On the Blink – Page 13 – Consider how my light is spent

A Good Boy for Emily [Guest Perspective]

I am lucky to enjoy regular correspondence with York’s puppy raiser, a dynamic and intelligent woman named Melissa. A few weeks ago, she sent me an essay she wrote about the emotions of Puppy Raiser Day – the day when a student meets the family who raised their dog for a year. With Melissa’s permission, I am sharing her piece here.

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Guide Dog Puppy Raisers are given a fantastic opportunity, one not readily available to the average Joe. For a short time we are allowed to possess an elite dog. A dog of extraordinary intelligence and unparalleled breeding. Dogs with “guide” level acumen are special and I was blessed to have the companionship of just such a dog for eleven amazing months.

A puppy raiser picks up a nine or ten week old puppy from the kennel and returns a one year old dog for guide training. In between you feed, you housebreak, you practice obedience, you attend meetings, you expose the pup to all kinds of environments…sounds…people, you try not to fall in love and fail miserably. You fail because it is impossible to raise such a dog correctly and not love, if you can raise without love you’re doing it wrong.

Being a puppy raiser is a yo-yo thing. You want so much for your pup to be successful but at the same time it is so hard to think of giving him up. Only a percentage of the dogs bred for guide work actually make it as working guides. The best of the best, the elite puppy corps. When the news comes that your puppy has matched, and you know he will be a guide, there is a moment of incomprehension. The puppy that ran “zoomies” around my house is trustworthy enough to guide someone? My goofy puppy is to be depended upon for someone’s safety? There is an arc to puppy raising. You start with a goofy pup and just about the time you think, “I could live with this dog”, you’re asked to bring them back for training. The dog you bring back is not the puppy you picked up so you know in your heart the dog you raised is ready.

Puppy Raiser Day is a yo-yo day. You’re so happy your former pup is one of the elite few. You did it! Everything you worked for has come to pass. You’ve accomplished what you originally set out to do which was to give someone a gift they couldn’t give themselves. You want so much to be selfless and useful and kind. The cost of the gift you give is the loss of the companionship of a being with which you have spent nearly every moment for almost a year. It leaves a void. It is hard to be a puppy raiser, it’s not for cowards. Some raisers believe it is wise to get another pup the same day their old one goes in for training. That works for many people but for me there was the fear I’d look at the new pup and think, “Who are you and where is my dog?” I couldn’t do that to an innocent pup. It seemed to me reasonable to allow myself time to grieve and accept the loss of this close companionship. Reasonable, acceptable, sensible. My sorrow made my gift more meaningful to me. A gift that comes at no cost has no value. But in the end I was given more than I gave. Upon reflection it is hard to conceive of an entirely selfless act, that would be a rare thing I think.

The person who is matched with a raiser’s former pup is called a “student” for the duration of their time in training with their new dog. For four weeks the student and dog reside together at the Southeastern Guide Dog campus living and working as a team. If we are to be truthful then we must admit that students are given a dog who is still in no small part puppy. A dog who will require patience and diligent attention to training methods for some time before they reach maturity. While this dog comes to the student at no monetary cost there is still a price to pay. This price is paid in constancy, in patience, in commitment, and in love.

Puppy Raiser Day is the day a class of students and their dogs’ raisers meet for the first time. It falls at the end of the on-campus training of the new guide dog team. On Puppy Raiser Day students are asked to walk a short route with their new guide dog for the puppy raiser before everyone meets. Puppy raisers are asked to wait quietly a short distance away so as not to distract their former puppy. It is an anxious time for student, puppy and raiser. My former puppy, York, lifts his nose into the air, sniffs, pauses and makes direct eye contact with me as he arrives at the first curb of his route with his new forever person. He is, as always, too clever and observant for his own good. With every fiber of my being I will York not to break, not to run to me. With everything in my heart I silently ask him to stay with his forever person. You see, I had taken my job as a raiser very seriously. York went almost everywhere with me consequently anytime it became necessary for me to leave him home, either in his crate or with my husband, York was very unhappy. He simply couldn’t conceive of any reason he should be separated from me. At the end of these short partings York’s joy at our reunion was unbounded. No one, nothing would have kept him from me in these moments.

I will treasure forever the zoom lens photo I have of that exact moment York made eye contact with me on Puppy Raiser Day. He saw me, he knew me but he stayed with his new forever person…guiding. I was so proud, my bright boy did his job. Clever boy, good boy.

Melissa’s zoom lens photo: York looks straight at the camera as he helps Emily negotiate a turn.

After the route, polite introduction is made, small talk and the shaking of hands. York thrums with energy, trying with all his being to get my attention. I am delighted with my initial impression of York’s forever person Emily. We were read a short biography before the route. Emily’s bio makes it evident that she is smart and energetic and funny but she is obviously also captivated by York. I like her already. It is custom and courtesy to wait to be invited to visit with your old pup so I politely ask, “May I pet your dog?”, while York spins circles around me. Emily’s answering smile lights the day. She assents and removes York’s leather guide harness. Guide dogs are not to visit or play in harness, the wearing of it is meant to represent serious work time in their mind. York is a wiggling, happy mess. I leave my thoughtful husband to carry the brunt of the conversation with Emily because I’m having trouble taking my eyes away from York. I am riveted by the story York is telling with his ears, his tail, his eyes, the entire movement of his body. I still hear the puppy heart that always spoke to me, it beats a language I understand.

York lavishes me with kisses then turns to Emily as if to say to me, “Do you see her, do you see my Emily?!”
While turned York says to Emily with his doggy tongue smile, “Look! Look! My old people are here!” We are old to York not in years for dogs do not see their people that way. Dogs do not see age or infirmity or disability or race, they see us only through the eyes of love. We are York’s old people. Old and dear and loved like a cherished childhood teddy bear now outgrown.

With a touch of his nose York tells me he has missed me, but he turns quickly to check on Emily. He lets me know how wonderful he thinks she is.

York noses the leather harness Emily has handed off to a trainer to take back to her room. He urges me to see this brilliant contrivance that allows him to be truly connected to Emily. “See…See this, together Emily and I do wonderful things with this! Have you ever seen such a great thing?”

York continues his back and forth dialogue with me for several minutes. So happy to see me, so thrilled with Emily. Finally he slows a little and I undertake to join in on the conversation between Emily and my husband, worried that I might seem impolite by not participating more fully in exchange. When York notices that I am occupied he lowers himself to the ground next to Emily. He closes his eyes and sighs, his chin hugging Emily’s feet. He tells me how much he loves her. I must remind myself he’s a dog, he’s a dog, he’s a dog, he doesn’t really speak to me, but my heart knows otherwise.

Puppy Raiser Day includes a delicious brunch. York sits quietly under the table on Emily’s feet during brunch but he presses the flat of his nose against me. The more I get to know Emily the more I feel York has hit the puppy lottery. Emily is wonderful and kind and funny, a talented writer, a gifted vocalist. She leads a very active life, which is just perfect for the energy-filled York. They are, in so many ways, a great match. The brunch, the day, pass quickly and in a blur. When we’re making our goodbyes I give Emily a hug. I whisper in her ear, “Give him a job, he needs to work.” I hope she understands that work is something I can no longer give him now that his puppyhood is past. Real meaningful work, something York with all his breeding, truly needs, something Emily can give him, the special thing they would share. I cup York gently around the ears, kiss his nose and tell him to be a good boy, a good boy for Emily. York walks away with Emily without hesitation, head and tail up, wearing that happy, goofy, tongue hanging dog grin I recognize so completely and then they are gone. In that moment I know I’ve played my part well.

York is the best of the best, a member of an elite puppy corps. I was lucky to have him even for a short while. I will never forget him or be incognizant of the rare opportunity I was given to know such a great dog. I will be always thankful for the joy we shared for eleven wonderful months.

I’ve come to think of guide dog puppy raising in a very specific way. Being a puppy raiser is a bit like opening someone else’s gift. Some generous soul has allowed that you should borrow their astonishing new gift and play with it before they even get to see it.

Thank you, Emily, for lending me your puppy. IT. WAS. AWESOME.

December 30, 2014
Lasting Impressions

When I was nine years old, I longed to use the words amiable, countenance, and clergyman – though they never appeared in my spelling or phonics workbooks. I knew what it meant if a manor was entailed away, and I guessed that £2,000 in the 19th century was a sizable fortune. I understood that the oldest daughter in a household was addressed by her family name while her younger sisters would be addressed by their first names. I recognized that married women always wore a head covering: a wide-billed bonnet or a lacy cap. Sometimes the caps had ribbons or draping fabric that gave the lady’s gestures a swaying elegance.

I absorbed these extra-curricular customs by watching the 1995 Pride and Prejudice miniseries with my great-aunt, who explained the finer details of Regency culture around the familiar onscreen dialogue. I had first encountered Pride and Prejudice through a children’s TV show, “Wishbone,” in which a remarkably literary Jack Russell terrier guided viewers through abridged versions of the classics. Wishbone narrated in 25 minutes what Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehie dramatized in 5 hours – and I was enthralled with every second.

I loved the characters, especially stoic Mr. Bennet, melodramatic Mrs. Bennet, witty Lizzy Bennet, ebullient Mr. Bingley, and unctuous Mr. Collins. I appreciated how each character seemed like a real person, someone I could meet (or choose to avoid). And I loved how long it took for the couples to finally coalesce. Both Jane and Lizzy met their beaux in the first installment, but the couples weren’t solidified until the final installment; the in-between time covered family dramas and personal revelations.

Along with the characters and their vocabulary, I developed a penchant for the sounds of the series. I contrasted the tinny notes of the 19th century pianoforte with the full-bodied timbre of my grandmother’s honey-colored upright. I admired the delightful crunch of gravel beneath sturdy Georgian shoes. For weeks after I first saw the series, I shuffled my feet across any paved surface – hoping to replicate the textured noise of gravel underfoot. And I liked the deep clink of heavy silverware in use, the hearty swish of cloth napkins and table linen, the hollow snap of closing doors.

While I watched the characters adjust bonnet-ribbons or trade places on the dance floor, the author herself hovered in the background. I vaguely understood that this lively and colorful world had been created by Jane Austen. I knew that Austen had never married, that she wrote in the early 19th century, but to me, she was only a name. When I was ten, I decided to read Pride and Prejudice and meet Ms. Austen on the page. From the book’s first paragraph, I recognized lines skillfully repurposed in the onscreen version, and I felt confident navigating Austen’s prose.

Austen continued to be extra-curricular: I didn’t encounter her work in a schoolroom until eleventh grade – and even then, the excerpt we read was part of a mock final exam, not a serious literary immersion. My teacher chose the passage where Mr. Collins proposes to Elizabeth, and I instantly recognized his pompous, unromantic language. In the same year, I took a similar test to measure my reading level, and the passage indicating a twelfth-grade reading level also came from P&P: it was the scene where Lizzy Bennet first visits Pemberley.

In the same eleventh-grade English class, I discovered Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own, and her ardent discussion of early women writers motivated me to reexamine Austen’s work. When I reread P&P, I found that none of my early enthusiasm had waned: I still felt an unruly admiration for Jane Austen’s prose. I knew I wanted to spend my life working with great women writers, in person or in print.

Early on, I only knew Austen through P&P, but I eventually moved through her other novels – Sense and Sensibility, Emma, Mansfield Park, and Persuasion. So far, Persuasion, the story of the contemplative Anne Elliot, is my favorite Austen work, with Mansfield Park at a close second. Persuasion is an ecstasy of balance and precision while Mansfield Park is an untidy journey of self-discovery. Emma, in print and onscreen, is my least favorite Austen creation, but even here, she displays superb character-building.

After exploring most of her work, my curiosity about Austen’s life has led me to some “on Austen” reading. I enjoyed John Mullan’s What Matters in Jane Austen (2013), which explains how age, money, names, and even British seaside resorts work as cultural code – often misinterpreted or totally ignored by 21st-century readers. Paula Byrne’s The Real Jane Austen (also 2013) recounts the details of Austen’s life through treasured objects – an Indian shawl, a small notebook, a portrait – and describes how early family biographers strove to color Ms. Austen with appropriate Victorian modesty.

In Jane’s Fame: How Jane Austen Conquered the World (2010), Claire Harman devotes an entire chapter to debunking the modesty myths. According to family biographers, Jane Austen didn’t struggle with her writing or worry about making money. She didn’t value her work enough to be mortified by failure or overjoyed with success. She wasn’t worldly, never traveled far, didn’t look beyond her home sphere. She was satisfied with the crumbs of a literary life.

I don’t need Claire Harman to point out the falsehood here, but I’m glad she does anyway. To create such crystalline, proportionate prose, Austen had to care about her work; she had to consider it a worthy venture, or she would’ve spent her time elsewhere. Luckily, Harman has found passages in Austen’s letters that contradict the Victorian “model authoress” – passages that show the author’s spirited devotion to her craft.

Though Austen’s birthday was December 16, I am continuing my festivities: revisiting my favorite Austen texts and Austen-inspired media. I need to honor the woman who encourages me to write and pulls me toward kindred spirits – the woman whose work has been part of my orbit for 18 years.

December 21, 2014
Essay: “Voices in Error: Counting against Competence”

Today the Disability Rhetoric blog published my essay, “Voices in Error: Counting against Competence.” In this essay, I describe an ongoing conflict in my teaching practices – counting errors and standardizing student voices. Here is how the essay begins:

“Before I begin teaching in any classroom, I must tailor the environment to my specific needs. I secure my guide dog to the sturdy teacher’s desk, turn off three of the four lightswitches, and run my hand along the chalk tray to find the eraser and black dry- erase markers. I shuffle the blue and green markers to the end of the tray where I won’t confuse them with the colors I prefer. I move the desk chair from behind the bulky computer table and place it near the short, unadorned desk – careful not to disturb my dog, who lies underneath with a toy.

After the first course meeting, the novelty of my daily accommodations diminishes. Students welcome the dimmed lighting and rarely forget to submit assignments in large print. Only two features of the routine elicit regular comments – the guide dog and the whiteboard.”

Read the full article here.

December 18, 2014
An Early Celebration

For the past few years, I’ve prepared the same two Thanksgiving favorites: a batch of hot spiced cider and a colorful fruit and cheese platter. The cider mulls in the crockpot for several hours, glorifying the house with its perfume of cloves, oranges, cinnamon, ginger, and cranberries. The cheese platter usually consists of fresh blackberries, raspberries, or strawberries, surrounded by neat piles of crackers and cubed cheddar. In one corner of the oval platter rests a petite wheel of brie with a discreet triangle already removed; I cut the first slice so that the wheel looks more inviting.

While waiting for the forthcoming meal, ravenous family members amble through the kitchen, comforting themselves with hot cider, creamy brie, and cold fruit. We ladle the cider into coffee cups and mix in a little apple brandy. We wander past the pans of cornbread dressing and sweet potatoes, the plate of warm dinner rolls. I listen for the sounds of Dad’s carving knife and begin a slow, nonchalant stroll toward the kitchen – arriving just in time to sneak a sample of turkey.

As I mentally pack my canvas bags with the necessary ingredients for tomorrow’s festivities, I must add some new items to my list. A water bowl, a nylabone…In my mind, I am moving items from my backpack to my grocery bag. This imaginary exercise assures that I won’t forget any essentials. Tomorrow, York and I will celebrate our first Thanksgiving together, and he won’t feel very festive if I forget his food.

In addition to its national flavor, tomorrow marks a special day for York and me – Match Day. Five months ago on June 27, I accepted York into my life, and I’m delighted that our Match Day aligns with a feast of gratitude.

On June 27, I was completing my first week of training at guide dog school, away from home and among new friends. York and I had known each other for 3 days – a period of emotional upheaval. He was standoffish. I was desperate. But a few days’ work in harness showed me that York deserved my faith – and I cannot now remember which came first, my trust in him or his respect for me. Either way, the new feelings conquered the old, and without anxiety, I told my trainer that I wanted York: I couldn’t imagine working with any other dog.

These five months with York have taught me to appreciate strange, tiny experiences. To say that York is helping me find a new freedom sounds so bland when I relive the thrills of our movement together.

When I traveled with a cane, I chose familiar routes – away from crowds, sunlight, or random tables and golf carts. If the light or the crowd shifted, I had to slow down, regroup, and search for another way to my destination. My mental plan was an exercise in troubleshooting and error-spotting, the slightest change throwing my brain’s navigational systems into overdrive.

When York guides me, I can seek out sunlight; I can watch it slide sloppily over indiscernible shapes that might be trees or people or bicycles. If my path is blocked by a yellow caution sign, a poorly parked golf cart, or a cluster of students, York finds a way forward. And because he is more mischievous than compliant, he usually chooses the most improbable path – just to prove he can get me through tight spaces.

I realize how much York is changing me not in large, dramatic moments, but in small snatches of experience – the walk through the sun-bleached courtyard, the narrow escape from the ribbon-line in the coffee shop, the quick swerve past the standing “Wet Floor” placard. If I’m not paying attention, these momentary adventures slip out of the world of words and into the ether.

But I can remember how the caution placards used to catch my cane and crash to the floor. I can remember how rarely I ventured beyond my familiar routes. I never thought of myself as an explorer because I never wanted to explore.

So today and tomorrow – and for the rest of my life – I will thank York for waking me up, for helping me transform myself. I will thank him for the unexpected warmth he has kindled, the love he asks of me. I will thank him for the silliness, the puppy talk, the nighttime cuddles and ear rubs – all signs of a softness that he trusts.

I will thank York for walking and working beside me, for matching my pace and pulling me forward.

November 26, 2014
Practising Inclusive Access [Reblogged from Dr. Hannah Thompson, UK]

I’ve decided to share a post from Blind Spot, a fantastic blog written by Dr. Hannah Thompson. In this blog post, she presents several simple suggestions for making conferences and meetings more accessible to disabled participants:

“As I become more involved in Disability Studies as a discipline, I find myself increasingly invited to attend disability-themed events at both my own and other institutions. These range from academic conferences where I present my work and discuss the work of others, to talks for a general audience about issues around disability, and meetings and workshops about improving support for both disabled students and staff across the HE sector.

The organisers of such events do a great job of ensuring that they are always wheelchair accessible. But disabled access is about a lot more than wheelchairs. Recently I have found myself in the somewhat paradoxical position of discussing the importance of disability awareness-raising during a number of events which were not fully accessible to me. Powerpoints are almost always used, but I rarely encounter a speaker who takes the time to describe the images on the screen. Handouts are often circulated but unless they have been sent round in advance, I am unable to access the information they contain.

Practising inclusive access is not as onerous as it sounds. In fact many of the suggestions I list below are incredibly easy to incorporate.”

Read the full article here.

I can’t count the number of blindness events I’ve attended that have ignored principles of universal access. Even events designed to help or encourage blind people forget to enlarge their handouts or direct newcomers to the meeting with accessable signage. What kind of message does such forgetfulness extend to a newly blind person?

These guidelines are not just for disability-related organizations. Failing to extend access to all participants in a discussion is like printing 24 handouts for 26 students – or deliberately printing the materials in a foreign language. If we take this access out of a disability context, the measures become inexcusable; you wouldn’t expect a student to “just listen and follow along” without a handout when everyone else has their own copy to annotate.

As a moderator, teacher, facilitator – as a leader of any kind – you have a responsibility to welcome everyone at the table. Inclusive access is no longer about doing the legal minimum (“Well I’ll address those needs in the future if she happens to come up and tell me about the problem”). It’s about empathetic planning. The essence of forethought is that it attempts to anticipate what others may need.

We all know our clients, our students, our staff. Many of our disabled staff give us regular visual reminders – a dog, a wheelchair, a white cane, a hearing aid. Let’s decide in this moment to be proactive, to engage in a dialogue about effective methods of presentation before the meeting even starts.

Everyday empathy is what builds a just world.

November 15, 2014
My letter to the Purdue OWL coordinator

Good evening, [Moderator],

My name is [Modwyn], and I’m teaching a business writing course at [my university]. My students are beginning a unit on appropriate language use, and I’m directing them to the OWL’s excellent entry on this topic.

While reviewing the entry on stereotyped and biased language, I couldn’t help but notice the omission of any language relating to disability. As a disabled writer, I’m well aware that the language used to describe disability is highly contested among disability rights activists and scholars. Though members of the disabled community may not unanimously vote for the same terms or the abolishing of person-first language, I can safely say that a list of offensive terms definitely exists. I bring this to your attention because mainstream sources often employ and laud these terms: “differently abled” is a fine example.

I imagine that adding disability to the categories already listed on this page would be an ambitious project, but I believe it’s a worthy one. Many students may find themselves writing for disability services organizations or medical organizations that regularly address disability and disabled people in less-than-human terms. Many professors who frequent this page may realize that the commonplace language of disability – so rarely chosen by the people it discusses – is just as inappropriate as the linking of intelligence and hair color. Even a short paragraph addressing some of the flagrantly passe words and phrases would be a gesture of inclusion to any reader connected personally or professionally with disability.

Thank you for maintaining these excellent resources and helping us share in the delight of teaching writing.

With best,
[Modwyn]

November 3, 2014
Poems: “Comparing Apples” and “Travel”

Compose: A Journal of Simply Good Writing published two of my poems in their Fall 2014 issue.

Read the poems here.

October 28, 2014
Essay: Sight and Singing

My three-part essay, “Sight and Singing,” appeared in the Fall 2014 issue of Breath & Shadow: A Journal of Disability Culture and Literature:

“I enter the large conference room, holding Kerry’s elbow. High ceilings and bare floors amplify the sound of our students’ voices as we find seats at the long folding tables. Most of our students are sitting at the table in front, so we choose seats behind them. For the next six hours, we will occupy cold, metal folding chairs – and mine makes an unnecessary amount of noise when I draw it away from the table. It scrapes along the floor, the sound intensified by the chair’s hollow legs.”

Read the full essay here.

October 22, 2014
Article: Introducing my guide dog to the world of classical music

Today Minnesota Public Radio published my piece about York’s presence in my musical life:

“JACKSONVILLE, Fla. — It’s Tuesday evening, and after a four-week hiatus, I’m finally attending chorus rehearsal again — but I haven’t assumed my usual place on the risers. I’m seated toward the back of the hall, awaiting a cue from my director and trying to curtail the explorations of my new companion: an 18-month-old black Labrador.”

Read the full article here.

October 14, 2014
Review: Courtney Lewis leads the Jacksonville Symphony in a rousing Symphonie Fantastique

Here is my latest article for Minnesota Public Radio, a review of the Jacksonville Symphony Orchestra’s impressive season opener:

“On Friday, Sept. 26, the Jacksonville Symphony Orchestra opened its 2014-2015 season with their new music director designate, Courtney Lewis — formerly of the Minnesota Orchestra.”

Read the full article here.

September 30, 2014
Interview: “Dialogue on Blindness and Writing”

With other disabled writers, I participated in an interview for the September issue of Wordgathering: A Journal of Disability Poetry and Literature:

“Jill Khoury, Emily Lund, Emily Michael and Kristen Witucki are four writers whose work in poetry and fiction has openly addressed issues of physical disability. Wordgathering invited them to take part in a discussion surrounding issues of craft and publication for writers with visual disabilities.”

Read the full interview here.

September 13, 2014
Essay: “Lightspending”

My essay, “Lightspending” was published in the September issue of Wordgathering: A Journal of Disability Poetry and Literature. The essay is part of a larger collection: blind writers responding to John Milton’s sonnet “On His Blindness.” Here is how the editors introduced my essay:

“Michael’s essay is a narrative of personal experience. It is pegged to Milton’s sonnet only in the oblique reference of its title and the images of light that she weaves throughout the piece. Still, it is a consideration of how light is spent — one freed of religious overtones in a way that Milton could probably never have imagined.”

Read my essay here.

Read the complete responses to Milton here.

September 13, 2014
Interview: “Therapeutic music: Edith Moore-Hubert on the healing properties of classical music.”

Today Classical MPR published my interview of a Jacksonville musician:

“With a master’s degree in piano performance from Manhattan School of Music, Edith Moore-Hubert has performed in academic, liturgical, medical, and concert settings for almost 30 years. In 2010, she released a solo CD, Music to Calm Your Soul. She describes her music as therapeutic, and I asked her to share some insight into the healing potential of classical music. ”

Read the full article.

September 3, 2014
#TLC: Two-Way Teaching

On the first day of every semester, I always carry extra baggage. In spring, summer, and fall, I must replenish my office and bring in all the graded final assignments. As I trace the familiar path past the library and through Starbucks, I sag under the weight of several canvas bags filled with tea, travel mugs, books, air fresheners, and other teaching essentials. Generally I bear the bulk of this gear on the left so that my right hand and arm can manipulate the white cane.

But this fall, my hands serve different purposes: the left wraps around a square harness handle and the right is poised to handle the leather leash. My teaching gear has been crammed into a purple floral backpack, and my fabric lunchbox dangles from my right wrist. Under my right arm, I carry a tightly rolled rectangular carpet – a new necessity. An outside pocket on my backpack holds other items not needed in previous semesters: a collapsable water bowl, a pet first aid kit, a well-loved plastic bone, and several crumpled grocery bags. An inner pocket protects a tupperware container filled with kibbles.

New habits accompany the items in my bag. Now, while I walk, I carry on a quiet conversation with the pup at my side – giving directions and praise as he learns my preferred routes on campus. I stop when he stops, move forward when he moves, and adjust the leash when he buries his nose in the hedges. I receive many more greetings and prepare answers for the three most common questions: “Can I pet him?” “How old is he?” “Is he a full Lab?”

At my office, I ask York to sit while I find the electronic key. I unlock the door, usher him inside, and take off his harness. I clip one end of his tie-down around the leg of my desk and attach the other clip to his training collar. Then I gently push him out of the way so I can set up his space.

I unroll the small rug and tuck it into the far right corner of my office. I lure York to his new spot with a toy, but he doesn’t stay there long. While I unpack my backpack, he crawls under my desk to rest his head on my feet. He watches as I stash his lunch in a lower desk drawer, out of his reach. He sticks his nose in the trash can, noisily searching for my apple core.

Throughout the morning, York and I complete several errands – picking up photocopies, placing my lunch in the breakroom fridge, meeting with colleagues. I consolidate these trips so I won’t have to take York’s harness on and off several thousand times. I want him to have harness-free time in my office, and I have to consider the errands that York needs: busy breaks, water breaks, and meal time. I arrange these activities around my teaching schedule, mentally planning which paths we’ll take to get to each class.

On the way to my first class, I decide to introduce York to the staircase outside my office building. He has already learned the inside hallways I travel most; he can predict when to turn left or right as we walk. Once outside, I tell York “Over right, find the steps,” and he takes me to the staircase, stopping just short of the first step. I place my right foot on the step’s edge, reach for the rail, praise him, and say, “Forward down.”

We slowly descend with York a few steps ahead of me. The harness handle sways as he walks down, and he pauses every few steps to let me catch up. On the landing, he guides me around to the next railing, but he doesn’t step down until I give the command.

At the bottom, we round a corner and find a small triangle of grass. I take York’s harness off and give him time to explore. While York takes his break, a harried student asks me for directions. I answer the student’s questions as York wanders back to me, tail wagging. I slip the harness on and we walk to our first class.

Inside the bright classroom, several students are already seated. York and I enter through the door at the front, striding across the classroom to the large teacher’s desk. I ask York to sit and clip his leash around the desk leg. I present him with another of his favorite toys; hopefully he’ll settle down and chew away while I talk to the class.

The atmosphere changes as I unpack my bag and York snuffles around under the desk. Some students lean forward, whispering excitedly. One student asks Question #2, and I respond, “He’s 18 months, which is young for a guide dog.” I feel myself smiling as I answer – I’ve got the New Parent Glow, the face that says, “Yes, I’m perfectly willing to talk about all my pup’s accomplishments for several hours.”

When the classroom is full, I welcome students to the course. I introduce myself, adding, “And you may have noticed my teaching assistant under the desk.” I explain that York is a working guide dog, that they shouldn’t talk to him or try to pet him while he’s wearing the harness. While I present this solemn speech, York rolls on the floor – snorting, jingling his harness, and kicking his legs. I sigh, “It’s his first semester teaching.” The students laugh, and I promise that York will be free to play if they come by my office.

Two days later, York and I are traveling the same hallway, ready for our second class meeting of the term. York walks calmly beside me, undisturbed by the people rushing on either side. His head doesn’t even turn when a female student coos, “Ooohh he’s so handsome!” He’s aloof, work-focused. I feel a soft breeze across the fingers of my left hand – produced by York’s wagging tail. His tail swings up and out, keeping time with our feet; it’s something I’ve just started to notice when we walk together.

Halfway down the hall, the harness handle jerks upward, and I can feel York leaping in the air. I pull down hard on the handle and grab the leash in my right hand: “Easy, easy!” York halts beside me, panting, while I search for the distraction that got him so riled up. I hear laughing and cooing to my left.

“It’s us,” calls a woman from behind a folding table. “We’re from the Counseling Center. We’re handing out stress balls.”

“Oh, that explains it; he loves balls.” Beside me, York’s tail agrees. Though he is standing still, his whole body leans towards the table. Another woman at the table offers me a ball, and I shake my head. “He would tear it up.”

The table voices chorus: “Awwwww.”

As the workday ends, York and I walk downstairs and take the outdoor route around Starbucks and past the library. Near the sign that proclaims, “Brown Rice Sushi” in huge bubbly letters, York stops for some intense sniffing – something he shouldn’t do while he’s guiding me. I correct him, but he won’t pick his head up. This likely means that he’s found something to eat.

Again, I correct him, and he lifts his head. I reach for his mouth and tell him to “leave it,” – though, at this point, I don’t know what “it” is. Without complaint, York lets me run my fingers over his mouth, and I find his jaws clenched around something round and squishy. As I pry the squishy thing out of his mouth, I repeat, “York, drop it,” just for good measure. He doesn’t fight me, and once I’ve got the thing in my hand, I recognize it: a stress ball. I relieve some stress by throwing it away.

August 30, 2014
Love Songs: Guide Dog Training Part 4

This short piece appeared in the Graduate Corner section of Forward Together: A Newsletter for Graduates of Southeastern Guide Dogs (August/September issue).

* * *

Before I started training at Southeastern, I spent hours dreaming of the moment when I would meet my pup. In my mind’s eye, the dog – features unspecified – would enter the room, bound toward me, and leap into my arms. Everything about its body language would shout, “I can’t wait to begin our life together!”

So when I was actually introduced to my pup, a black lab male named York, I had to watch my dreamscape crumble into ungainly pieces. Once his CCT* left the room, York ran to the end of his leash, dropped to the floor, and began a plaintive wail. Trainers assured me that York would warm up, but I didn’t believe them. I imagined York staring haughtily into the distance and longed for the moment when I would know that he actually cared about me.

When York and I worked for the first time in harness, I began to understand the level of trust and courage we both needed. On the nature trail, we prepared to step down out of the gazebo, and I froze. Unwilling to let York’s paws gauge the depth of the step down, I wanted my cane: I wasn’t prepared to depend on another being, especially one who didn’t seem to like me very much. After an eternity of minutes, I did step down – and I didn’t twist an ankle. York’s paws and my feet were safely on the path, moving forward. In that small gesture, I recognized his potential in harness.

Learning to trust my trainers as well as York, I should have believed them when they said the long recall would make me happy. After I left York in a sit-stay, he began a familiar sound – the morose whine I remembered from our initial meeting. At the end of the designated hallway, I called his name and heard him barreling down corridors, collar jingling, paws thumping. I saw him flying toward me – a huge hurtling black blur. My trainer caught him before he could leap into my arms.

When I left him on tie-down so I could do laundry, I heard York’s song again. I timed the process of loading the washer: not more than 5 minutes. But York stood at the half-open door to my room, his cries amplified by the long hallway. I turned down the hallway and saw him sprawled in my doorway, looking deflated. When I came to the door, I heard him leaping with joy, tail swinging, ears flapping.

I know I should quiet his vocal outbursts, but I can’t help smiling when York starts crying for me. His persistent whine – more like the moan of an injured whale – rings in my ears like a love song. It’s the theme to my longed-for moment, the song that says he wants me beside him.

* Canine Care Technician

August 6, 2014

Emily K. Michael

Emily K. Michael is a blind poet, musician, and writing instructor. She serves as the poetry editor for Wordgathering at Syracuse University. She is also a poetry mentor in AWP’s Writer to Writer program. Her work focuses on music, embodiment, teaching, and ecology. Emily is passionate about birds, medieval history, singing, and guide dogs.

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