That's me and my first Seeing Eye dog, Pandora. If you look closely you'll see the leash looped around my wrist.

I fell. Outside. With Harper. Last night. My feet slipped out from under me.

Hello, sidewalk. Meet the back of my head. Thud.

First thought: Am I conscious?

Second thought:Where’s Harper?

*****

In addition to holding a harness, Seeing Eye dog users also attach a leash to our dogs, then loop the other end around our wrists. The leash is necessary for giving our dogs corrections — this snippet from the “Control and Discipline” lecture I heard while training with Harper a few weeks back:

Some dogs, like some humans, will allow themselves to be temporarily distracted by things which seem interesting to them but are not desirable when it comes to walking or getting through traffic. During training we attempt to educate your dog to control these instincts, but it is virtually impossible to eliminate them.

Some instincts are helpful in relation to guide work. Examples:

• the homing instinct. Harper is very good at retracing his steps and finding known destinations, like the door to our apartment building.
• the pack instinct. This instills Harper’s desire to please the master, in this case …me!

Unfortunately, most dog instincts are detrimental to good guide work. Trainers at the Seeing Eye drummed it into us that we have to work very, very hard to control our dogs desire to chase, scavenge, sniff, protect, and socialize. Back to the lecture notes:

If the distraction is unusually interesting, it may be necessary to accompany the verbal reprimand with a more effective means of regaining the dog’s attention. In such instances, following the reprimand with a jerk on the leash will draw the dog’s attention away from the distracting influence and bring it back to the work at hand. The strength of the leash correction depends upon the type of distraction, as well as your own strength, and the nature of your individual dog.

I’ve appreciated having that leash at hand in order to correct Harper some since we got home (Harper is very interested in some of the other dogs in our neighborhood!) but the leash did another, far more important, job for the two of us last night.

I’d fallen on a sidewalk that edges Harrison, a very, very busy street. After getting my head together, I felt for the leash. There it was, looped around my wrist. Just the way Seeing Eye trainers taught us. And there was Harper, wagging his tail at the other end.

“Harper, come!” He came right to my side. I lay there a long while, petting Harper, devising a way to get horizontal again.

When I finally stood up, a man called out in a beautiful Jamaican accent from across the street. “Ma’am. You oh kay?”I was near tears, but managed to hold them back long enough to answer. My head hurt, but I was all right. And so was Harper. “We’re only a half-block from home,” I told him. Somehow, having a complete stranger worry about me on Christmas Eve like that gave me faith. I knew we’d make it home.

*****

Thursday, the day before my fall, was my birthday. Friends and family mailed cards, bought me drinks, emailed notes, donated to causes in my name, shipped packages, left phone messages, wrote, sent and sang songs to remember my less-than-convenient birthday. Thank you, thank you, thank you. After all these many, many years, you continue making   me feel it’s worthwhile  picking myself up after a fall.

Sometimes he thinks he's a lap dog.

Before we left the Seeing Eye last week (Wow! Have we been home a week already?) our instructor read me Harper’s “puppy profile.”. Each person who volunteers to raise a puppy for the Seeing Eye is asked to write up a little report. You know, to let us in on what our dogs lives were like before we met them. Here’s an excerpt:

Harper was attending classes at my university (including attending the graduation!), going on buses and trains, attending other club meetings, university equestrian team shows with 20+ horses, a trip to the airport — going on a plane but not taking off, emergency vehicles, malls, stores, fairs, the beach (his favorite), on a boat, in pools, overnight charity events, elementary school presentations, a retirement/recovery home, soccer, football, and hockey games.

Whew! Harper is one well-traveled dog – he did all that even before he was a year-and-a-half old! And yes, you read that right: he was raised on a college campus: he’s a Rutgers grad! An article on the Rutgers University Seeing Eye Puppy Raising Club web site describes these generous students who volunteer their time to raise puppies for us.

To truly stop and spend a few moments observing the volunteers of the Rutgers University Seeing Eye Puppy Raising Club, you’re struck too by their obvious affection for and commitment to their charges – cute, adorable puppies with names like Elroy, Yankee, Harper, and Oz.

Did you read that? The article mentions Harper! What a sweet little puppy he must have been – imagine the attention he got on campus! College students at Rutgers have been providing a welcoming home for Seeing Eye puppies since the year 2000, when the Rutgers chapter of the puppy raising program began. After leaving the Seeing Eye breeding station, seven- or eight-week old German Shepherds, Golden Retrievers, Labrador Retrievers, and crosses of these breeds are placed with puppy raisers until they are 16 to 18 months old. Raisers train the puppies in basic obedience, house manners, how to walk on a leash, and expose the dogs to real-life situations they might encounter once placed with a blind person like me.

But back to Harper’s puppy profile. His puppy raiser said Harper loves squeaky toys, so we knew to give him some of those when he came home to Chicago with me. She also said that he loves being talked to in a sing-song voice, so just imagine how much I sing to him now! My favorite part of Harper’s puppy profile:

He is the coolest dog I’ve ever had. His personality is a great combination of independence and affection.

Amen to that. THANK YOU, Harper’s puppy raiser. And thanks to all the other wonderful, generous volunteer puppy raisers out there. You are our heroes.

  My brother-in-law Lon is just itching to use the homemade gift he got last Christmas–a
pine cone backscratcher.

I am the youngest of seven, and I have 16 nieces and nephews. Eleven of those nieces and nephews have children of their own. One of my nieces has two grandchildren already! As Mike 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.

Today is the day we all gather to open our homemade presents, and it will also be the day Harper meets my extended family. To prepare, I just re-listened to the audio file of the “Going Home” lecture we heard in class earlier this week. An excerpt: There are additional challenges when major holidays occur right after you arrive home. Instead of having some time to quietly acclimate your dog to its new situation, you are thrown into activities and parties that go along with certain holidays. If you have just arrived home, it might be advisable to skip some of your usual activities for this year. If there are things that you feel you must attend, look for ways to take the pressure off your dog- going sighted guide or settling in one spot to allow other people to come see you might be two ways to ease the pressure on your new dog.

So that’s the plan. Mike, Harper and I will arrive late to the party, after everyone has eaten. I’ll find a seat, plant myself there, keep Harper at my feet, stay for the opening of the homemade gifts and then head right back home. I mean, c’mon. Homemade Christmas is an event I feel I must attend! It’s always such fun to, hmm, what verb do I want here? It’s always fun to experience the gifts everyone comes up with each year.

In years past, babies pressed handprints into clay wall hangings, cousins stuffed homemade pillows for gifts, pine cones collected in back yards were magically transformed into Christmas ornaments –and back-scratchers! I get compliments on the earrings my niece Jennifer made me whenever I wear them, and every night I cuddle on the couch under an afghan my sister Cheryl crocheted.

Some family members get into a groove – one brother-in law is a hunter, so every year he has his catch made into a deerhide wallet, or a deerhide make-up bag, or deerhide gloves. Mike Knezovich has gotten into the habit of making beer for the lucky family member he picks. My brother Doug, a jazz trombonist, always writes a song for the person he chooses. I was the lucky one in 2008 – you can hear Doug performing “Beth, Betha, Best” here with his band. You’ll hear a little musician talk before the song begins, so be patient, and have yourself a merry little Christmas…now!

I’ve always known my husband is a great writer. Now you all know that, too! A gargantuan thank you to Mike Knezovich for keeping the Safe & Sound blog going while I was away. He did such a tremendous job that now I have some big shoes to fill. Thank goodness for photos of cute dogs, if my writing is a little lacking no one will notice!

Harper and I, followed by weekend visitors, on a leisurely walk at The Seeing Eye.

My 18 days training with Harper at the Seeing Eye were go, go, go. The highlights:

• Hearing his name for the first time. We weren’t told our dogs names until we were introduced. It was love at first sound. I love his name.
• Taking off on our first walk down a sidewalk together. My smile was so broad, and the temperatures so cold, I thought my face might crack. Moments later, walking through space so quickly and efficiently, I was warm. Inside and out.
• Manhattan. New York City is so stimulating, all the people rushing about, a wonderful energy in the air. Following Harper as he threaded his way through the sea of legs was a joy ride.

Days start early at the Seeing Eye. Every morning at 5:30 a.m. an instructor would play a song over the intercom, then make an announcement like this:

Good morning, everybody. Time to get up. Its 27 degrees outside, so bundle up. We’ll be coming around with bowls of food for your dog. Feed them, give them two cups of water and then head outside for park time. 

In my twenties I might have rebelled against being told what to do every day, how to dress, what to do when and where. Decades later, I found it surprisingly seductive. Decisions were made for me. I was told when to have Harper guide me to the dining hall for meals, when to meet in the lobby for a ride to downtown Morristown, where to go on routes, how to hold the harness, what to say to my new dog. I didn’t have to think. And there was no time to keep up with the news.

Bliss.

Last Monday night I confessed to one of my captors, I mean, trainers, that I was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. I didn’t want to leave.

The very next day, 24 hours before Harper would be leading me to my seat on an airplane bound for Chicago, Harper and I were asked to do two surprise solo routes. Instructors took us to downtown Morristown, told me how many blocks they wanted me to go forward, then take a left, cross a street, go three blocks, take a right, cross a street. The instructor would stay silent, behind us. Harper followed my every command. We were a team. I was ready. I wanted to come home.

And now, here we are. I don’t think Harper has ever seen snow before! In addition to judging traffic at each intersection, he has to negotiate us safely around the pile of snow left by plows at each curb. At the first snowbank, I feel the harness dart just a little bit left and right in my hand. Harper is moving his head back and forth, figuring out the best option. Go left of the snow, or right? Then an aggressive pull. He found his opening. I follow.

It is absolutely thrilling to walk with Harper, and I catch myself laughing out loud during our trips. His exuberance is contagious. It’s not all fun and games, though. This is Chicago, after all.

Bounding down the sidewalk on our very first walk around the block, Harper stops suddenly. I do the same. A milli-second later I hear the “beep, beep, beep” of a truck backing into an alley. Harper saw it coming before I heard what was happening. “Good boy, Harper! Good boy!”

Seeing Eye trainers have to teach dogs how to judge when a car changes from a car that can be trusted to a car that cannot be trusted. When Harper is guiding me along a city sidewalk, he has to trust the traffic traveling on the streets around us. If he didn’t trust those cars, he’d be afraid of them And wouldn’t walk along the sidewalk.

The Seeing Eye asks dogs not to trust any vehicle moving towards them that is less than 20 feet away. They can’t ask dogs to be wary of anything farther  away than 20 feet, because there are a lot of vehicles farther than 20 feet away that the dogs have to trust. A car pulling into a parking lot half a block ahead, for example. Harper has to trust that car. Otherwise we’d be stopping all the time!

Twenty feet is not very far. A car traveling 30 mph covers 20 feet in one-half of one second. In one-half a second, a dog that is paying attention (Harper), and a human who is paying attention (me), can avoid getting hit by a truck backing into an alley.

Harper brings me to the next corner, “Harper, right!” I command. We spin right. “Good boy, Harper,” I say. “We’re almost home!” We’re Clipping along at a good trot when Harper suddenly skids to a stop. Again. I stop, too, following his lead. Again. This time, it’s a car bolting out of a parking garage. “Attaboy, Harper! Good boy, Harper! Good boy!”

Seeing Eye dogs are taught traffic work right from the beginning of their training process. At first they’re taught to avoid cars just like they’re taught to avoid other obstacles – garbage cans, trees, light poles, stuff like that. Then staff drivers come after the dog. They teach the dogs to run away from a car or back away from a car. And they teach the dogs to stop at a variety of distances from a moving car. After enough practice, the dog’s fear and concern about moving vehicles turns into confidence and awareness.

And thanks to Harper, and all the many, many, many people who have put their hearts and minds together to train Seeing eye dogs like him for the past 80+ years, any fears or concerns I had about facing traffic with a new dog are also turning into awareness. And confidence. Attaboy, Harper.

That's Beth and her classmate Carlos and his beautiful Golden retriever at Rockefeller Plaza. So New York's nice, but Beth and Harper need to come back to Sweet Home Chicago.

So Monday night I got home and there was no impossibly frantic tail-wagging and jumping up on the hind legs. And I felt, for the first time since Beth left for Morristown, alone.

It was a particular kind of aloneness that I’ve felt before. Like the weeks on end I spent in Urbana while Beth was in the hospital in Chicago after eye surgeries. Or the night of the day that Gus was born. He was delivered by C-Section, squawked, and then proceeded to try to die right in front of my eyes. That night, with Beth doped up in her hospital room and Gus in the neonatal ICU with a 50-50 chance of surviving the night (by the doctor’s estimate), I came home, sat on the couch, and the first thing I saw was a tower of disposable diapers we’d built. Our friends had given them to us as a shower present. Now that was lonely.

Back then I tried the stiff upper lip routine. I’d conjure up a voice that would say, “Don’t feel sorry for yourself.” Now, I hear a little voice — it sounds a lot like Woody Allen’s — that says, “Go ahead. Feel sorry for yourself. If you don’t do it, who will?” So I do and it passes quickly. Takes a lot less energy than fighting the urge.

But I’m still sad. Times like these, some people suggest thinking of all those folks who are less fortunate. I get the count-your-blessings part of that. But it’s never worked for me. In times of misery, knowing that others are even more miserable doesn’t perk me up. Then there’s the “Welcome to Holland” thing. If you don’t know about it, a parent of a child with a disability wrote an essay by that title. The central idea is, say you always wanted to go to Italy. You book the trip, you get on the plane, but somehow, you land in Holland. You’re disappointed that it’s not Italy, but you learn to appreciate all the things about Holland that you never knew you would. I get that, too. But you know, what if sometimes you feel like you landed in freaking Siberia?

I wish we’d landed in Italy. I wish Gus had grown up to play a mean shortstop and become a Rhodes Scholar. I wish Beth could see. I wish she didn’t need a Seeing Eye dog.

Over the years I’ve learned just to go with feeling bad for awhile. And, most important, I’ve learned I’m not alone unless I want to be. After the drive home from dropping off Hanni in Urbana, I had dinner at Kate and Joe’s. They’d invited me knowing I might be a little down. (For the record, we ate Italian food.) These past two weeks with Hanni, our friend and fellow White Sox fan Lora walked Hanni while I was at work.  Lora would tell me stories about their walks each evening. Ira — a friend of Beth’s from college days and now my friend, too — visited with his wife Debbie and delivered a new dog bed for Harper last week, just like they did for Hanni years ago. They also lavished attention on Hanni. I met our friends Rick — who is visually impaired — and his wife Rhona (who isn’t) for coffee yesterday at their invitation. Beth’s 94-year-old mother called last night to make sure I was OK.

In the past I might have resisted having company at a time like this, thinking I was supposed to fight the good fight myself. I might also have turned down Beth’s request to fill in for her here on the blog.

Not anymore. My thanks to all our friends and family, you’ve made a rough time a lot less so. And thanks to all of you blog readers who’ve been reading and commenting and following our little transition. It’s been great having you along for the ride.

Beth and Hanni are back Wednesday, so with any luck at all, the next post will be Beth’s.