The phone had been ringing all day. This time it was Mom. She sounded casual, and I thought she might start a conversation. But deep in my heart I knew why she was calling. She didn't have anything casual to say. I knew exactly what she had to say.
I felt as if I left my body for a moment as I tried to help ease the discussion toward what would inevitably need to be said. Mom's voice sounded hollow and far away. I heard one word: Elli. From somewhere above myself, I heard my own childish voice. "Is she ok?" I knew the answer.
Elli had begun to have difficulty breathing through her nose during the recent weeks. This was causing her to have difficulty eating. The pain medication for her arthritis cost $5 per day... What did I think?
What did I think? "Can't you wait one more week? I might be able to borrow some money... But I knew better. It wouldn't be fair to Elli. I choked back a sob. "Talk to Dad," I said.
I could hear Elli panting in the background. She barked once.
"I think she wants to go," Mom said.
I tried to commit that bark to memory. It was the last bark I would hear.
How does a blind person hold on to the memory of her first guide? I asked for pictures. Mom had some scanned and more that she could scan later. But I can't see the pictures. I can't show them to my friends who never saw Elli. I asked for her collar ... "and don't take the tags off." I asked for her harness. But those things are just objects. They are only special to me because I know that Elli wore them. They don't preserve any aspect of Elli--not her appearance, not her sound, not her smell, and not the most important thing about her: her feel. How can I describe those things? And what will it be like to go to my parents ' house and not hear her panting, following me around, barking rhythmically because no one has made it to the back door to let her inside yet? I dread that visit.
"We're going to have a new family member," I had told my mom.
"Who's pregnant?" she asked curiously.
I burst out laughing. Mom had obviously forgotten about my application to the Seeing Eye. It had been held for several months while the admissions staff awaited my third recommendation and doctor's report. I had hoped to take a dog guide with me when I went to college as a freshman; but in January I was still waiting.
The admissions director had finally called me on January 24 to inform me that I had been accepted and would be able to attend training in July.
"No one," I told Mom. "I'm going to get a dog."
Four months had passed since I had made the call to share my news. Someone had been unable to attend class in May, and I had been allowed to come then rather than in July. But now, as I felt the plane descending, a wave of panic washed over me. What was I doing here? I didn't even like dogs! To be honest, I was afraid of them--especially the big ones.
The plane landed; and an airport employee escorted me to baggage claim, where a bubbly lady named Terri met me and said that she was there to drive me from the Newark airport into Morristown, NJ, where I would be spending the next four weeks. Terri was friendly and chatted all the way into Morristown. Her chatter helped me to get my mind off my fear of dogs.
An instructor met me at the front door of the school. "Hi, Miss Blake," she said cheerfully.
"Oh, you can call me Sarah," I said, despising the sound of "Miss Blake". I wasn't old enough to be "Miss" anything--and I didn't want to be "Miss" anything.
She explained that staff addressed all students in this manner as a demonstration of respect. I swallowed and resigned myself to becoming "Miss Blake".
I didn't have much time for unpacking or settling in. Mr. Franck, my instructor, came and oriented me to the building right away. I would be getting my dog the next day. In the meantime, he would be teaching me the basic commands, and we would practice walking at different speeds so that he could choose the dog who best suited my needs. He encouraged me to travel through the building without my cane; for I would not be using it when I got my dog.
Leash corrections were an area of concern for me. My left arm was weak, and I had to practice giving corrections to Juno, the hypothetical dog whose name was used for learning commands. While my correction skills have improved, my right arm is still stronger today, 12 years later.
At dinnertime, I ate with five other students, all of whom would be working with Mr. Franck. Two other groups of students were seated at nearby tables with their instructors. We would be using this seating arrangement for the first couple of weeks.
After dinner, the entire group gathered in a lounge area to introduce ourselves and hear a presentation about some of the equipment we would be using with our dogs. Several of the students had worked with dogs previously. We were from all over the United States, and one student was from Canada. We ranged in age from 18 to 68 with me being the youngest.
After lunch on Sunday, we all retreated to our rooms and waited for our instructors to call us one at a time to meet our dogs in the lounge. My roommate, Rachel, and I shared feelings of mixed excitement and anxiety.
"Miss Blake," called Mr. Franck from the hallway. "Come on down, and bring your leash.
I got up from my bed, where I had been sitting and talking with Rachel, picked up my leash and tried to stroll casually into the lounge. I sat in a chair near the doorway. Mr. Franck was sitting across the room, and I could hear a big dog panting excitedly near him.
"Your dog's name is Elli," he said cheerfully. "Call her over."
"Elli, come," I invited. I heard Mr. Franck remove his leash from Elli's collar, and she bounded over to me, still panting. I stroked her back and head, trying to get used to the idea that I now had a big dog who was apparently quite energetic.
"Stick your hand in her mouth," Mr. Franck suggested.
What? Was he crazy? What if she bit me? But he gently held her mouth open and guided my hand inside to touch her tongue and teeth. Then I put my leash on her and took her to my room. I would spend the next few hours getting to know her: talking to her, petting her, letting her sniff me and the room.
Back in our room, Elli avoided licking my face, even when I made it available. (I was glad she had no interest.) Instead, she flopped down for a belly rub--something that would eventually earn her the nickname Elli Belly.
Elli's carpet was laid beside the air conditioning unit in the room. When I picked up the harness, she wagged her tail furiously, banging loudly on the unit. The sound of that banging is something I will never forget.
Elli was a strong, muscular dog, and I could feel her pride in the way she walked. I remember noticing the gentle bumps created by the steady, rhythmic padding of her feet during our first walks. Those bumps and her strong, steady pull gave me confidence. Elli was ready to go, and so was I!
I loved Elli's personality. She was calm at first, but after a while she became playful. She was obedient and a good worker. I was amazed at her attention to broken pavement and traffic. I soon learned to relax when walking with her.
Training with Elli was vigorous. We walked a route of increasing distance twice a day. We traveled in various environments, including stores, restaurants, college campuses, and the country. We rode on buses and trains. We crossed intersections which I would have been terrified to cross with a cane. I discovered that I could travel quickly and directly with Elli and feel natural while doing it. This made my excitement about working with her grow.
After three weeks, the students who had had previous dogs from the Seeing Eye went home. Elli and I, like the rest of the newcomers, went home a week later. We were told to go straight home and give the dogs a chance to get used to their new environments before working too vigorously with them.
Elli had a problem with submissive urination when I took her home. Each time my parents approached her, she piddled right where she sat. We had to warn the rest of the family not to "talk baby talk" to her. I think my dad took all this a bit personally. One day after she urinated for the umpteenth time in response to his approach, he said, "I guess I'll just not come near her."
I don't remember how we resolved the problem or if Elli simply outgrew it. She proved to be very adaptable over the years, and she eventually retired in my parents' home. She was clearly THEIR dog--even when they baby talked her.
was generally very alert, even to the needs of other people traveling with me. She was also a quick learner and very responsive to my body language, whether or not I actually gave a correction. Once while taking a walk in the neighborhood where my parents lived, she plowed me into a holly tree. I backed up and prepared to give a good leash correction and shake those thorny branches for all they were worth. Instead, I just stood there shaking and hurting and started to cry. I pointed at the tree and choked out, "Pfui," as well as I could.
Elli never ran me into that tree again. She always veered at least two feet around it. In fact, when I took relatives on a tour of the neighborhood to show off Elli's work, she made sure I avoided the tree and then looked back to make sure they also avoided it. Her nemesis in that neighborhood was toads. She never quite mastered toad distractions.
Elli's alertness to other people's needs allowed me to serve as a guide for other people when they needed it. I was also able to demonstrate the benefits of traveling with a dog to prospective dog guide users. One of my roommates enjoyed letting Elli accompany her sans harness to the drink machine at the apartment complex where we lived. She told me that Elli's presence made her feel confident and safe.
Elli's attentiveness and companionship helped me to feel more confident in my travels. I transferred to a larger university and traveled to more new cities to attend conventions and visit friends. I even spent a week with Rachel in New York City. Elli wound her way through crowd, through subway stations, and across busy streets.
Unfortunately, our trip to New York was not all fun and games. Elli performed a "traffic check" while crossing a street amidst a crowd, backing up to avoid a turning car. I failed to realize what she was doing, and as I corrected her for what I assumed to be sniffing, the car struck her. Elli was not hurt. However, she feared busy streets for about a year afterward; and I required several visits from field representatives from the school to assist me in working through her fears and difficulties they posed in our travel. Elli and I both worked hard. Elli was able to continue guiding until she was nine years old, at which time I chose to retire her based on her age and changes in my life which I feared would be quite stressful for her. I wrote about Elli's retirement in the article, "Retiring Elli".
This document is copyright 2003 by Sarah J. Blake. For permission to reprint, please email Sarah at sarah@growingstrong.org.
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