Last month I published a post about two trips I took to New York City with Whitney during our training. Here’s an excerpt:

I am happy to report that corrections don’t shake her confidence. “Oh, you meant for me to turn into Penn Station, Beth?” she seemed to say once. “Well, then, let’s back up a few steps and do it again, get it right this time.”

Those two NYC trips were part of the “freelance” period of our training: during our last week at the Seeing Eye, instructors expose us to some of the specific things they know we’ll be facing once we return home. The confidence I gained working with Whitney in NYC is coming in handy here in Chicago.

I work part-time for Easter Seals, and their headquarters is located in Willis Tower (the tower formerly known as Sears). Our route to work involves going down steps to the Blue Line El stop (we don’t take the subway, I just use the stop to go under a very busy street), and then coming up the steps on the other side before embarking on a seven-block walk of lefts and rights. Once we get near the entrance of the building, I feel for a dip up and down to indicate we’ve crossed the entrance to a parking garage, suggest left, avoid the revolving door and find the button to open the accessible door instead, and…voila! We’re there!

My husband Mike trailed us on our first trial run to Willis. The next day, Whitney and I did it on our own. Whitney was a trooper, and she handled all the city hustle-bustle with eagerness and confidence.

Whit and I headed back to Willis Tower last Wednesday. A friend met us there to help me teach Whit how to get through security, navigate the lobby, go through the turnstiles, find the elevator, head to Easter Seals reception desk, find my cubicle. We went through the route more than once, and the third time was the charm. “Good girl, Whitney! You got it!”

A lot of temptation for a pooch who likes kids (photo courtesy of The Seeing Eye).

The next challenge: children. I visit a lot of schools with my children’s book Hanni and Beth: Safe & Sound, so while I was still training with Whitney at the Seeing Eye, Jim Kessler (one of the Senior Managers of Instruction) arranged for me to visit his daughter’s elementary school in New Jersey.

The gymnasium was empty when we arrived, and I had Whitney follow Jim to a seat. After I sat down, I commanded Whitney to do the same. “Whitney, down!” She lay down and stayed still. Until the kids marched in, that is. That’s when she started crying.

”Great,” I thought. “She’s not afraid of Penn Station, but she’s afraid of kids!” This did not bode well for my career as a children’s book author. “Rest!” I told Whitney. She whined and sat up. “Whitney, sit!” She stood up and tried to wrangle out of her harness. I panicked. Jim Kessler to the rescue! “Put your finger under her collar,” he suggested, his voice totally calm. “Lift the collar closer to her ears.” It worked. She settled in and lay down at my feet. By the time we got to the Q&A part of my presentation, Whitney was asleep.

I’d assumed Whitney was scared of all those kids crowding her space in the gymnasium, but it turns out she likes kids. The reason she cried in the gym? I wouldn’t let her play! We don’t run across a whole lotta kids in our Chicago neighborhood, but any time we do, Whitney loses focus, turns towards the kid and invites them to play.

Well, I should say, that’s what she did when she first came home with me. Since then I’ve learned to snap a quick “leave it!” any time I hear a kids voice anywhere near us, then snap the leash if Whitney ignores my command and lunges towards them anyway. Whitney is a quick learner. She’s starting to leave kids alone.

I already have a number of presentations scheduled at elementary schools, colleges and conferences in 2012, plus a return to the children’s section of the Milton H. Latter Branch of the New Orleans Public Library in February. Whitney’s first test will come later this month at a disability awareness presentation for thirdsecond graders at Kipling Elementary School in Deerfield, IL. Let’s hope she gets an A.

Here’s Mike again, with a guest blog.

Beth has written — in her memoir and in blog posts here — about adjustments she and we learned to make to her blindness. For Beth, getting around is the most obvious challenge — how do I get to the post office? There are the basic features of day-to-day life: labeling spices, differentiating between shampoo and conditioner. By no means easy, but there are answers — a guide dog, braille on the spice jars, and a simple rubber band on the conditioner bottle.

If you get a chance, see "Senna."

When it comes to living life together, the question “What do you want to do tonight?” was a bigger problem than we might have predicted. For example, while we had not been avid movie-goers, we did get out to our share in Beth’s sighted days. We saw “Risky Business” in Urbana, and  I remember that we — like the rest of the audience — hooted when Tom Cruise gets his Ivy League rejection letter, grins, and says, “Looks like the University of Illinois.” Before she lost her sight entirely, Beth was undergoing treatment and in a kind of vision limbo — some days good, some days bad, one eye OK, one eye bad, and other permutations. During that period we saw “Purple Rain.” Between what she could make out visually and the music, she enjoyed it as much as I did.

After the lights went out for good, we made a couple of attempts. Looking back they were pretty stupid — “Back to the Future” for example, or a rescreening of “E.T.” on campus. That’s when I learned how long a modern special-effects driven movie can run without a single line of dialog. Minutes, literally, went buy. And they were awful, because it drove home to both of us that this wasn’t going to work anymore. I felt bad and overcompensated by trying to translate in real time what the hell was going on (it was like a bad SNL skit). Beth felt bad that her predicament left us in that spot. Pretty awful. We tried a few more times — largely because we had this feeling that we were supposed to go on with our lives, and not let what had happened stop us.

Well, it certainly didn’t stop us. And we did have to go on with our lives. Just differently. We eventually realized that trying to force things was just dumb, and sure to drive us both into depression or stupid fights. Take vacations: If it’s all about the scenery, I go there myself or with other friends now. That doesn’t mean that Beth couldn’t enjoy the Grand Canyon or Glacier National Park on her own terms. It just means that if we’re going to use the money and time, there are better trips for us to take. Like going to New Orleans, where the food, music, and smells put us on pretty even ground.

As far as movies — after a long layoff we now do go occasionally. Usually, we’re careful to read enough about a prospective film to have confidence that it’s dialog-heavy.  We saw the “Descendants” right after Thanksgiving. (Great performances, but I can’t honestly remember much more about it than that.) Last night, we took a little risk: We went to the Gene Siskel Film Center to see “Senna,” a documentary about the  Brazilian Formula One race driver, Ayrton Senna.

I’d already seen it and was blown away by how much I liked it. I’m a casual race fan; I knew of Ayrton Senna largely because we have a couple friends who are fanatical about racing. Reviews of the movie made it clear that it was just a very well-told story about an enormously charismatic and enigmatic man. And that you didn’t need to know anything about racing to enjoy it. Sure enough, I was mesmerized by the story, which — although it captures the spectacle and intensity of racing — is as much a character study of Senna as it is a glimpse of Formula One racing.

“Senna” is certainly “visual” — all movies are, of course. But much of the story is told by narration by journalists and family members. In other words, I thought Beth might enjoy it. So when some friends of ours told us they were going, Beth — who likes popcorn and a night out as much as the next guy — suggested we go.

It was a mixed bag. While much, or even most of the narration was in English, I’d forgotten that a whole bunch was spoken in Portuguese — and subtitled. Yet other portions were spoken in sub-titled French.

But it wasn’t like the old days. We both made the best of it. I summarized only the most important bits of subtitled narration. Beth’s French is good enough that she actually could follow those passages. The lightly-buttered popcorn was perfect, as were the (all-red) Swedish Fish. Whit curled up at our feet and slept throughout. And we had a great chat with our friends about the movie afterward.

Which is all to say, not everything about getting older is bad. And if you get a chance, go see Senna, it’s well worth it.

I am the youngest of seven, and I have 16 nieces and nephews. Eleven of those nieces and nephews have children of their own. A new grand-niece is on the way, and one of my nieces has two grandchildren already! As my husband Mike Knezovich likes to say, “It’s not a family. It’s a nation!”

Buying Christmas gifts for this brood is out of the question. So we pick names instead. But here’s the rub: you have to make a gift for the person you choose.

Mike chose our six-year-old grand-niece AnnMarie this year. Our dear friend Siobhan might describe AnnMarie as suffering from “verbal incontinence.” In polite terms, we might say that AnnMarie has strong verbal skills. When Uncle Mike tires of hearing AnnMarie talk, he gives her a maniacal look and repeats, “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah,” until AnnMarie stops blabbing, shrieks in laughter and runs away. Works every time.

I told you he's maniacal.

Through the magic of the internet, Mike discovered Target sells $12 DIY snow globes. “Our Photo Snow globes are fast and easy; No gluing required. Just follow the included template to cut your photo or artwork, and slide it into place.” What made this particular DIY snow globe that Mike found especially special was that one could make a recording, too. The lucky recipient of this gift can press a button on the bottom of the snow globe and hear your personalized holiday message.

Mike the maniacal Christmas elf got to work. He slid his close-up photo into the globe, recorded himself repeating “blah, blah, blah” over and over, and wrote an instruction card for AnnMarie:

• Step 1: Press the button on the bottom.
• Step 2: Run away!

And you know what? It worked! AnnMarie opened her gift, laughed at the funny picture of Uncle Mike, pressed the button, shrieked, and ran away! She did this so many times that her mother finally had to take the snow globe away from her with a promise she could play with it that night when they got home.

Without the Blah Blah Snow Globe to distract her, AnnMarie started talking again. I called her over. “Have you ever heard of this word?” I asked her, pronouncing e-a-v-e-s-d-r-o-p-p-i-n-g slowly enough for her to take in each and every syllable. “People who are blind like me are pretty good at it, you don’t look at the people you’re eavesdropping on,” I told her. “Just close your eyes, be quiet and listen.” I demonstrated. Keying in on a conversation behind us, I heard AnnMarie’s Uncle Ben mention a man’s name to Mike: Robin Ventura. Next it was Theo Epstein. Rebuilding. “They’re talking about baseball,” I whispered to AnnMarie. “They say the new year will be interesting to watch.” She said “oh” and raced off to play with her cousins.

Our little family really scored with the homemade gifts we received this year. Our great-nephew Grant made a desk lamp for Mike, and our son Gus will stay warm in Watertown, Wisc. Wrapped in the Snuggie his Godmother Caren decorated with Milwaukee Brewers logos. My present from AnnMarie’s dad isn’t quite finished yet, so I got a “substitute” gift: With the help and patience of her big sister Anita, AnnMarie read and recorded the book The Night Before Christmas for me to listen to.

AnnMarie (with some help from big sister Anita) recorded a wonderful talking book for me.

I am not a weeper, but I about cried as AnnMarie turned the pages for me to listen to her recorded voice reading that poem. How thoughtful! How sweet! The Night before Christmas is no easy read, and it’s fun to hear this little girl struggle – and succeed—at reading phrases like “droll little mouth” and “nothing to dread.”

My 95-year-old mother, Flo, enjoyed listening to the book with me, too. Flo sat right next to me the entire night, describing each homemade gift as it was unveiled: jigsaw puzzle, barbecue rub, homemade play-doh, bracelets, painted pint glasses, a fleece blanket decorated in school colors. Even Whitney got a gift: my sister Cheryl bought her a homemade fleece pull-toy at a craft fair. My personal favorite (after the Blah, Blah Snow Globe, of course!) was the energy drink my nephew Brian made for his cousin Colin. The drink is called “Colinade.”

After the festivities, Flo brought up more serious stuff. Her good friend Dorothy had died on Friday. Dorothy had always been a big help to my mom, very caring, always wearing a smile. “You’re going to miss her.” Flo nodded, then reached out to hold my hand.

My friend Denny and his sister Maureen had lost their mom on Friday, too. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to attend both funerals. Flo understood. Babies cried, wrapping paper was collected, teenagers called out NBA scores from downstairs, and Flo squeezed my hand until a certain six-year-old tapped my arm to interrupt the moment.

Me: AnnMarie! I didn’t know you were there!

AnnMarie:I was eavesdropping.

Me:What’d you learn?

AnnMarie: You were talking about funerals.

She left then, and the chaos continued. And so, life is too short, friendships are precious, we learn far more by listening than we do by talking, and it is a joy to be around those we

At the end of the evening, we Skyped with Caren and Mark's family, who live in Minneapolis. Flo wasn't really believing what she was seeing and hearing.

love. I could go on and on about how poignant this particular holiday season has been for me, but hey, we don’t want to make poor Mike feel pressured to make another Blah Blah Snow Globe for me this time, right?! I will end here instead, leaving you with the final line of one beautifully read holiday poem: Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

That's randy Randy.

Seeing Eye puppies are named long before we blind folks get matched with them. To help keep track of the dogs, each litter born at the Seeing Eye is given names that start with the same letter of the alphabet. Whitney is from the “W” litter, and no puppy will be named Whitney until she retires.

We Seeing Eye grads sometimes feel at the mercy of the staff member who names the pups — learning of Whitney’s sisters Wispy and Windy made me feel I’d won the W-puppy-name-jackpot! Writer and fellow Seeing Eye graduate Jeff Flodin wrote an essay about his dog’s name, and he generously agreed to let me publish it here so I can take a few days off from the blog to enjoy the holidays introducing Whitney to family and friends. Enjoy!

Randy Randy

by Jeff Flodin

In honor of my friend Beth Finke’s new Seeing Eye dog, Whit, whose full name is Whitney, this blog is dedicated to my Seeing Eye Dog, Randy, whose full name is Randy.

What’s in a name, anyway?

My first dog’s name was Sherlock, which everyone thought was the coolest. When I was introduced to my new dog on March 1, 2010, I said, “Randy. What a stupid name.” Randy Quaid came to mind, the dimwit of the National Lampoon Vacation movies. Then, I was reminded that randy as an adjective means frisky in a sexual way. A tease. Being fixated at adolescence, I began to see Randy in a different, much cooler light.

Then the veterinarian at the Seeing Eye told me that Randy had been destined from birth to be the patriarch of a new string of brawny black Labs.

“You mean he was supposed to be a stud?” I asked.

The vet demurred.

I persisted. “So, what happened? “It obviously didn’t take.”

The vet sputtered and stuttered and said nothing.

Try as I might, I could not crack the code of silence surrounding Randy’s failed career as a stud. Perhaps his puppy raising days in Florida had unwittingly accentuated a retiring personality. Maybe his was an issue of sexual preference. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Whatever forces lay behind Randy tweaking his destiny, we embraced one another as a Seeing Eye team.

Randy’s Chicago debut was a picnic on the shores of Lake Michigan in late spring. The picnic was a benefit for an animal rescue program. Lots of dogs were there. They competed for prizes in fetching, heeling and all manner of obedience.

Randy finished out of the money in all those contests, but he captured first prize in two categories: youngest dog and largest nose. That was the day I learned the true meaning of the phrase, “Everybody’s a Winner.” The Special Olympics comes to the canine world.

Randy remains true to his calling, whatever that calling might be. Some days, it’s that golden retriever across the street. Other days, it’s working the crowd from the doorway of the Ravenswood Pub. Every day, he’s attuned to food. His concentration is unwavering. Randy can stare a hole through a block of Swiss cheese while, at his south end, Mulligan the cat hangs from his tail.

The last day of training at the Seeing Eye, the instructor took me aside and said conspiratorially, “Jeff,you know we couldn’t give this dog to just anyone.” I smiled and nodded and wondered what on earth he’d meant by that.

Each day of the intervening twenty months has illuminated another facet of what he meant. Not that Randy defies understanding. On the contrary, he is a quick study. He was and is eager to please. He is totally without guile. Everything Randy does, he does full bore. He’s neither the brightest nor the dimmest. He knows no subtlety. He’s just Randy. He’s the dog who understands the phrase, “Be yourself and you will be loved for who you are.”

This essay first appeared in Vision Through Words, a blog that welcomes submissions of poetry and short essays by visually impaired and blind writers. You can learn more about Jeff and read more of his work on his own blog called Jalapenos in the Oatmeal, which he writes for The Guild for The Blind here in Chicago. Thanks, Jeff. Merry Christmas!

It’s only been one week since Mike met Whitney and me at O’Hare, and in that short time my new 58-pound bouncing bundle of Golden Retriever/Labrador energy has successfully guided me to:

• the bank (three times!)
• the UPS store
• Hackney’s (three times!)
• my hair salon on Wabash
• Walgreen’s (once inside, she led me right to the pharmacy window, how’d she know?)
• Sandmeyer’s (Mike and I love Ulrich and Ellen, the owners of this wonderful neighborhood independent bookstore)
• Dearborn Park for a leisurely walk
• a succulent Solstice dinner party at our neighbors Jim & Janet’s groovy loft apartment (she turns into their doorway every time we pass it now, smart girl!), and
• the pool where I swim laps.

For the first weeks at home, we're inseparable. Literally.

None of our walks have gone without a mistake or two (or five, or nine), and we are still working on our choreography, but we’ve been getting where we need to go, and returning home safely. “Good girl, Whitney!”

Whitney has never been to Chicago before, of course, so I am the one who tells her what direction to go to get our errands done. We travel one block, she stops at the curb. “Good girl, Whitney!” I say, then give her a direction. “Whitney, left!” She turns left, I tell her how smart she is, and we proceed to the next curb. “Atta girl, Whitney! Good girl!” I say, then give a direction. “Whitney, right!” Whitney turns right, and we’re off again.

Whitney loves getting outside and going to work. She is so enthusiastic, though, that sometimes when I command “Forward!” she forgets to stop when we get to the next curb! That’s when I step into my role as teacher. I give her a correction, either verbally or with the leash, then show her where she made her mistake.

Next, I bring her back to the curb, tell her to sit, tap the curb with my foot and praise her. “Good girl, Whitney! Here’s where you stop. Good girl!” We take a few steps backwards then, maybe two dog lengths, and we re-work the approach to the curb. Whitney almost always, always gets it right the second time. And when she does? I praise the bejeezus out of her. “Good girl, Whitney! Attagirl!” I rub her up. Her tail wags. “Good girl, Whitney. Good girl!” Whitney eats it up, and she rarely misses that curb again.

Praise is really what it’s all about for Seeing Eye dogs, and to that end, one thing The Seeing Eye urges graduates to do during our first two weeks at home is keep our new dogs attached to us. Literally. 24/7. So picture me now, working at my computer. Whitney is chewing her Nylabone, her leash looped around my ankle. Any time I stand up to head to the kitchen to warm up my coffee, Whitney looks up, stops chewing, and drops her beloved bone. “Whitney, heel.” Whitney walks at my side to the microwave. “Good dog, Whit.” When we get to the microwave, I give her another command. “Whitney, sit!” Whitney sits. “Good girl, Whitney!” I want her to stay there while the coffee warms up. “Whitney, rest.” She does. “Atta girl, Whitney. Good girl!

Having a dog on leash 24 hours a day is strangely exhausting, and it sure is tedious. Understanding the method behind the 24/7 attachment madness makes it easier to execute: having them at the end of the leash all the time gives us plenty of chances to tell them how great they are. If Whitney sits when I tell her to, I praise her. When she heals, lies down, rests on command, she is praised. On the other hand, if Whit misbehaves (sniffs inside a garbage can, nibbles at crumbs on the kitchen floor) I can feel her movement through the leash and catch her in the act. We can’t see our Seeing Eye dogs, but if they are only a leash away while they’re being naughty, we can correct them.

All of this transfers to our work outside, too. I praise, and often pet, Whitney anytime she stops at a curb, or at the top of the stairs to the subway. If she messes up, I correct her and give her a chance to do it right. And if she succeeds the second time, guess what? She gets praised!

And so, as much as we Seeing Eye graduates would like to think it’s clear sailing after our three weeks training in Morristown, the work continues, and in some ways really starts, once we get home. I’m looking at the months ahead of us as a ten-year investment in Whitney, and in our work as a team. So while having Whitney on leash all the time has been tedious (for both of us!) it’s well worth the investment. The first week at home has really flown by, and before you know it, it’ll be December 29, and then watch out, world, Whit and I will be unleashed (at home, at least)! Right now, though, it’s time to warm my coffee. “Whitney, heal. Good girl!”