned. “Each dog is really special,” Pete says. “Each one needs to be treated differently, just like kids. We need to learn and appreciate those differences and adjust our training style accordingly. At this point, the dog begins to feel more comfortable with the kennel staff and with the other dogs. Each one is assigned to an instructor to begin the four-month training period. The weeks of feeling lost in the kennel pay off because now the dog latches on to the trainer, the new person in his life, the new leader. It's important for the dogs to find this alpha leader, otherwise they strive to be the alpha leader themselves. The dog begins to pay attention to the body language, the low-voice corrections, equal to the growls of an alpha dog similarly commenting on behavior. We need to establish that dominance in a fair way.”

  The first days of training are very light. The dogs know basic obedience, simple things like “sit” and “down” and “come.” The instructors reinforce this learning right away. The dogs begin by simple walks down the driveway, fun walks during which they are urged to pull on the leash, then to stop at the various turns, to sit still in order to be praised and petted, the physical touch being very important. “We see a big difference in the dogs at this point, some getting too excited by the physical contact, some responding best to a very light touch,” Pete says. “Gentleness is important, though some dogs are very tough and need firm handling from the beginning. We want the dogs to enjoy this, to like the cheerful voice on the instructor's part. After the walk, they are put in a yard by themselves and they can play. There, the dogs might go as far from the trainer as they can, all the time watching him. He doesn't force himself on them, and the dogs accept the instructor as a daily companion and teacher.

  “Usually by the third day, the dog is entirely comfortable with the instructor and we become more serious about the training. We begin to put a harness on the dog, keeping a nice, even, positive tone of voice. The quality of the voice is terribly important, but now more and more discipline enters the picture, dealing with the dog's ever-present instincts, a very natural and beautiful part of the dog. I'm a strong believer in using the minimal physical force in controlling the animal. We try to get our best results from praise, from positive reinforcement. We teach, we do not bully. We should
not expect 100 percent obedience. This is not what we want. We want the dog to make some decisions on his own, for instance, to refuse commands, as Tobias did this morning, to remember how to intelligently disobey. The willingness of the dog is so enormous, he wants to please so much, that he learns some pretty amazing things.”

  The instructors begin teaching the dog a number of new tasks such as directional commands, overhead clearance, traffic. Task by task, the dog learns what's expected, reinforced by praise or reprimand or correction. They have to get inside the dog's head, figure out how to motivate each one, how to get each to work. Some dogs need just a whisper or they get too revved up, while some, the low-key, mellow dogs, need a spark lit under them, need to be perked up with loud “atta boys” or “atta girls” so they don't become sluggish. “It's very subtle,” Pete says. “With each repetition the dogs learn more and we step up the demands on them always in a fair way.”

  The trainer makes slight shifts from being sighted to acting more and more as if he were blind. The more he plays the blind part, the more he expects of the dog. Usually by the end of the first month of training, the trainer is putting most of the responsibility on the dog to guide. “At a crucial moment,” Pete says, “we begin correcting for mistakes because we need to show the dogs that there is a danger with cars. We step up our discipline. If the dog leads us into a low-hanging branch we react as if we were truly smacked in the face with it. ‘Pfuie!’ we say and leash-correct, though never too harshly. We shake the overhanging branch, scold, go back, repeat until they get it right, then praise. You have to watch out for the intensity of the correction with most dogs. If you're a little too hard, he may not want to go back into harness. So we start with the lightest correction and gradually increase until we find the intensity which is ideal for that dog. Eventually the dog will adjust to whatever the master's individual needs are.”

  One afternoon, Loie and I walk with Pete as he observes a couple of the Seeing Eye's veteran trainers, wearing blindfolds and working their dogs. Their supervisor walks closely behind them. “These sessions are incredibly important,” Pete tells us. “The trainers are now totally blind for the first time of this particular session. They're scared but must put their faith in their dogs. On the other hand, the supervisor is there to keep them safe and to evaluate their performance.” Dave and Drew are working with two dogs chosen to join an upcoming class. As we watch, Dave's golden walks him into a parking meter. He is corrected, then asked to pass that meter again. When he misses it by a mile this time, the dog is lavishly praised and, pleased with his performance, he squats to relieve himself. As this sideshow unfolds, the main drama is happening with Drew and his Lab, who has led him into the middle of the street. Looking after them, Walt, the supervisor, runs out to urge cars to keep going but with caution. On the sidewalk again, they discuss what went wrong.

  I am struck by their total seriousness. None of this is a joking matter, but I might have expected some ribald commentary on their mishaps. “They know,” Pete tells me, “that what they are doing is a matter of life and death, not for them but for the eventual handler, who cannot take the blindfold off.”

  Pete still can't get over an incident that happened years before in Virginia when a blind woman was killed by a garbage truck backing out of a suburban driveway. Her Seeing Eye dog was unharmed. “It happened before trucks were required to install backup beeps but I have a hard time not blaming myself,” he says. “Was there something I could have taught that dog that would have helped him yank her out of the way? What did I do wrong? What didn't I do?”

  Shortly after I had trained with Topper, I read a piece in the paper about a blind woman, a skilled traveler, and her guide dog who were walking their usual route to work. On the wide platform of the Thirty-fourth Street subway stop in New York City, something happened, no one knows exactly what. Was the dog startled or momentarily distracted? Had the woman slipped or tripped? Somehow she fell into the track and was crushed by an oncoming train. “This is as horrible as it gets,” Pete says, “but it happens to sighted people as well.”

  Having been given a whirlwind trip through the spotless kennels, we walk back to the main building. Old oaks and beech trees provide a luxurious canopy on this foggy late afternoon. “Let me take you a little out of the way,” Pete says and brings us to a grassy area where he places my hand on a bronze statue of a long-dead trainer, the man who introduced German shepherds to the Seeing Eye. My hand feels a beret on top of the man's head, a shepherd with huge stand-up ears by his side. To me it's a bit of kitsch. To Pete it's the Lincoln Memorial. Standing beside him, I am a bit ashamed of my cynicism. Then he guides my fingers over another life-size bronze, this one of a little puppy-raiser bending toward her Lab, as he reads aloud from a plaque honoring the families who socialize all Seeing Eye dogs during their first years. Under the flagpole, we are shown two gravestones, Buddy I and Buddy II, the dogs belonging to Morris Frank, the first Seeing Eye graduate.

  Standing now in the spacious hallway just inside the front doors, I recall the process from being dogless, clumsy and oafish to navigating this place, all places, with self-assurance and dignity. I remember the doglessness of the first couple of days, shuffling and stumbling to and from meals, some of us bouncing off walls, some using our dusty white canes, while trainers and staff lined the halls, directing traffic. “Whoa there, Fred! A little to the right.” “Hold up, Katherine, there's a traffic jam ahead.” After breakfast of the third day, we were sent to our rooms. I paced, stuck a taped book into the machine but didn't hear a word. I squeezed my head out the window for a series of deep breaths. I knew that dogs were being escorted into the building, one by one, newly bathed and smelling as fresh as lavender. I heard my next-door neighbor leave his room, find his way down the hall. He returned saying sweet nothings to some bewildered Lab or shepherd. I waited an interminable minute, two, five, and then, on each of my three residencies, my name was called and I met my new partner. And inside this residence, near the end of the first week, we got our dignity back. The parade to and from meals quickly became orderly, even graceful.

  At Pete and Jane's home, where every available place on the living room carpet is taken by a dog, Pete talks to us about his spiritual life. “At age nineteen I was in a spiritual desert. Something inside me said that there was more to life than what was on the surface. I didn't really understand it but it was a loud voice. Later, I came under the influence of a man at the Seeing Eye who turned me on to Quakerism. It talked to my spiritual yearning, my God hunger. It spoke to me. It seemed real. It led me to the warmth and compassion of Quaker meetings. I felt very comfortable with silent worship, with no altar, no symbols, encouraging us to seek within ourselves for inner light. This is a big part of my life, both at the Seeing Eye and at home. These moments of inspiration, short at times, are where my spiritual life is. These moments make it real. In sharing, there's a confirmation of an inner light, of love.

  “I'm very goal-oriented, like this morning when I felt driven to get those dogs out into the streets to work them. The practice and service of the Seeing Eye is mindful, spiritual. It's all focused on the bond between the person and the dog, and that's where all my energy is channeled.”

  When I think of mindfulness, a concept that's become important to me, I am struck by all I've learned about it from the process of learning respect for these dogs. “Maybe that's why I feel the Seeing Eye is meditative, almost sacred,” I tell Pete.

  “Are you serious, Andy?”

  “I don't feel that anywhere else.”

  “This is your place,” Loie says to me. “It touches you more deeply than any other.”

  “There's another aspect to coming here. It's a bit like checking in with the National Guard.”

  Pete tells us that the place isn't as rigid with its rules and beliefs as it used to be. “When I first got here, all those years ago, they swore that they would never hire a female trainer. You're not going to believe this but they also wouldn't give
a male dog to a woman student. I really like the way the place is evolving.”

  Pete is learning to take more time for himself and his family. Though I tend to romanticize his commitment and devotion as monastic, this is probably the wrong way of looking at his life. He vacations in Disneyland and, for a few weeks in summer, goes from baseball stadium to baseball stadium to watch his favorite teams. Last year, Pete took his sons on a five-city baseball trip. “It was memorable,” he says, as we lament the end of loyalty to teams that once owned a piece of our hearts. “This year Jane and I are going alone. She's never had the chance to go and we're really excited about it.” Pete owns his modest suburban split-level house, allows his car to fall into disrepair, loves to sit around the local cafe listening to neighbors talk mostly about the wonders of his wife Jane. Against one wall of their living room is a carousel horse, bigger than a couch, carousels being a Jane Lang passion.

  “There are times when I feel harried,” he says, “but I'm learning to slow down, take a deep breath. When I get home at night, I'm done in, totally exhausted. But you know, Andy,” he says, “I don't know a more wonderful feeling than, at the end of each and every day, to fully comprehend that I've simply done an honest day's work.”

  RIGHTS

  MARY LOU ßRESLIN CHAI FELDßLUM

  teachers, activists, social-policy thinkers

  PROLOGUE

  Until recently, the question of rights for the disabled, like the question of rights for black people, did not even enter the lexicon of human concern. Sympathy and charity, yes, at least in some circles, at least at especially sentimental times. But throwing all who were seen as abnormal into institutions aroused little pause. There was no way to incorporate such people into benevolent thinking about “normal” humankind. The elevation of a disenfranchised group's status to a shared humanity, whether it be Jews or blacks, women or gays, the lame or the mentally ill, does not happen automatically. It happens as a result of huge shifts of consciousness, and only after intense labor and persistence.