I'm supposed to mostly ignore Whit when they come home. Not going to be easy.

It’s Beth’s husband Mike here again, guest blogging for her while she’s at the Seeing Eye School in New Jersey. Beth and Whit are settling in — they did their first “solo” a couple days ago. Beth’s also learned that Whit plays fetch with devotion — if Whit brings it back and Beth can’t find it right away, all Beth needs to do is hold her open hand in front of her and Whit puts the toy of the moment in Beth’s open palm. And she does it again and again and…. She’s my new favorite.

My two old favorites are also thriving. I see Hanni nearly every week, because friends Steven and Nancy were not only kind enough to adopt Hanni, they adopt me for a couple days each week when I’m down in Urbana for work. I awake to the sound of Hanni’s tail thumping my bedroom door each morning. She’d been getting a little creaky — arthritis was taking a toll until the vet prescribed some anti-inflammatories. (Which, by the way, are administered with a dollop of liver sausage.) Voila! A near-12-year-old puppy is born! She’s one of a kind.

Harper’s suburban retirement is in full bloom, and he continues to make progress. From Chris, of Chris and Larry, his adoptive humans:

Harper has gotten pretty comfortable walking up and down our street without a leash — put one on and he goes back to anxious.  He loves meeting new people and the dogs in the neighborhood.  He and Beau (the collie next door) run around the yard like mad and have a great time playing together.  We’re checking out a vet in Wheaton that the Burnham Animal Clinic recommended.   This clinic’s website says they work with animals with behavior issues – I’m going to find out if they can help with PTSD. (Note: Burnham was Harper’s Chicago vet.)

It’s a joy to think about Harper and that Collie having carefree fun. And you read that right: PTSD. In earlier posts, I was reluctant to attribute Harper’s condition — after he and Beth’s frightening traffic encounter — as post traumatic stress disorder. It seems a trifle disrespectful to those humans suffering from it. And yet, from everything I’d read, Harper’s behavior did closely resemble it.

Well, the military thinks the same thing according to this story in the  New York Times. (The link is worth visiting for the photo alone.)

From the story:

…the four-legged, wet-nosed troops used to sniff out mines, track down enemy fighters and clear buildings are struggling with the mental strains of combat nearly as much as their human counterparts.

Sounds kind of familiar. So does this:

Like humans with the analogous disorder, different dogs show different symptoms. Some become hyper-vigilant. Others avoid buildings or work areas that they had previously been comfortable in. Some undergo sharp changes in temperament, becoming unusually aggressive with their handlers, or clingy and timid. Most crucially, many stop doing the tasks they were trained to perform.

The idea that the vet Chris heard about might be able to treat PTSD sounds a little comical at first blush — an image of a German Shepherd on a therapist’s couch comes to mind — but the military has developed therapies for dogs that suffer for their experience. It’s effective enough that some dogs are re-deployed.

This is the kind of story that years ago, I probably would’ve said something like, “C’mon man, we’re talking about dogs here.” Now it doesn’t seem that simple. Beth and I and Steven and Nancy and now Chris and Larry have made fun of ourselves — and other “dog people” — for going on about the pooches. And we all know “cat people.” It’s the same. And really, it can bore the hell out of non-animal people, so let’s all agree to watch that.

These Labradors Beth brings home from New Jersey have made a dog person out of me, but its more than just that. Watching these creatures has convinced me we may have more in common than we don’t. And, watching their struggles — particular Harper’s plight — has made me more of a “person person.” Seeing what happened to him gives me all the more empathy for the folks in the military, in war zones, those who’ve survived the unthinkable in combat, accidents, or other calamities.  Here’s to the hope that  they all get as much care as Harper’s getting.

Guest blogger Mike Knezovich back. Thanks again to Chuck Gullett for his great post.

Now, back to New Jersey and Beth and The Seeing Eye: With all apologies to people named Whitney, everywhere, I think that Whitney sounds a little too preppy, a little too much like a girl who would hang with girls named Paige and Madison and the like. All perfectly nice names, they just don’t pair well with Knezovich, if you know what I mean.

And so, as far as I am concerned, her name shall be Whit, forevermore. And here she is:

There she is on a commuter train platform during training. Next stop, Chicago!

When she saw the picture, our friend Nancy described Whit as a cross between Harper and Hanni. Can’t argue there. Early reports have it that Whit loves to work so much that she doesn’t always know when to stop. Yesterday morning, anytime Whit approached a quiet intersection, or one where there was no traffic at the time, she’d slow down a bit but then blow right past the curb. She was so excited to see more sidewalk ahead to guide Beth on that she didn’t want to stop.

Part of the three-week training at the Seeing Eye is to remind Beth and the 18 other blind students in her class what they need to do when their new dogs make mistakes. Every time Whit blew a curb, Beth had to give Whit a quick leash correction, tell her “Pfui!” and take a few steps backward to the curb Whit missed. After commanding Whit to “sit,” Beth would tap the curb with her foot and say, “good girl,”  indicating that’s where she wanted Whit to stop. They’d step back a few steps then, rework the curb, and Whit always, always got it the second time around.

Later that afternoon Beth and Whit went on that same route with their trainer. Whit stopped at every curb, traffic or no traffic. Way to go, Whit!

Beth reports that Whit walks at a fast but not reckless clip, and that Whit is, umm, regular, which is a real plus for the partner of a working dog. And for the guy who takes the working dog out occasionally for its constitutional.

So, as the guest blogger here I’m happy to introduce: Another guest blogger!

He’s Chuck Gullett. He and his lovely partner Rene are friends from our little Printers Row neighborhood. Last week while I was in Urbana, Chuck was kind enough to accompany Beth to an unusual (for most people) appointment. Since he’s a great photographer and storyteller, Beth asked whether he’d be willing to blog about the experience. He did that, and got a bunch of good shots — I’ll post a couple with his blog. Oh, and besides being a terrific photographer and friend, Chuck’s also a solid, honest real estate agent. So if you’re in the market….

Finally, don’t blame Chuck for the “eyewitness account” headline — I just couldn’t resist.

That's a whole lotta eyeballs right there. (By Chuck Gullett.)

With that, I present Chuck Gullett!

A trip to the ocularist

Between Harper’s retirement and Whitney’s training, I had the great opportunity to accompany Beth as her “Seeing Eye Chuck” for a visit to the ocularist.  The ocularist, as I learned, is the place to go when you need a new glass eye or just a little glass eye maintenance. The ocularist’s office, on the 16th floor of the Garland Building in Chicago, has a spectacular view of Lake Michigan, Millennium Park and Navy Pier. Ironically, the hundreds of eyes in the office are all neatly arranged in drawers and never able to enjoy the view.

On this visit, Beth was going in for a routine cleaning. As an observer, the process is fairly straightforward…

1) Remove glass eye with a device that looks like a miniature Nerf suction cup dart.

2) Try not to make an immature sucking sound as the eye is being removed.

3) Sit back and chat until the eye returns from the onsite laboratory, which I pictured to be somewhat like Grandpa’s lab from the “Munsters.”

When the ocularist returned with the beautifully polished eye, I asked a few questions and Beth talked him into showing me the lab and explaining the cleaning process. What I got was an enthusiastic lesson in the history, making and care of the good ol’ ocular prosthesis, or what we commonly refer to as a glass eye. First off, the eye is not even made of glass. Modern glass eyes are actually made of acrylic, which is extremely durable and more cost effective to manufacture.

The guys in the lab area told me about the heroic GI’s returning from WWII having a large demand for glass eyes. The glass eyes would tend to break by accident or “accidentally” around the time a GI wanted to visit the big city. A shortage in high quality imported glass and the cost of replacement eyes prompted the government to find a better material to make artificial eyes. Now, we have the modern version in durable acrylic.

So, what's your guess? (By Chuck Gullett)

To give you an idea of how durable the eyes are, Beth has had the same peeper for 25 years and the last time she had it polished was 4 years ago. Each eye is hand crafted for its owner and is a true piece of art. I looked through the drawers of sample eyes and the level of detail is really stunning. The blood vessels are recreated with silk threads while the pupil and iris take laborious hours to hand paint so they look realistic. The ocularist had notes from Beth’s last two visits where they recommended that she get fitted for a new eye, but Beth just smiled and said, “Yeah, I kinda like this one.”  I like that one, too.  I had no idea that Beth even had a glass eye.  One eye is real and one is not.  You can try to guess which is which, but good luck.

Anyway, I also learned that the cleaning/ polishing process is much like polishing jewelry. There is a buffing wheel and several different compounds to remove build-up and leave a nice smooth surface. The ocularist works the eye until it is just right, then rinses it off and you are ready to go.  I associate the feeling of a freshly polished glass eye like the smoothness your teeth have after a visit to the dentist.

All in all, it was a great afternoon. I got to spend some quality time with a friend, feed my odd curiosity with something out of the ordinary and learn something new. Anytime Whitney needs a day off, I’ll be happy to help out.

Hi folks, it’s me again — Mike Knezovich, aka Beth’s husband. Feels like the movie “Groundhog Day,” or “Groundhog Year.” The time since Beth left for the Seeing Eye last November seems to have flown by. And like last year, I’ll be getting dispatches from Beth —  who will be very, very busy, not to mention tired — at The Seeing Eye during training. I’ll try to fill Beth’s blog shoes while she’s gone, and pass along her news as it comes.

And some just came: It’s a girl. Named Whitney. The trainer says she goes by just “Whit” most of the time.

Not that Beth hasn’t been busy since she flew to New Jersey on Saturday. She’s been on training walks with instructors, sat in lectures and had her time scheduled solid. When she calls she’s typically interrupted by an intercom announcement calling students to the next activity.

Which is great, because the last three weeks — and really, the last couple months — have been a slog. We both were reminded of how independent Beth is with a Seeing Eye dog, and how much more she has to depend on me without. Plus, there has been sort of a dark cloud around this year’s trip. Last year was certainly bittersweet, what with Hanni heading off to retirement. But it was filled with the excitement of a new dog, and looking forward to another long partnership between Beth and her new dog. That didn’t turn out, and this trip has had a tinge of sadness and fatigue about it from the beginning.

So it was terrific to hear Beth and Whitney on the phone. Beth was upbeat and giggling, and I can’t wait to meet Whit. I’m confident it’ll be a good match, and that with just a bit of luck, this will prove to be a long partnership. By the time the dogs get this far, they have proven they have the right stuff. According to The Seeing Eye, 60 percent of the dogs born at the Seeing Eye make it to the training stage. Eighty percent of the dogs who make it to training stage go on to be placed with a blind person and work as a Seeing Eye dog. So about half the dogs — who are carefully bred by The Seeing Eye  — end up being placed as guides.

Beth’s first dog, Pandora, worked until the age of 12 and lived to 17. Hanni worked until 11 and we hope she matches Dora in longevity. Harper worked less than a year, but it was truly a “dog year.” Besides a harrowing near-miss with a car, he managed to run into a lot of other difficult situations that were mostly a matter of bad luck. Including walking into the elevator that happened to be occupied by two skittish Chows that lunged at and bit him.

So while it’s sad about Harper, I don’t for a second consider the time a failure. I do miss scratching his big lovable head, though. And I’ll always be grateful for the job he did for Beth, and for The Seeing Eye.

My Friend watches over me at this corner.

Every morning my Seeing Eye dog and I pass the same homeless man in front of the 7-Eleven store. “StreetWise today!” he calls out. “Can you give a little hepp today?” StreetWise is a newspaper sold by homeless people in Chicago. The concept is that by selling StreetWise, people down on their luck might get back on their feet.

For years I’d always nodded and smiled the vendor’s way as we passed. Since I can’t see to read, though, I never bought one of his papers. Until one cold day three years ago, that is. I left Hanni at home that day to go Christmas shopping with a friend — crowds can be so fixated on shopping that they step on the unexpected dog at their feet. I cabbed home on my own afterwards, and when I fumbled with my white cane at the curb I heard a familiar voice call out to me. “Want some hepp?”

The pronunciation of the word “help” was my clue. It was the Streetwise vendor. I grabbed his arm, and from the way my hand pumped up and down as we plodded together to my doorway I could tell he had a very bad limp. When we finally arrived, I held out a bill that had one corner folded and asked for a copy of StreetWise. “They only cost two dollars,” my helper said. “You’re giving me a five.”

“I meant to give you a five,” I said, showing him how I fold money to keep track of the denominations. “Thanks for the help,” I told him. “Merry Christmas!” He gave me a heartfelt thanks, then limped back to his crate.

A story in Disability Scoop says more than 40 percent of the homeless population in the U.S. are people with disabilities. The story quotes a report from the Department of Housing and Urban Development that points out that people with disabilities face additional difficulties — more than those who are poor — when it comes to accessing permanent housing. The HUD report suggests that people with disabilities “may have difficulties searching for a unit or finding a landlord willing to rent to them.”

The StreetWise vendor and I never exchanged names, but we have been friends ever since he helped me to the door that night. . He refers to me as “Mizz Lady. I call him My Friend.” On days he’s late to his crate he’ll call out, “Hello Mizz Lady – I’s likely to miss you this mornin’!” I always respond with a laugh, and a, “Hello, My Friend!” On days my dog and I go a different way and don’t pass My Friend, he notices. “I didn’t see you earlier,” he’ll say. “I was worried.”

Over the past year My Friend especially worried about Harper. “He’s havin’ a hard time, isn’t he?” he’d say. “Is he okay?” When I finally had to tell My Friend that Harper would be retiring, My Friend told me he was sorry.

It’s been three weeks since Harper retired, and people in our neighborhood have been generously taking time away from their schedules to walk me places I need to go. I am grateful for the assistance, but I’m afraid my face betrays a sense that I’ve gone backward. I need too much help. My Friend lifts my spirits with his comments. Whenever my escort happens to be a man, for example, he assures me he won’t tell Mike. “I’m not tellin’ anyone, Mizz Lady,” he says. “It’ll be our secret.” I respond with a laugh. “Thank you, My Friend!”

Thanksgiving yesterday gave me an opportunity to reflect once again on just how fortunate I am. Friends, family members, teachers, employers, donors, volunteers, book publishers, and, especially my husband Mike Knezovich, all put their faith in me after I lost my sight. They kept me on my feet, and quite literally kept me off the street.

I also feel fortunate for the Federal disability benefits I received when I first lost my sight, and over the years countless non-profit agencies have helped me find my way. Tomorrow I leave for one of those priceless non-profit agencies. The Seeing Eye breeds and trains guide dogs. And one of those dogs will be my fourth Seeing Eye dog. I am looking forward to the independence that will come with this new match.

On Wednesday, Mike escorted me downtown to teach my final “Me, Myself and I” memoir-writing class for this year, and we stopped for a minute in front of the 7-Eleven. “I’m leaving for a few weeks,” I told My Friend, explaining that it takes a while to train with a new dog. As we walked away, he called out to Mike. “I’m glad she’ll be coming back home with a dog again,” he said. “She’ll be happier.”

I will be, but no more thankful than I am now.