A Cup of Comfort for Dog Lovers

by Colleen Sell

  Our first night together, I closed Cinder's crate for the night and wondered what I'd gotten myself into. As an incomplete quadriplegic living independently, I had enough challenges taking care of myself. I fell asleep fretting over how I was going to potty train a puppy and wondering what to do with her while I was at work. One consolation was Taffy's willingness to take her back if it didn't work out. After all, she's just a dog, I reasoned.

  To my relief, things with Cinder worked them selves out. She took to potty pads fairly easily, and she quickly learned that when I left for work I would come back. I found myself looking forward to coming home to her enthusiastic greetings and to spending time playing with her. She adjusted to my wheelchair by jumping onto my lap when I needed to put on her leash or when she wanted petting, and she'd bring her toys onto a chair next to me so I could reach them for throwing. During our first week together, she learned the different sounds of my wheelchair in order to avoid getting run over. She also managed to con her way onto my bed at night rather than sleep in her crate.

  I started taking Cinder for long walks in the park and at the beach, a favorite pastime I'd stopped doing when I'd ended up in the wheelchair five years earlier. Together, Cinder and I discovered new parks and trails to explore, only occasionally getting into trouble. (I still haven't figured out that my wheelchair isn't an all-terrain vehicle.) We also made many new friends during our adventures, especially when we got into trouble. With Cinder by my side, nothing seemed insurmountable, and her companionship motivated me to get out and enjoy the outdoors again.

  Soon Cinder went everywhere I did, with the exception of work. I flew from Seattle to Toronto with Cinder sleeping quietly in my lap. We forded streams and climbed steep paths. Every day became an unexpected adventure. Often, we didn't even leave home before we encountered one. Continual wheelchair mishaps frequently landed me on the floor, where Cinder would curl up next to me, comforting me until help arrived in the morning.

  Despite my trepidation, I made the decision to take a permanent disability leave. When the dreaded day of my “retirement” arrived, I said my tearful farewells to friends and duties, uncertain of what the future had in store for me. The next morning, a clear, crisp fall day, I took Cinder to our usual hangout along the beach. As I watched the sun's golden rays dance on the waves and Cinder chase seagulls across the sand, I felt a sense of well-being and unexpected happiness.

  Three years later, I have never once looked back. Cinder and I have made the best of our newfound time together, and I've discovered a world outside the nine-to-five office walls — a big, beautiful, exciting world that Cinder has introduced to me. My saving grace at one of the most pivotal times in my life ended up being a brave and devoted black puppy.

  The encounter with the coyote would now test my bravery and dedication to my loyal companion. I called Cinder a third time, and she came closer. Frantically, I tried to grab her before she noticed the coyote, but I had difficulty reaching her from my wheelchair. Fortunately, she became interested in some smells in the grass near me, which allowed me to grab her and put her back on the leash. Crisis averted, the coyote lurked in the tall grass a little longer and then trotted off into the woods.

  I kept a watchful eye in his direction and on Cinder, just to play it safe. Satisfied we were alone again, we continued up the trail a little further and then turned toward home. There, not more than twenty feet directly in front of us, right in the middle of the trail, was the coyote. This time I was certain it was a coyote, and he appeared to have no intention of leaving.

  I rolled slowly in his direction, thinking the noise of my wheelchair might scare him off. Undaunted, the coyote just stood there, staring at us. I put Cinder on my lap, but I had no idea what to do next, as this was the only way home. So the coyote and I continued to stay in our respective spots, staring each other down, with Cinder on my lap, waiting impatiently to play with her new friend. I felt like a mother bear protecting her cub. The coyote would have to contend with me first, wheelchair or not; nothing was going to hurt my puppy. The coyote finally lost interest and sauntered off into the woods. Phew, one more adventure survived by Cinder and me.

  Now when we head for the trail, I tease that it's time to take “Coyote Bait” for a walk. Of course, I always keep a mother's watchful eye and a leash on my little girl. After all, my saving grace and I still have many more adventures to experience together.

  ˜Sue Lamoree

  The Rent Collector

  Fred came by for the rent,” I said, as I dropped my purse and car keys on the kitchen counter. “I already paid him. That dog!” my husband, Leonard, grumbled. He looked up from his newspaper and shook his head.

  Leonard was not being derogatory. Fred was a dog, an old golden retriever who used to live in the house we'd bought. The hairs around his mouth and chin had gone white, but the rest of his coat remained a youthful golden red. Age had not diminished his vigor either, at least not when it came to collecting the rent.

  We woke to rain on our first day in our new home, but Leonard was not going to let that interfere with his morning jog. “Not rain nor hail nor Seattle weather shall keep this avid runner from his appointed rounds,” he informed me. So, bundled in Gortex and a wool cap, he set off down the long driveway — only to be stopped dead in his tracks by a barking, snarling mass of wet red fur, who made it clear to Leonard that he was going nowhere that morning. Apparently, not rain nor hail nor Seattle weather was going to keep Fred from his appointed rounds either.

  Neither friend-making nor threat-making could budge that enormous lump of a dog, and there was no getting by him. Fred barked Leonard back into the house, at his heels the whole way, as the poor man attempted to maintain his dignity, striding double-time up the driveway and into the house as fast as his legs would allow. A few more choruses from Fred through the closed door persuaded us it was a good day to stay inside and unpack.

  We had seen Fred at the house when we first visited with our real estate agent, and when we'd returned to double-check the floor plan, visualize our furniture within, and decide this was the house we wanted to buy. Knowing Fred had once lived here, we assumed he had wandered off from his new home in town, gotten disoriented, and accidentally returned to his old house. We called the Realtor to suggest she call the former owner to let her know where her dog was. We were sure she must be worried about her lost pet. The Realtor called back to tell us Fred was not lost after all. He had been given to a neighbor across the road, so he would not have to adjust to smaller quarters and no room to roam in his twilight years. Fred belonged in our neighborhood.

  Now his aggression toward Leonard made sense. We reasoned that Fred probably had been left with the same neighbor countless times before when his owner went on vacations. If Fred thought she was just away temporarily and he still lived in our house, of course he would want to protect it from trespassers. What a good dog. Surely, it would be only a matter of days before he got used to the reality of our living in his previous home and of him living in his new home across the road.

  Fred didn't see it that way. This was his house. This had been his house all his remembered life, and he didn't intend to change that now just because the lady who lived here with him had left. Over the years, he had watched the five children who had also lived here leave, until only Fred and the lady remained. Now she was gone too. But not Fred. He hadn't left with any of the others, and he wasn't leaving this time. His owner may have been willing to sell us her claim to the house, but Fred was not. This property was his turf, and he didn't intend to have us tramping all over it as if we owned it — even if we thought we did.

  By late afternoon of our first day in the house, it was time to arrange the tools in the garage and set up a workshop. The garage was dark with the door closed, so we opened it to let in some sunlight. In swooped Fred, snarling and barking and leaping at us, running from one of us to the other, threatening indiscriminately, showing no favorites.

  “Down boy, down,” Leona
rd suggested from behind the carton of tools and junk in his arms, slowly backing toward the worktable at the other end of the garage.

  Fred's response, loosely translated, went something like this: “Look, you jerk, I've already told you once today, get off my property. I'm not putting up with any squatters. Beat it.”

  We thought about showing Fred our deed to the property, the escrow papers, the bill of sale, but concluded he couldn't read and might devour them instead. The deed would then be in Fred's stomach, and possession being nine-tenths of the law, where would that leave us? We decided to negotiate. We outnumbered Fred, but he had bigger teeth.

  Fred thought the house was his. We wanted to live there. Perhaps if we paid rent?

  While Leonard kept Fred engaged in meaningful discussion, notwithstanding the language barrier, I slipped into the car and sped away to the super market, where I purchased the largest box of jumbo dog biscuits in stock.

  We quickly came to terms. Fred would supply the house for us; we would supply the dog biscuits for him. Without even demanding first and last and a clean-up fee, he happily accepted the one biscuit offered and trotted out of the garage to munch it leisurely on our/his lawn. When he had finished, he rose, looked over at us approvingly, and ambled down the driveway and across the road.

  We enjoyed many years in the house under this arrangement. Fred came to recognize the sound of our car coming up the street, and as we turned into the driveway we could see him bounding across the road to beat us to the door in time to collect the rent, his daily dog biscuit. Some days, when we went out separately, Fred would be there to meet each of us and collect twice. Leonard thought this was unfair, but I reasoned that since Fred didn't define ownership as we did, he probably didn't define what constituted a day — per our agreed-upon rent of one biscuit daily — the same as we did either. Besides, life was easier and quieter when we accepted Fred's definitions.

  ˜Marcia Rudoff

  Where the Need Is Greatest

  Donna could hardly control her tears as she mounted the platform at the outdoor graduation ceremony. A light breeze ruffled the flag. The audience waited, polite and attentive. The graduates sat, alert and poised. The flag had been saluted, the speeches made, the staff and students congratulated. Now it was time to take the final step and send the graduates out into the world to fulfill their mission.

  Donna stopped beside one of the graduates and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Raising a puppy is an act of love and faith,” she began. “When a puppy comes into your home, he comes into your heart. He is a part of your family. You give him all the time and care and love you can. Then, almost before you know it, that curious, wriggling, uncoordinated puppy has changed into an obedient, mature dog, ready to return to Guide Dogs for the Blind and take the next step in becoming the working guide.

  “I'm thrilled and happy that Llama,” she indicated the golden retriever next to her, “has become a working guide. But I'm sad, too, because it is always hard to say goodbye to someone you love.” She picked up Llama's leash and handed it to Gil, Llama's new partner. “Goodbye, Llama. You are a special dog.”

  The crowd murmured in appreciation, and some in the audience sniffed audibly and reached for their tissues. Then the graduation was over. Soon Llama and Gil were on their way to Vancouver, Canada, and Donna was on her way home to Newark, California, knowing there was a good chance she would never see Llama again.

  Llama was the third puppy the Hahn family — Donna, John, and their daughters Wendy and Laurel — had raised for Guide Dogs for the Blind, but he was the first to complete the program and become a working guide. He had come into their lives fifteen months earlier, a red-tinged golden retriever with white hairs on his face and muzzle that gave him a washed-out, unfinished look. “An ugly dog,” Donna had said at the time. But soon his looks didn't matter.

  At first, Llama was as helpless as any new baby. “Neee, neee, neee,” he cried when he was left alone. He woke Donna in the night and left yellow abstract designs on the carpet when she didn't get him out the door fast enough. Donna patiently cleaned up the accidents. Soon Llama learned to “do your business,” one of the early commands that every guide dog puppy learns, and the accidents rapidly decreased.

  Like all guide pups, Llama was trained with love and kind words rather than with food treats. Soon he would follow Donna through the house on his short puppy legs, collapsing at her feet when she said “Sit,” happy to be rewarded with a pat and a “Good dog.”

  Llama seemed to double in size overnight. By the time he was five months old, he was accompanying Donna everywhere. It wasn't always easy. Llama had to learn to overcome his natural inclination to sniff the ground and greet every dog he met on the street. At the supermarket, he learned not to chase the wheels on the grocery cart. At Macy's, he learned to wait while Donna tried on clothes. With a group of other puppies in training, Llama and Donna rode the ferry across San Francisco Bay and toured the noisy city.

  In May, Donna was summoned for jury duty. Of course, she took Llama. Privately, she hoped that his presence would be enough to get her automatically excused, but the plan backfired. For a week, Llama lay patiently at Donna's feet in the jury box while Donna attended the trial.

  All too soon, a year was up, and the puppy that had wagged its way into Donna's heart was a full-grown dog ready to return to the Guide Dog campus in San Rafael and start professional training. There was only a fifty-fifty chance he would complete the program. Working guides must be physically and temperamentally perfect before they are entrusted with the life of a person who is blind. Donna had given Llama all the love and training she could; now his future was out of her hands.

  Llama passed his physical and sailed through the training program. When it came time to be matched with a human partner, the young golden retriever was paired with Gil, a curator at an aquarium in Canada. Matching dog and human is a serious and complicated ballet in which the dog's strengths, weaknesses, and personality are balanced against the human's personality and lifestyle. When done well, an unbreakable bond of love and trust develops between human and dog.

  Gil and Llama were a perfect match, and their bond grew strong and true. Gil had never had a guide dog before. Once home, he found that Llama gave him a new sense of confidence, independence, and mobility. Every day they walked together along the seawall to Gil's work in the aquarium. In time, everyone grew to know Llama, and Llama grew to know all the sights and sounds of Gil's workplace. For ten years Llama was at Gil's side every day — at home; at work; on vacation; and on trains, planes, and busses.

  Meanwhile, at the Hahns', Wendy and Laurel grew up and moved away from home. John and Donna continued to raise pups. Their fourth dog became a family pet. The fifth became a working guide in Massachusetts, and the sixth a service dog for a physically handicapped teen.

  While they were raising their seventh pup, Donna's husband, John, a fit and active Air Force veteran, began having stomach problems. An endoscopy revealed the bad news. John had advanced gastric cancer. Thus began a long series of treatments and operations, trying to catch the cancer that always seemed one step ahead of the surgeon's knife. It was a grim, sad, stress-filled time. Soon John could no longer take any nourishment by mouth. With John's strength waning daily, the family came to accept that he had only a few months to live.

  In October, with John desperately ill, a call came from the Guide Dog placement advisor. “Donna, we just got a call that Llama is being retired. He's been working for ten years, and all that stair climbing and leading tours at the aquarium has caught up with him. He has pretty bad arthritis. Gil is coming down to train with a new dog. I know John is terribly sick, and the last thing you might want to do right now is take care of an old dog, but Gil specifically requested that we ask you if you could give Llama a retirement home. He can't keep Llama himself, but he wants him to be with someone who will love him.”

  “Of course we'll take him,” said Donna, with no hesitation.

  Several
days later Donna drove up to the Guide Dog campus to pick up Llama. She paced back and forth across the receiving area as she waited for a kennel helper to bring Llama to her. “Do you think he'll recognize me after ten years?” she anxiously asked an assistant in a white lab coat.

  When Llama arrived, moving stiffly in the damp morning air, it was not the joyous reunion Donna had imagined. Llama seemed pleased to see her, but in a reserved, distant way. An hour-and-a-half later, Llama was back at the house where he had spent the first year of his life.

  “John, we're home.” Donna pushed open the front door.

  Llama didn't hesitate for a second. He walked in, turned, and headed straight into John's bedroom, as if he had been going there every day of his life. From that moment on, Llama rarely left John's bedside. Although he was too old to guide, Llama had found a place where he was needed. Llama was a careful and gentle companion for John. When John got out of bed, pushing the pole that held his intravenous feeding bottles, Llama was beside him, ready to protect him, but careful never to get in his way or get tangled in the medical apparatus.

  “I don't know how that dog always seems to know exactly what you need, but he surely does,” said Donna more than once.

  “He was sent to take care of me,” John replied.

  By the end of the month, John's condition had worsened. The hospice nurse administered morphine. Donna was afraid the drug would make John disoriented and that he would try to get out of bed and fall over Llama, so she ordered the dog to leave.