Already he had constructed a personal identity that said he would never be a doctor, and he would never treat patients. He would never even be able to care for himself. He would be forever helpless, dependent, worthless, handicapped, blind. From Superman with super thoughts and dreams, hopes and ideas, Brenden had become Clark Kent—invisible, vacuous, disconnected—and all of this occurred in an accident that took only five seconds.

He expressed none of these emotions. Time had not yet allowed him to come to terms with his feelings, much less to communicate them, and so he did not speak. Not to his mother, who constantly sat at the end of his bed, or to Charlie, who hovered at the far side of the room, or to Lindsey. He registered that Lindsey came and went, like a restless bird, not willing to perch or nest.

He registered this information but did not indicate he knew. He worked to keep his eyes closed, pretending to be asleep, wanting to remain alone. He heard their muffled conversations, wondering oddly if his newly acquired blindness already improved his capacity to listen. They spoke quietly, sometimes with each other in shorthand and sometimes with the doctor, a good man who came in twice a day to check on him.

When that man asked him how he was doing, the manners that his mother had so diligently worked to teach him instinctively took over. He said he was fine, that nothing hurt, that he wanted to go home as soon as possible, and then when the doctor left, he would turn his face to the wall, especially after the physician confirmed to all of them that the damage to the occipital lobe, causing his blindness, would quite likely be permanent. Surprisingly, they did not press him. In fact, they, too, seemed uncomfortable about sharing any conversation that would open up the floodgates to feelings so new and not yet understood.

He heard them discussing the preparations they were making with the hospital's rehab people regarding what they might do to make his homecoming easier. They would be signing him up for adult classes in mobility and rehabilitation. His mother talked about finding a counselor who would help him begin to move forward with his life. Charlie even talked about things that they could still do together.

Brenden heard it all, absorbed it, and then threw it all away. He was blind, and that meant life was over. Oh sure, he had read about people like Helen Keller, who overcame her double disability; Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles, who were remarkably gifted in music; and there was even this guy, Eric Weihenmayer, who recently climbed Mount Everest. But they weren't Brenden McCarthy, and he wasn't willing even to try to get his life back. What was the point? God had dumped him on that mountain, and so he would quit, give up.

Lying there in his hospital bed, the weight of his situation crushing his chest, crushing his heart, he was sure that God would not punish him for wanting to escape. Wasn't it God who had caused his injury? And so shouldn't God cut him a little slack, forgive him for his sin and grant him his place in heaven?

Visiting hours finally ended, and the blessed night settled over the hospital. He was so glad his mother and Charlie had gone back to the motel and he was alone. And where was Lindsey? He didn't know, and his recognition that she wasn't there profoundly deepened his sense of hopelessness and self-pity.

Time moved slowly because he was unable to sleep, and in that state he found himself unable to shut off his mind. For the hundredth time, he considered how he could bring his now worthless life to an end. He wished that his head had split wide open in the fall. He so wished that he had died that way, certainly causing his mother grief, but nowhere near as much as she would feel when he acted on the decision he knew he was going to make.

How to end it, he thought. How to rid the world of a useless young man with an infirmity. How to check out of my personal existence.

The limitations of his blindness reduced his choices, even in this ultimate act. He knew from listening to conversations that he was on the second floor of the hospital, probably not high enough to jump, even if he could find and then open a window. There were no pills available, and nothing sharp within his reach. So what did all that mean? He would have to go home and work on his demise from there. And yet that wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be fair to his mother. No. He would have to create an alternative, and that would require him to at least tacitly begin some kind of rehabilitation process, even if it only meant that it got him out of his house and into a different environment. So tomorrow he would go home, and then he thought of a phrase that almost made him laugh. He would keep his eyes open—ha!—until he found the opportunity to—what? He knew the inevitable answer to that question.

 

How MANY DAYS HAD IT been? Mora wondered as Charlie drove her back to the motel where they had been staying. She actually couldn't remember. Time ceased to exist, and like her son, day and night did not seem to have any significance. The world turned, but hers stopped. She had buried her husband, and now what? What did the fates—or more relevant to her, faith—really mean? What did God have in mind? What test was she expected to cope with now? What was she supposed to learn?

After thanking Charlie and closing the door to her room, she flopped onto the bed and buried her face in the pillows. She wanted to scream. She wanted God to hear. She wanted him to know how unfair it all was. I could cope with Brian's death, she thought, but my son being blind; I don't know if I can handle that. More to the point, I don't know if he can. Or even more to the point, I don't know if he has the will.

Her thoughts somehow became a prayer. Dear God, please give Brenden the strength to understand the way and to accept his burden as your will. Amen. Like a hamster on a wheel, the thought kept revolving—the same prayer over and over again.

Over the last few days, she had done what she always did—jump into any crisis and try to become organized. She had talked to the Colorado Rehabilitation Center for the Blind and been referred to a counselor in Denver, who surprised her when he spoke by telling her that Brenden's reaction was not particularly unusual.

"There has to be a grieving period," he said, "and from what little I know about your son, there also has to be some time to allow anger to be expressed. Stabilizing him psychologically will take time, Mrs. McCarthy. It's a long road with a great many pitfalls, but we'll work on it together, one step at a time."

"Is there anything I should be doing? I mean, in terms of preparing our house for his coming home?"

The man on the other end laughed softly. "I'm sorry, Mrs. McCarthy. I didn't mean to laugh. It's just that people ask me that all the time. What's most important for your son and for any newly blind person is that everything in his surroundings be the same as he remembers when he was sighted. We'll be trying to plug his new, developing sensory capacity and mobility into the mental pictures of environments that he already had before his accident."

"Thank you," Mora said, understanding. "I'll just try to make it like home."

"That's worth a lot, Mrs. McCarthy. Love is always the best cure-all."

 

Lindsey had been in and out of the hospital for the last three days, and as she drove home to Denver, this time obeying the speed limits, she was angry at herself. Why had she been so uncomfortable with Brenden and his mother? Of course I'm worried, she thought. I love Brenden. I want him to get well, to see again. Is that it? Am I so selfish that if he's not perfect, I can't handle it? Do I not have the patience or goodness or love to share my life with someone who—she nearly choked on the words—is handicapped?

She pulled her car into a rest stop as the tears started to come. Were they tears of sadness or tears of disgust at the kind of person she was being forced to face? Eventually, she shook off her malaise and framed her own reality. It isn't wrong, she thought to herself. I'm not wrong if I'm not sure I can cope with this. I have hopes and dreams and goals of my own. If I can't handle the idea that someone I wanted to marry is going to be blind, that doesn't make me a bad person. Almost anyone with a life to live would feel the same way.

Her cell phone buzzed.

"Lindsey? It's Andrea. Are you going to make study group? We really need your precedent brief."

Lindsey was glad for the diversion.

"I'll be there," she said. "Tell everyone not to worry. Lindsey the litigator will be there."

That's who she was going to be: a lady lawyer litigator, driven to be a lioness in court, a winner in life, and a woman with an unswerving determination to be the best.

 

Brenden was back at home and in his bedroom. Another day. Another night. He didn't care. Nature was challenging his bladder, and he knew he had to deal with it. Earlier they had wheeled him out of the hospital, a requirement of the medical protocol, right to his mother's car, so all he had to do was get in and ride.

Arriving home, Charlie nearly carried him up to his room, both of them feeling completely awkward, not understanding how to move together. The newly blinded young man was hesitant to put one foot in front of the other, and his friend treated him as if he were a crystal vase. At last his mother kissed him good night and went to bed, and now he would have to make his first independent voyage.

Where was the bathroom? he thought, trying to picture it. Out the door, down the hall, to the right. That's what he remembered. Hands out in front of him, he moved hesitantly toward the door, but his angle was wrong, and he knocked a picture off his bureau— a picture of Lindsey, he knew—beautiful, independent, wonderful Lindsey. He hadn't heard from her today. That didn't really surprise him.

Finding the knob, he stepped into the hall and turned left. One, two, three, four, five steps. The door to the bathroom should be on his right. Extending his hands, the feeling of the mountain returned. His toes rocked over the edge, and he teetered precariously on the stairway.

Instinct took over as he fought to maintain his balance, throwing himself backward. He slid down the first three stairs on his rear and stopped. Gus got to him first. He loved this little dog, and the animal's concern immediately registered as he licked Brenden's face. His mother was right behind.

"Oh my— Brenden! Are you all right?"

"Oh sure," he said quickly. "I'm fine. Sorry, Mom. I guess I just turned the wrong way and forgot to turn the light on."

Neither one of them laughed at his effort to make a joke.

His mother helped him to the bathroom and then back to his bedroom, and for the first time in his life, Gus stayed with him, crawling up under the covers and snuggling close.

"Hey, Gus," Brenden said, "what are you going to do, become a seeing-eye dog? I think you're a little small for the work."

The dog licked him again.

"You know what?" Brenden told the animal in the dark. "You shouldn't waste your time on me. I'm not worth it, and I'm not going to be around for very long."

The animal cuddled into the man's shoulder, making it clear that he didn't agree.

 

chapter eight

 

By late-night stealth, a dozen roses for his secretary, and forged paperwork, Smitty once again enrolled Nelson, aka Bart, into the guide dog program. And the animal reluctantly took his place in the kennel with dogs on a string that were in stage three. Smitty hoped against hope for a student in his next class who would have the skills and drive to handle this most special animal. For now he would work Nelson as a part of his string and say a small prayer.

Smitty loved training guide dogs. He loved it because he felt it was the highest form of human-animal bonding. He also loved it because he knew that these remarkable creatures gave without question once they committed to their masters. "Love in its purest form," he always told friends. "That's what we see when we work with these dogs, love in its purest form."

He learned the history of guide work when he came into the field after his years in the air force. The work began in Germany at around the turn of the century and found its way to America just after World War II. A remarkable woman named Dorothy Eustis became aware of young German soldiers blinded during the war who were using dogs as guides. She had the vision to bring the work to America, and over the years her work changed the lives of countless blind people across the country.

When he became a guide dog trainer, Smitty learned that only three out of every hundred canine candidates found their way into the work. Today with the scientific sophistication of excellent breeding programs and puppy raisers who teach basic socialization and obedience skills, that ratio had improved dramatically. Smitty was delighted that six or seven out of every ten dogs who made it through the difficult training process now went on to take their places with blind people around the world. He so admired the people who were willing to be those puppy raisers. These were the best of the best, as far as he was concerned— human beings who poured their hearts into the animals during their first crucial months and then gave them up to a higher calling. True, Smitty also had to endure the same parting when he completed his work with an animal, but somehow the civilians, as he thought of them, really deserved a lot of credit.

His string began its third stage of training, and, as always, he was behind in his paperwork. The animals were graded on a one-to-five scale, with no dog going into the field that didn't score a three or above on every criterion of behavior. So as Smitty labored to complete his overdue report on the animals, he considered the training cycle the dogs were going through.

First and foremost, all of the animals who arrived at Guide Dogs for the Blind had to become comfortable in kennel life. They had been living with families, and all of them hated the restriction of the kennel. So in the first few days of association with their new handler, a whole lot of TLC had to be doled out, and the dogs generally responded gratefully to the love.

Smitty always looked for patterns in the animals as he worked to reinforce the basic obedience instilled by the puppy raisers. Sit, down, stay, come, and let's go, a more informal way of suggesting the traditional heel. He always watched the dog's eyes for any hesitation or fear or to see if the dog was too sensitive when given gentle suggestion or correction. Smitty also looked for any extended lapses of attention as the dogs interacted with other dogs in the string.

He sat at his desk reviewing his notes on Nathaniel, a yellow Lab with much the same personality as Nelson. Nathaniel loved it when they employed the new technique of treadmilling the dogs. Treadmilling occurred the first few days after the animals got to know their trainers and enjoyed working through simple obedience. It was critical to the overall success of the work to create in the dog the desire to move forward in a straight line while maintaining a forward pressure in the harness. With that forward press, the blind master would be able to read every nuance of the dog's motion. This technique was called "harness pull," and it was critical if the dogs were ever going to perform appropriately in the field.

Using a treadmill and treats, the dogs would be encouraged— first for only fifteen to twenty seconds, and then eventually up to five minutes—to keep up with the pace of the treadmill, with the handler holding the harness. In this way the dog both felt the pressure of the harness on his chest and received rewards for maintaining his forward momentum.

Smitty was amazed at how well the use of the treadmill improved the way the dog translated his behavior to later work. Also, Smitty loved the idea that early in the training the dog and his new handler were having a sort of adventure that they both enjoyed.

Nathaniel did very well on his treadmill experience, and Smitty turned the page to take a look at Nathaniel's response to the next phase of training. This was called "pattern training."

The dogs spent about four weeks with their instructors literally patterning every behavior that would eventually be part of the real work. The catch was that none of it involved the use of the harness. The dogs were only asked to walk with their trainers and encouraged to understand the patterns that were presented.

During this four-week period, trainers provided the dog with every answer. They made sure that the animal moved in a straight line, avoided obstacles, stopped appropriately at the edge of curbs, and entered buildings safely. There was also the search for elevators and escalators, along with finding an empty chair or a car in a crowded parking garage. Then there were the overhangs. These were the most difficult obstacles to teach any animal, and instructors spent a lot of time reaching up and rattling the potential danger with their hands and encouraging the dogs to look up. In this process of positive conditioning, the animals were being exposed to the work they would eventually have to do for real with the blind people they would serve.

Smitty made a note in the margin that Nathaniel was one of those very good ones that seemed to take on the behaviors, even during this first month. He stopped at curbs on his own and even seemed willing to pick up his pace—"hop up" as they called it—whenever the trainer wanted the dog to move faster. He also noted that Nathaniel was a "little doggy," meaning that he could be distracted by other animals they passed in the street, not a good thing in guide work but certainly correctable.

In the second month of the animal's training, Smitty was amazed when he thought of how much positive reinforcement came out of the first four weeks, when the handler provided the animal with all the answers. As an example, Nathaniel moved immediately in a straight line when the harness was put on, maintaining constant pressure and providing the handler with good harness feel. He also stopped on a dime whenever they came upon a curb, though he still demonstrated a certain affinity to being "doggy."

One of the most complex issues facing dog and trainer is that of traffic check. For Smitty, this was critical in training any animal. He constantly reminded himself that dogs were colorblind and that their relationship to traffic motion needed to be a constant process of conditioning to the idea of danger.

Even in the early stages, when an instructor took all the responsibility for teaching the animal, dogs were encouraged to be acutely aware of traffic. Trainers conditioned and tested their dogs with a sort of game. Every time a car came close or sped around a corner, the dog would be asked to go forward, and then firmly but with love the idea was imposed that the dog was to stop in spite of the forward command.

In the entire training process, the positions of go and stop had to be handled carefully. And as Smitty reviewed the notes on Nathaniel, he was pleased to see that nothing disturbed the dog's sense of well-being. Actually, Smitty had refined this technique over the years by never applying the word no to the stop. He found that if he just used gentle physical restraint, the dogs got the idea.

Smitty read on. Nathaniel held up very well during the second month, in which the same first-month patterns of training were reapplied, this time with the trainer working the dog in the harness. At the end of the second month, all the instructors went under blindfolds when they worked their animals as a sort of final examination of the dog's development.

Smitty had mixed feelings about this idea. The simple truth was that no sighted person putting on a blindfold functioned in the way that a student would who had been blind since birth or over an extended period of time. On the other hand, Smitty rationalized that in many ways the dogs had to work harder to compensate for their instructors' ineptness than they would when they took their place in the field with a real blind person. In the end, he decided that blindfolding was an appropriate exercise.

This marked the halfway point in the training process. The third stage was probably the most critical in the transformation of the dogs. Here the animal was asked to demonstrate intelligent disobedience, and this was where Nathaniel scored remarkably well. The theory was that the dog must be willing to countermand the command of the trainer for the sake of safety. Forward only meant forward when it was safe, because traffic, an overhang, bad footing, manholes, or any other obstacle might threaten the safety of the blind person.

Smitty was always amazed at the capacity of the dogs to love enough so that even if they were aggressively corrected by the master because the blind person did not understand what was going on, the dog would hold firm and never endanger his person.

It was also in this period that the trainers developed their dog's work inside buildings. They took trips into San Francisco, where the dogs were forced to face extraordinary complexity in traffic patterns and people movement. When the animal freely took on the concept of intelligent disobedience, a working bond was truly complete. Smitty loved watching dogs gain in confidence, becoming ever happier as they took on more and more direct responsibility.

He loved to see an animal work with bright eyes and a constantly wagging tail, as if the dog was doing the thing he had been designed for. It came down to this: when the dog was ready to meet his blind master, the animal had to have the confidence to compensate for the hesitance and awkwardness that new students often exhibited. That confidence was critical to being able to grow and work together.

Trainers like to say everything comes down the leash, meaning that in the beginning the dog absolutely knows his job; it's the student who struggles. The turnaround happens as the student gains confidence and provides the animal with the kind of direction that allows them to become one—a team together.

Smitty knew that students came to the program in all sizes, shapes, and ages. He understood that his job was to make sure that the dogs were completely confident and ready to take on any concerns that might be expressed by their new handlers.

Smitty sat back in his chair thinking about Nathaniel's future. It was clear that this animal would do extremely well in the field if Smitty could match him appropriately. The key to good matching was to make the connection between student and dog, based on the animal's sensitivity along with the student's lifestyle, desire, and capacity to get the most from the animal. This balancing of dog and person was the most important part of what Smitty did.

As he sat reading Nathaniel's report, he couldn't help but think about Nelson. Over the last few days, he had taken the black Lab out of the kennel and worked him, astounded at the animal's talent. No dog he had ever known demonstrated the immediate awareness for the work that he felt in the handle of the harness when Nelson did his thing. This was simply the best dog he'd ever known, and as he looked at the list of students that would be coming and meeting the N class of guide dogs, he hoped to God there would be someone who could both handle and get the most from this astounding creature.

 

chapter nine

 

The secretary informed Brenden that Mr. Barnes would see him in just a few minutes after he finished a conference down the hall. Brenden sat uncomfortably on the edge of a couch, listening to the sound of a clock ticking in the far corner of the room and wondering how much time he'd have to spend with this intake counselor.

Charlie brought him to the offices of the Colorado Rehabilitation Center for the Blind for this required meeting. Brenden decided he would answer this guy's questions and make the session as quick as possible. He knew what he was going to do. This was just a formality. Nothing would change his plans.

In the three weeks since his accident, he rarely came out of his bedroom. In fact, his mother brought him most of his meals on a tray. Until this morning, he remained unshaven and just barely clean. Lindsey had been by to see him only twice, and on other days she made excuses that her workload was extremely heavy. The inevitability of where their relationship seemed to be heading deepened his depression. And so he was sure that nothing this man could say would make any difference.

The big voice from outside the door seemed to vibrate everything in the room.

"Annie, is the McCarthy kid here?" It sounded more like a pronouncement than a question.

"Waiting in your office, Mr. B."

Instantly, the door banged open, and Brenden heard the sound of an uneven step as he felt the floor shake under the big man's weight. The guy was on top of him before he could stand up.

"Welcome to Blinky University," the big man boomed, extending his hand and finding Brenden's, engulfing it in a massive shake that made Brenden, a good-sized guy himself, feel like a dwarf. "Welcome to the place where eyes open and lives are changed! I'm Marvin Barnes. They call me 'Bad News.' Sit down. Sit down. Sorry I'm late. The conference ran long, and it takes me a little while to move on this bad knee. They say I need surgery, but I really don't want it. I figure I'll be back skiing in a month. That's how I hurt it—up in Winter Park. You know, 280-pound former defensive tackles really shouldn't be letting gravity and inertia take them down steep hills at high speed. You can't fight gravity or age!"

While all this was happening, Brenden heard the big man move behind his desk and seat himself, his chair groaning in protest.

"You ski, McCarthy?"

"I used to," Brenden answered woodenly, "all the time."

"Well, good," Barnes said. "I'm on the racing team at Winter Park, and we need new blind skiers for the World Championships in a couple of years."

Brenden came to attention. "Excuse me?" he asked. "You mean you're—"

Barnes interrupted. "Blind? You bet, kid! Blind as a bat and black to boot! What a combo."

Barnes hit a button, and Brenden heard a synthetic voice coming through a couple of speakers he figured were probably on a computer on the man's desk.

"Ten thirty intake appointment with Brenden McCarthy, age twenty-five, practicing physician doing his internship, newly blind, hurt in a mountain climbing accident up on the Bells." Barnes hit the stop button.

"Is that about right, Brenden? Are those the basic facts?"

"Yes," Brenden said in a flat tone.

"Well, your mother and your friend, Charlie, tell me you've been hanging out in your room, feeling sorry for yourself. Is that about it?"

Brenden felt the color rise in his face, and the anger began to bubble up inside him like a volcano about to blow.

"Who are you to say that?" he asked defiantly. "We don't even know each other, and you're already judging me, like you have all the information about who I am or what I feel?"

The chair indicated that the man sat back. "That's good," he said. "Very good. At least I know that you can get emotional. If

I can get a rise out of you, that's the right first step. Now we just have to channel it. What do you know about being blind, Brenden, beyond that it means your eyes don't work?"

The clocked ticked off a few more seconds.

"It means that life sucks." Brenden spit out the words. "It means that I'll never be able to enjoy the things that have always brought me pleasure in life. It means that I won't have independence. It means that people will pity me. It means that I have to give up my career in medicine. It means that I'll probably be caning chairs or selling pencils or something like that. Isn't that what all of you do? Or maybe I'll become musical— tune pianos. How about that?"

The big man laughed quietly. "You know the guy who won the blind World Championships as a downhill skier went faster than Jean-Claude Killy did in the 1964 Olympic Games? Do you know that there's an amputee who holds many speed records for freeform skiing? Have you read about Eric Weihenmayer— the guy who climbed Mount Everest—or what about the blind people who become judges, senators, lawyers? There's even a fellow named David Hartman in Baltimore who is a practicing psychiatrist. He's got a medical degree like you, doesn't he? You can do all those things, Brenden, if you simply decide you want to. And if you want to, we'll give you all the training you need.

"And then there's something else. You'll learn that a life in the dark can open up levels of sensory awareness that you would never have believed possible. Talk about your mountains? I don't just go there in the winter to ski. I enjoy mountain bike riding in the summer on the back of a tandem with some poor soul driving on the front, working much too hard to pedal my fat self up and down the hills. And while I'm up there, I listen to meadowlarks and mountain streams. Things I might not have taken in before. You know what, kid? I've even heard deer running free and the trumpeting of elk in the fall during mating season. I've sat on a rock and enjoyed the best ham and cheese sandwich I've ever eaten in my life. Did you ever notice that food tastes a lot better at fourteen thousand feet?"

Brenden couldn't help but smile, and the big man heard it.

"I just heard you smile, young fella, and it's a wonderful sound. Give me five."

The giant reached over the desk and once again engulfed Brenden's hand, this time pumping it up and down for emphasis.

"What did you get out of that handshake, kid? What did it tell you?"

Despite himself, Brenden thought about it. "It says you ought to be a politician. It says you're trying to impress me with a lot of bravado about the beauty of blind. It tells me you're a cheerleader for the disabled of this world. And I'm not buying any of it."

The big man returned to his chair. "Okay, kid," he went on after a sigh. "I get the feeling you not only feel sorry for yourself, but you figure you're the only person on earth who ever got a bad break. Is that right?

"So here's my story. I moved to Colorado because I was the number one draft choice for the Denver Broncos, but there was also something going on called Vietnam that involved another draft. Getting picked by the NFL didn't stop Uncle Sam from sending my black hulk overseas. It was 1973, and with a little bit of luck, I would still have been playing when the guys began to get the big money. Yes siree, I would have been with John Elway and all the boys in the Super Bowl. And then there was a little matter of a mine blowing up in my face up by the DMZ, and it changed everything. I was kind of ugly before it went off in my mug. But now"—he laughed again—"now it's just as well you can't see because the scarring will never heal."

"Sorry," Brenden heard himself say. "I'm very sorry."

"You know what?" the man went on, "the scarring inside, well, that's healed pretty well. I'm quite a minority in this country—a 280-pound African-American blind guy with a wife and three kids, a house in suburbia that I can't pay for, and some bills that are overdue. All in all, I'm a pretty lucky son of a gun, don't you think?"

Brenden couldn't help it. He became absorbed by the man's honesty, drawn in by his openness. "Listen," he asked, "do you really like your life? I mean, the way it is? No bull? You're really okay about it?"

Brenden heard the big man lean forward, the desk creaking under the weight of his elbows. "Listen, Brenden," he said with sincerity in his tone, "you're in for a rocky road if you decide to try and take your place back in the world. Let me give you some statistics. There are a million and a half blind people in this country. Let's say out of that group there are about eight hundred thousand folks who could hold meaningful jobs. Yet only about 20 percent of us work. The rest of us, well, we live on the public dole, either because we haven't got the confidence or because we're simply lazy. You have to decide which one of those you want to be. Not many of us get married and have families, but frankly that's usually because we're much too focused on ourselves. A lot of us get involved in organizations for the blind. Not bad, but many of these organizations, well, frankly, they're pretty militant, and they become sanctuaries for angry human beings.

"In my own case, before I took this job, I spent ten years working on the outside just to prove I could. You'll still go through a lot of patronizing. You'll sit in a restaurant with some good friends some night, and a waitress will walk up to the table and say to them, 'What would he like to eat?' People will talk loud because they think that being deaf is also part of being blind. I suppose you can blame old Helen Keller for that.

"You'll get up some mornings, and if you're not well organized, you'll walk out of your house dressed like somebody left a rainbow in your closet. And a lot of times people will talk about you as if you're not really there. If you get lucky and get married and have kids, you'll probably get hit in the head with a baseball trying to coach Little League. And unless you're willing to work real hard here at the Center, you'll probably be eating frozen dinners or going out most of the time because you'll never really learn to cook. Are you getting what I'm saying, kid?"

Involuntarily, Brenden nodded, but before he could correct himself, Barnes interjected.

"I heard you nod. Starch in your collar. Got a girl, Brenden?" Barnes asked.

"Yeah—her name's Lindsey. She wants to be a lawyer."

"Well, here's the deal with relationships. If you find the right one, I mean someone who can really love you and appreciate you, your marriage can become even deeper because of the intimacy in the way you share. You'll read the newspapers together in the morning. You'll take walks at sunset holding hands. You'll listen when she's getting dressed to go out at night and know that she's making herself beautiful just for you. Your kids will be better off because they won't have any built-in prejudice.

"Blindness allows you to look past the labels and see life inside-out, rather than outside-in. Let me tell you something, kid—something I've really come to believe. Every disability can be turned into an ability if you want to make it that way. Now don't interrupt me. I know that doesn't seem true to you right now, but I'm telling you, you can count on it.

"If I had played in the NFL during the early seventies and gotten hurt, let's say in my second year, there was no insurance for players then or a pension to take care of us. I would have been a big black guy with beat-up knees and no real future."

"Okay," Brenden put in, "but you went to Vietnam and got all shot up. Are you telling me that's better?"

"No. That's not what I'm saying. What I'm telling you is that when God deals out a hand of cards, you have the ability to shuffle them any way you want. All of us can change our own destiny if we're willing to try. You have to decide if you're a glass-half-empty or a glass-half-full person. Let me ask you this, Brenden. What were you before your accident? I mean a month ago. Were you a glass-half-empty or a glass-half-full human being when you were climbing that mountain? How did you feel about yourself?"

Brenden thought for a minute, listening to the clock, this time taking even longer to answer the question. Finally in a soft voice, he said, "I was at the top of the world. Life was awesome. I had it all."

"Okay, kid," the man went on gently, "so what have you really lost?"

"I'm blind," Brenden answered, starting to tear up. "I'm blind!"

"That's right," Barnes said, "but you're still Brenden, and Brenden has a lot to offer life."

In a softer voice, Brenden said, "But not enough to offer Lindsey. I won't ever be enough for Lindsey."

"What?" Barnes said. "Speak up. Now I suppose I'm going deaf. What did you say?"

"Nothing," Brenden said. "Nothing. I was just talking to myself."

Barnes nodded but let it go and went on. "You know what I want it to say on my tombstone, Brenden, when I'm dead? 'Here lies big Marvin 'Bad News' Barnes—black man, husband, father, football player, veteran, activist, counselor, and friend, who, by the way, happened to be blind.' Listen to me, Brenden. I'm here for you. We're all here for you, and life is worth living if you just give it a chance."

The big man got to his feet and this time put his arm around Brenden's shoulder. "Listen, kid," he said, "I'm going to send someone in here to figure out what kind of a schedule you'll be on for classes. Over the next couple of months, you'll learn how to be independent, and I promise if you give it a shot, you'll feel like living again. It's this simple. Right now you believe that you'll always be dependent on someone else, and I suppose what I'm trying to do is get you to consider the idea that you can become independent. But the truth is, if your girl loves you and you have good friends, you'll learn that life is about being interdependent. And when you really get that idea into your head, being blind won't seem that important."

Brenden felt the warmth and power of the big man's hug and sagged back onto the couch.

"I'll give you a few minutes to collect yourself," Barnes said as he walked to the door. "Somebody will be in to see you in just a little while. Good luck, Brenden. I'll be right here for you— 24-7. Okay, kid?"

After Barnes closed the door, Brenden sat very still, working to absorb the emotions he had just experienced. Was the man right? Could life take on meaning for him? Was there a possible light at the end of the tunnel?

The door opened, and a woman came in. She asked him a few questions and jotted notes on some kind of calendar or legal pad. In minutes, Brenden worked out a schedule and began a new chapter in his life.

 

chapter ten

 

Over the next few days before Brenden undertook his rehabilitation program, Barnes's magic began to wane in the face of doubt, anger, and depression. Doubt because he still experienced difficulty even with the simple navigation of his own house. True, he hadn't fallen down any stairs, but he occasionally got lost in the middle of his living room when he rose from a chair and found himself turned the wrong way.

Doubt created anger, an emotion that was never far from the surface of his consciousness. And depression—well, depression was the natural spin-off from anger in those moments when he felt completely sorry for himself or missed Lindsey or hated the patronizing way his mother tried to be helpful.

He knew that she didn't mean any harm. She was simply being his mother. But his nerves were frayed to the breaking point, and even the smallest indication of patronage set him off, either into rage or into a pitiable state of sadness when he thought about his life circumstance.

It didn't make him any happier when on the first morning he was to report to rehab, the van provided by the program pulled up in front of his house, and he joined six other pathetic human beings headed for the place where they would be rehabilitated.

What a concept, he considered, as he sat morosely in the back row of the van. Rehabilitation. To be rehabilitated. That's what he was to become. Reengineered. Reorganized. Reconstructed. Revamped. Renewed. It was all garbage as far as he was concerned. Whatever you called it, to Brenden McCarthy it meant that he would never be the same free spirit he had once been and that his life, or what was left of it, would never be worth much to anyone, particularly to himself.

He learned that in this group of people riding to rehab, he was not particularly unusual. Two of his van-mates suffered from diabetes and just "had the lights go out," as they put it, in the last few months. Then there was a guy who had retinitis pigmentosa, a condition that brought him to blindness so gradually that he had gone into denial, unwilling to acknowledge and prepare for it. An older woman in the van had let macular degeneration go on too long, and by the time she finally went for treatment it was too late. And so all of them carried the same kind of symptomatic sorry that was eating him up inside.

Oh sure, he had been impressed with the stuff that Barnes talked about. And he had to admit that the big man seemed to be doing very well with his own adjustment. But he and Barnes weren't the same, and he just didn't believe that he would ever crawl out of the depths of his darkness and gain back the joy that had been so much a part of the person he used to be.

 

His days began with mobility training, another term that, to him, seemed deceptively innocuous. To Brenden—the mountain climber who could move from rock to rock with the surefooted agility of a cat—being limited to moving through space either holding on to the arm of a well-meaning instructor or trailing the wall in search of a door—well, this certainly didn't feel much like independence.

Counting steps and memorizing the simplest of routes to get from one destination to another required tremendous levels of concentration. He realized early on that his adjustment to a world in the dark would not come easily. That was expressed best in the frustration he experienced in the class the rehab people called living skills.

He figured out how to take someone's arm and understood how to move through space and read body motion. He found that his senses were picking up more information. But he always hated the use of the cane. Carrying a stick in his hands seemed pointless, and it didn't prevent him from bruising his shins or tripping on a step, hitting an overhang or getting lost on a planned route.

He didn't like most of the people who were in the program with him because they seemed old and tired, and he hated the fact that Lindsey wasn't around very much. He knew he would have to deal with her to win her back, to make her understand that he could succeed. But more importantly, he knew that he had to believe in that possibility himself, and he had not yet reached that place. Would he ever get there? He wasn't sure.

Brenden's thoughts of suicide were losing their urgency. They were still there but less of a preoccupation—more a plan B. He himself wasn't aware of the change.

Brenden had to admit that he was surprised at all the options available to blind people, helping them cope with every element of daily life.

He found himself reluctantly absorbed in the training. From learning to cook on a stove with voice-actuated timers to the use of the Kurzweil reading machine and JAWS software; the voice-actuated clocks that could be set by holding down buttons and listening while the chip moved the alarm to the time you wanted to get up. Then there was the question of finding the right clothes in the closet and working out a personal label system.

During this labeling process, Brenden was forced to begin learning Braille. It was soon obvious to him that this was a skill that would take a long time to perfect. Teaching your fingers to distinguish the Frenchman Louis Braille's touch code for letters and numbers was a slow, arduous process that carried with it incredible levels of frustration.

Consequently, most of the students either used stick-on dots placed in patterns that could be recognized by touch with an individual system of identification chosen by the students themselves, or by using a marvelous machine that was voice-actuated, called a talking color identifier.

This terrific little device was able to tell the listener the color of the garment. Brenden, not a particularly creative dresser, was pleased to be able to buy one of these units and organize his clothes in the appropriate color combinations. He learned to hang outfits together so that after a few weeks his closet was organized, and he was doing surprisingly well with his clothes.

Though he may have been dressed okay, his kitchen skills were woefully lacking. One of his most embarrassing moments occurred the first time he attempted to pour his own milk and forgot to turn the glass right-side-up, flooding the table and causing a river of white to flow onto the laps of two other students.

The teachers believed that the best way for blind people to cook was to combine the use of microwave ovens with some of the small, easy-to-handle electric grills that cooked food on both sides at the same time. Brenden worked on a grill plugged on television by heavyweight boxer George Foreman, and he was pleased to learn that he could easily cook foods such as chicken or fish.

The center also used specialized microwaves. Brenden discovered that the best voice processor was one made by the Hamilton Beach Company. The voice not only took you through all the various settings of the oven but also kept you aware of the time in one-minute increments. So now he could bake a potato with his chicken or fish.

As the days went by, he had to admit to a certain feeling of accomplishment in learning to perform these seemingly basic domestic tasks, but he still felt inept and disabled.

One of the women in his class had a husband and four children, and she had always loved to cook. She figured out a method for placing dots around the dial of a regular oven that would allow her to set the appropriate temperature and prepare her own Thanksgiving turkey. He didn't think he'd ever be doing that, but he did agree that her effort was impressive.

From the time Brenden was a little boy, he loved coffee. He didn't know why, but he just loved it, and as an adult, his day could not begin without it. He was happy to find that once again Hamilton Beach had made a coffeepot that allowed you to place your cup under a spout, activating the pouring process and eliminating a blind person's propensity for spilling.

There was also another voice-actuated device called a liquid indicator, shaped like a probe. When you placed it in a bowl, glass, or cup, it beeped as liquid was poured at one pitch and then beeped again in a higher tone when it reached the desired level.

There were a lot of fun toys, Brenden thought, but they were valuable only if you wanted to work hard and learn to use them. And he figured that he was only here to check them out for a little while; he wouldn't be around long enough for it ever to matter. The exception was computer technology, something Brenden had always been fond of, dating back to his love of video games.

He already owned a powerful laptop and was surprised at the sophisticated programs that were available on both Freedom Scientific's JAWS and Human Ware's Window-Eyes. As he typed, a voice told him exactly what he input, and there was a verbal spell checker available to make sure he got it right.

Along with this remarkable software, Freedom Scientific manufactured a terrific reader that allowed him to read anything by first scanning it and then reading it back in any one of over a hundred voices. He chose a guy named Perfect Paul, who sounded a lot like a good sports announcer, and the freedom to read a newspaper, magazine, or book was the only part of rehab that really brought a smile to his face.

Even more remarkable was the technology made by a company called Sendero Group. These amazing scientists created voice-actuated GPS units that could be either worn on the wrist or carried in the palm of your hand. And, exactly like the units found in anyone's automobile, this GPS technology made it possible for a blind person to know where he was at any given moment and program an accurate route.

In a weak moment, he told Charlie, "Some of this stuff is really pretty special. It's almost like being sighted." And then he added, "Almost."

 

Even though the science was truly remarkable, Brenden was still blind, and he knew life would never be the same. Science could not overcome the despondency of a young man broken in spirit and angry at his circumstances.

Lying in bed night after night, unable to sleep, Brenden lived in the memories of what once had been. He could still picture the touchdown passes he had thrown to Charlie and the home runs he had hit out of the park in Little League. He tried to re-create the feeling of skiing downhill in Colorado powder, the snow flying up over his shoulders, and the speed taking him right to the edge of danger. And then there were the memories of climbing, climbing high above the timberline with the sun so remarkably bright against the clearest of blue skies. He remembered his feeling of high accomplishment when he received his diploma at medical school and began the work he had dreamed of all his life. Worst of all, he pictured Lindsey's face and cried into his pillow, knowing he would never see it again.

No matter what guys like Barnes said or how many parlor trick skills he learned in rehab, the reality was that the man who had been Brenden McCarthy was gone, now replaced by a blind man who felt sorry for himself and lacked the will to go on.

He railed at God for cheating him of his sight. What had he done to earn this punishment? Who had he hurt so badly that he now had to live with this curse? Was there some mystery he was to understand and accept?

None of it made any sense to him, and though he grudgingly admitted that some of what he was learning was interesting, he had no hope that his future could ever be as meaningful as it would have been had his vision remained 20/20.

 

After a particularly difficult day in class, he came home to spend the weekend with his mother and Gus. It was the week of Halloween, and the air had taken on the first cold signature of winter. Brenden shivered in his light windbreaker as he tapped his way across the patio to the back door.

Before he could get there, Gus whizzed around the corner and dropped a tennis ball at his feet. Brenden bent to pick it up, but it rolled away, forcing the dog to grab it and try again. The second time, Brenden still couldn't find it on the ground, so the next time, Gus decided that he had to place the object right in his young friend's hand.

"Atta boy, Gus," Brenden said. "We haven't done this for a while, have we, fella?"

Over the next twenty minutes, the ball game was wonderful. The little dog raced around the yard, chasing the ball until he was exhausted, and the man enjoyed doing something that he always loved to share with this great animal.

His mother watched all this from the window, crying and laughing at the same time. Something was changing—each trip home showed progress. It was almost as if Brenden was beginning to decide that life really had possibility.

At dinner, his mother noticed that Brenden was getting better at cutting his meat, and though he was not yet willing to try pouring milk, he was able to move around the house with the beginnings of—what? Freedom?

Over apple pie a la mode, Mora broached the subject on her mind. "Brenden, have you talked to anybody at rehab about the possibility of a dog? I mean a guide dog?"

Brenden cut her off. "Gus is enough for me, Mom. I don't want to be responsible for anyone else or anything else. I don't even know if I can ever make it on my own, let alone have to take care of some big animal."

"I don't think that's the point," his mother put in. "From everything I've read, the idea is that you and the dog will learn to take care of each other. Seems to me that if you're going to move out of here soon and live on your own, you're going to need help, and I know you hate using the cane. Wouldn't you just consider giving it a try? I've read online about the guide dog school in San Rafael, and frankly, I've already written for an application."

"Mom—"

"Brenden, just give it a try. Please. If you go there for a couple of weeks and it doesn't work, there's no harm done. You can always come home. But I know how much you love Gus, and, well, I think a working animal could really make a difference in your life."

Brenden could hear the desperate sincerity in his mother's voice and decided that for now it would be simpler to go along with her, even if only to give Lindsey the idea that he was working to be independent.

After a pause, he said, "Okay, Mom," surprised to discover he could actually hear her smile. "Fill out the forms. If they'll take me, I'll go there and check it out."

Later that night, lying in bed with Gus snuggled close, Brenden was wide-awake. He realized he had made a commitment that postponed his plan B, in the event that he lost Lindsey. Instead of a clean way out, he was complicating his life.

"I don't know why I'm doing this, Gus. You're the best friend I have. I sure don't need another one."

The little dog moved deeper under the covers, seeming to agree.

 

chapter eleven

 

Mora hadn't wasted any time. Before Brenden could reconsider, his application was approved and his plane reservation made. He tried to understand why the idea of getting a guide dog didn't appeal to him. He loved animals. Gus was a case in point, and he certainly wanted to be independent. But as he lay in bed the night before he was to leave, he realized that somewhere in his mind he had not yet accepted the concept that he was blind. Did he think there was some marvelous medical breakthrough out there? A miracle, maybe, that would give him back his sight? He and his mother spoke to a number of famous ophthalmologists around the country to get other opinions, and all of the doctors agreed. He was permanently blind. That was his reality. That was the way it was.

The next morning, even with Lindsey's arms wrapped tightly around him and the warmth of her good-bye kiss still fresh on his lips, Brenden still wondered why he was headed for San Rafael, California, and Guide Dogs for the Blind.

The only thing he was sure of, as the girl kissed him again, arousing the passion that always burned inside him whenever she was close, was that his motivation—his complete motivation—was to hold on to Lindsey's love, no matter what it took. He didn't have a lot of faith in this journey, but right now he didn't have a lot of faith in anything, and if it all went bust, there was always . . .

How had he let his mother talk him into this ridiculous idea? He was blind, wasn't he? That was all that really mattered, and no dog was ever going to make the difference. All of the things he enjoyed in life, the outdoor activities and his hopes for medical practice, were taken away. So why was he on his way to San Rafael?

Lindsey turned him over to a United Airlines passenger service person, who would escort him onto the plane. He held the stick awkwardly in his right hand. The cane, he thought. The symbol that told the world everything they needed to know about him. Brenden McCarthy. Blind.

Now he was being patronized.

"Are we ready to go?" The voice of the airline woman asked, as if she were taking care of a little child.

Brenden stifled his anger and just nodded. Then there was the awkward dance between them as the woman tried to take his arm, and he tried to use the human guide system he learned during rehab. Eventually after jockeying for position, Brenden had the woman's elbow and followed her as she walked carefully down the Jetway. He had not been this careful when he climbed mountains, he remembered. Maybe he should have been.

Entering the plane, the overly solicitous woman was joined by a male steward, who almost tried to carry Brenden to his seat and wouldn't leave until he was sure the very physically fit young man was safely belted in.

"My name is Edward," he told Brenden. "Please call me for anything you need. Let me show you where your call button is."

Again, an awkward sort of dance occurred as the men clasped hands.

Now Brenden's seatmates began to arrive, adding to his already mounting frustration. The luck of the draw gave him two children—a squirmy baby on his mother's lap and a precocious kid of about four, who immediately began demanding things and kicking the seat when he didn't get exactly what he wanted when he wanted it.

It didn't take long for the boy to notice Brenden.

"What's that?" he asked with no preamble.

Brenden didn't respond.

"What's that stick?" he asked again, insisting by his tone that Brenden answer him.

"It's called a cane."

"What's it for?" the kid asked.

"To beat little children," Brenden said, regretting the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.

"That's not very nice," the mother said, coming to the defense of her child.

"I know." Brenden shrugged. "I'm very sorry. I've only been blind for a little while. I kind of hate it, if you know what I mean."

"Okay, Tommy. Now, leave the man alone," the mother said.

After settling her children down, the woman couldn't help her curiosity. "How did it happen?" she asked, the pity obvious in her voice.

"I fell," was all he said, not willing to tell his story to a stranger. He was grateful to be able to put on his Bose headphones and cut off any further conversation.

So now, listening to Eric Clapton as the plane took off, he took slow, deep breaths, trying to relax and consider what he knew about the guide dog program and the days ahead. Very little, he realized. The truth was, his mother had filled out his application, and she was the one pushing him to do this. Why would he want a dog? Frankly, why would he deserve one? Or anything or anyone else, for that matter. No one really wanted him, except his mother, and he believed a lot of that was some form of maternal commitment.

He had no value, no cachet in the world. And now he was going to become the master of a big dog? I don't think so, he thought. I really don't think so.

And yet, something put him on this airplane. Something made him sit in this seat and endure the humiliating questions of a kid and his mother. Something sent him to the guide dog school. Was it hope for independence? Was the need to be a part of the world still basic to who he was as a person? Was it to retain—or win—Lindsey's love?

Lindsey, Lindsey, Lindsey.

At that point Clapton sang some piece of blues about a woman doing some guy wrong. In a moment of stark candor, the thought hit him that this could be what he would soon face with Lindsey. No, he couldn't believe it. She truly loved him, didn't she? And if she did, his blindness wouldn't matter. Love sticks it out through the tough stuff. But on the other hand, why should a beautiful, gifted girl like Lindsey hitch her wagon to a blind horse? He would hold her back, and she was too spirited to be held back. It didn't make sense for her to stick with him, and if she chose to call it quits, he couldn't blame her.

No! Brenden thought with a passion that made him grit his teeth. I can't let it happen. I will not hold her hack. I will show her that I can become a whole person. And if I can't, well, I still have my other option.

After touching down in San Jose, a retired schoolteacher with a lifetime of wisdom met Brenden. He introduced himself simply as John, and as Brenden quickly learned, a blind father had raised him with a no-nonsense philosophy that said anything was possible if you were willing to work hard. This guy could care less if Brenden was blind or had two heads. He was what used to be called in the vernacular a man's man. He figured that everybody was the same until proven different. And so, for the first time since his accident, Brenden found himself relaxing and sharing normal conversation with this guy on the one-hour drive to the school.

"What's it like there, John? I mean, what does it look like?" Brenden asked.

"Oh man," John said, "it's beautiful. The country is really rolling and lush. The buildings are Spanish California-type architecture with a whole lot of brick and tile. The kennels, well, the kennels are nicer than most of the hotels you find in this country. And the dorms, all the students get their own rooms, along with three squares prepared by some really good cooks. All in all, it's a good life while you're there. You'll be with us for a month, right? Because it's your first dog?"

"I guess so," Brenden said.

"Oh, they've done the job with people tougher than you." John laughed. "Some of the war vets we've had in here are really hard cases. You're a picnic compared to those guys. Do you know that since we opened this campus in 1956, we've put over ten thousand teams into the field?"

"Teams?" Brenden asked.

"Yeah, my friend, that's what you're going to be—a team, you and the dog."

Brenden didn't answer, and John didn't push him. They drove in silence until they reached the campus and went through the gates. Brenden was struck by the myriad smells, and John noticed him sniffing the air.

"You like the smells, Brenden? I do too. All the plants were chosen to make all you new students understand how glad we are to have you here. Let me help you with your bags and introduce you to the admissions staff."

John took Brenden to his room and allowed him to unpack.

"You're just in time for dinner," John told him. "Now you'll find out what I meant when I said the food was great."

John escorted him to the dining room and seated him at a round table with what felt to Brenden like six or seven other students.

The house-mistress introduced him. "Everybody, this is Brenden McCarthy. He is here for the first time, so don't scare him away with your horror stories."

There was laughter around the table.

A voice at the other end put in, "First time? Wow, I got my first pooch in the 1960s, and now I'm back for my fifth."

"Heaven help the dog, Jimmy," a woman's voice put in. "You're such an old curmudgeon, any animal you get is going to be in a hurry to get back to the kennel."

"Oh, you're just jealous, Lorraine"—Jimmy laughed, apparently knowing exactly who she was—"because the last time we were here, I got Leah, the most beautiful golden retriever in the history of the world, and you got the boxer—Leonard, wasn't it? Remember? That's when they were training boxers—the great slobberers of the world."

The woman laughed, taking it well. "Yeah, but he was a great old boy, my Leonard, a great old boy."

"So, Brenden, what do you want?" Jimmy asked. "They've got goldens, black Labs, yellow Labs, a few shepherds, and then this new breed, the Labradoodle. That's a combination Lab and poodle. I've heard they're really smart, but what do I know? I'm blind."

Laughter again rang out around the table. Brenden found himself wondering how they could all be so cavalier about their disability. Hadn't some of them lost their sight along the way because of an accident, just like him?

Jimmy asked again, "So what do you want, pal?"

"I don't know," Brenden said tentatively. "I guess I'll just take whatever they give me."

"Well," Jimmy said, "you're in Harold Smith's class—Smitty, we call him. That means you'll get a great dog no matter what it is. Smitty's the best. The only problem is he likes dogs more than he likes people."

Lorraine jumped in again. "That's not true, Jimmy. He just likes dogs more than he likes an old pain-in-the-rear like you." This time the laughter was even louder.

Brenden realized that most of these people had been down this road before and were both extremely excited and comfortable. He couldn't understand it. He was here largely because his mother had pressured him and because he knew without a doubt that if he didn't regain his independence, he wouldn't be worth anything to Lindsey. He understood perfectly that he had to become her equal in all things or their love would die. All this optimism about dogs was just too much.

Just then, a sliding glass door at the far end of the room opened, and Brenden heard someone stride in with confident steps. Enthusiastic applause broke out. Smitty had arrived.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he announced. "Welcome to Guide Dogs. You have the distinct honor and pleasure of being members of my class."

A smattering of good-natured booing followed this comment.

"Oh, you people are just sorry you're not bald and handsome like I am." Smitty laughed. "That's right, ladies, handsome and bald and getting older."

"Not as old as me," Jimmy piped in.

"No, Jimmy, that's true. No one is as old as you."

Again, laughter.

"All right, everyone. You know the rules, but if you're new and you've read your material, you've learned that your dogs will not be presented for the first three days. You'll be working Juno."

Jimmy groaned. "That means me too, Smitty?"

"Yes, it does, Jimmy. Your technique has probably become too sloppy over the years. You're likely taking too many shortcuts. It's about time we straightened you out."

Brenden didn't know exactly what Juno was, but he had heard that it related somehow to simulating what the dogs did with their instructor.

"It's going to be a long day tomorrow," Smitty went on, "with a lot of walking. Breakfast is promptly at seven. The work begins at eight, We'll start with a general lecture on the work and then go out into the beautiful streets of San Rafael to begin our training. Take some time and get to know each other. Some of you already know where your rooms are, but we'll be around to help any of you who aren't sure. Just let us know whenever you're ready to go to bed."

After more applause, Brenden noticed that most of the students immediately fell into excited conversations. They were extremely enthusiastic about meeting the dogs, while all Brenden wanted to do was go home.

Smitty watched all this, observing the young man sinking further and further into himself. He thought about McCarthy's application, how it spoke of his love of sports and outdoor activities, of his graduation from medical school and his desire to live in downtown Denver. Smitty had actually been thinking about Nelson for this young man, but now as he watched him, he wasn't sure. Maybe Nelson would have to wait for the next class; that is, if nobody caught on to his deception.

He crossed the room and introduced himself. "I'm Harold Smith," he said. "You're Brenden McCarthy, right?"

The handshake told Brenden that this guy had worked hard throughout his life. His hand was gnarled and strong, but there was also friendship and warmth in the shake. Brenden had noticed over the months since he lost his sight that he could learn a lot from a handshake, and it was clear to him that this one said, "Glad to meet you. I hope I can help." Right now, Brenden didn't want any help. He wanted to go to bed.

"Excuse me," he said, without engaging in conversation. "Could you show me my room, please? I think I'd like to call it a night."

"Oh sure," Smitty said. "Take my arm. Right this way."

They moved down the corridor, and Smitty refamiliarized Brenden with his bedroom and bath.

"Well, good night," Brenden said, sitting down on his bed.

"Listen, McCarthy," Smitty said, sensing the young man's disconnect, "I want you to know I'm here for you; I mean, any extra attention you need, any special work with the dog that we'll pick for you. I know from your application that you had a tough break with your accident, and I'm sure it's not easy to begin living as a blind person. But if you're willing to try, these incredible animals can make a big difference in your life."

Brenden didn't even nod, and Smitty was forced to go on. "Like I said, we'll begin tomorrow morning after breakfast, and actually I'll be working with you for the first couple of days. I very much look forward to sharing a partnership, so get a good night's sleep, okay?"

Again, Brenden sat mute, and Smitty quietly closed the door.

For a long time after the trainer left, Brenden just sat on his bed, not moving, deep in thought. He hated his circumstance. He hated the idea that he was thought of as one of these people. They were blind, handicapped, disabled, and yet they seemed happy in their pathetic state. Didn't they know what the world was really like? How much they had lost or would never understand? The changing of the seasons? A rainbow? A beautiful smile? They were blind.

And then it hit him like a crippling blow in the stomach. So was he: Brenden McCarthy, doctor, mountain climber, fiancé to Lindsey. He was just like them. No better, no worse. He was blind. And tomorrow he would begin to learn to use a dog, an unmistakable symbol of his disability.

He put his head in his hands, overcome by the emotion of the moment, overcome as his reality enveloped him. Not for the first time, the tears began to flow. The sobs were gut-wrenching, and they came from a place of utter desolation. There was no catharsis in his crying, no easing of the pain, no opening of the doors to therapeutic understanding. Brenden was bereft of self-worth, a shattered spirit broken in heart, soul, mind, and body.

Eventually, when the crying subsided, he rolled onto his bed and mercifully slept, still in his clothes.

 

chapter twelve

 

At breakfast the next morning, Brenden felt the buzz in the room. He sensed the excitement all the students were feeling as they began the process toward relationships with new dogs and the independence that meant.

Their enthusiasm annoyed Brenden. Didn't they know? Didn't they understand that their dogs would brand them as—the word handicapped caught in his throat. Just the thought of it was almost impossible for him to take.

Smitty came in just as everyone finished breakfast. "Okay, boys and girls," he said, "your chariot is outside. We'll drive to the student lounge and pair you up with your instructors. Everybody have good walking shoes on? Wonderful. Because you're going to need them. By the time you're finished, your feet will be telling you you've covered a lot of miles. So let's go."

Everyone was loaded onto a bus, and when they arrived at the staging lounge—a school-owned building where people could take breaks and have soft drinks—Smitty was as good as his word. He put his hand on Brenden's shoulder.

"Are you ready to begin?" he asked.

The young man just nodded.

"Oh dear," Smitty said, "you're probably a night person—one of those guys who just doesn't like the morning. That's too bad." The trainer placed a leash and harness in Brenden's hands. "Here's your equipment—the second most important link to your dog and independence."

Despite himself, Brenden was curious. "The second most important link?" he queried.

"That's right. The most important one is love—the love the animal will feel for you and the love you'll feel for him. Trust goes along with that, but you can gain trust only if the love between you is so deep nothing can destroy it. You see, Brenden, the dogs are pure. Oh sure, they make mistakes, and sometimes they can behave in annoying ways, but it's never because they're being malicious or trying to hurt you, or even trying to gain an upper hand in the work. They're dogs—perfect in the way they love us, imperfect sometimes in the way they behave."

"You sound as if you like the dogs more than you like people," Brenden suggested.

Smitty laughed. "You got that right, bud. People disappoint you, but dogs never do. Come over here."

Smitty led Brenden to an area of the lounge along a wall and put his hands on—what? "What is this?" Brenden asked.

"What do you think it is?" Smitty said.

"It's—it's—it's a make-believe dog?"

"You got it, and what I want you to do is practice putting on the harness and leash. Feel how it fits. The harness slides right over his head and then buckles around his chest. The leash attaches right there to the choke chain on his neck. Go ahead. Try it."

Once Brenden buckled the harness in place, Smitty went on.

"Now, check out the handle of your harness. That's your rudder. That's the way you're going to read every input, every nuance of your animal. The secret to guide work, along with establishing love and trust, is to be able to interpret each other, and Brenden, my boy, you'll be amazed at how much these animals understand. Frankly, they know much more than we ever give them credit for. They can feel when you're nervous or apprehensive. They can feel when you're happy or sad. They know whether you're having a good day or a bad one. And all of that will be reflected in the way they work for you.

"For today, I'm going to be your dog. We're going to take a walk, and I'm going to hold the end of the harness, keeping forward pressure so that you get the idea of interpreting my motion. Now, I admit it's not the same as working with a dog because I'm standing upright on two legs, and the dog is moving along on four, with the signals all coming from the way he moves and angles his shoulders. But after thirty years I've become pretty good at approximation. So let's take a walk."

They moved out of the building, Smitty exerting constant pressure on the harness, with Brenden tentatively following.

"I can feel you're a little nervous, Brenden," Smitty said. "If I can get that feeling from the harness, you can bet the dog will know right away, so don't be afraid. Step right out. Neither the dog nor I will ever let anything happen to you."

Smitty came to a stop at the corner. "Okay," he said, "let's talk about the environment you're going to be working in. We are very fortunate here in San Rafael because the lettered streets A through E run east and west, and the numbered streets one through five run north and south. So it's easy for us to design routes for you to train on. Over the next few weeks, you'll hear me say things like, 'Go to Third and B.' What would that mean to you?"

"Well, I suppose it would mean I'd walk three blocks east, cross to the left or south, and then walk four blocks."

"Well," Smitty said, allowing a smile, "I got a smart one. That's right, Brenden. It's very important as you adjust to your dog and your blindness that you learn to picture the environments in which you work. The dog will remember a lot, but an animal is only as good as the capacity of his master to have a picture in his head. Do you get it?"

Brenden nodded.

Smitty went on. "That's an advantage you have over somebody who has always been blind. Now let's practice walking up to a curb. The dogs are trained to move forward smartly, keeping pressure on the harness until they come right up to the edge. Then they're to stop with your lead foot lined up so that your toes are square to the line we're going to walk when we step off to cross. Do you understand?"

"I think so," Brenden said, not really getting it.

Smitty could see the obvious puzzlement on the young man's face. "Don't worry about it," he said. "Let's just try one. The curb is about twenty yards from here in a straight line, so let's walk up to it. Here we go. Give me the command forward."

"What should I call you?" Brenden asked. "Should I just say, 'Forward, dog'?"

"No. Use my name, and give the name first. Say, 'Smitty, forward.'"

Brenden laughed. "This is great. I'm finally in control."

"That's exactly right," Smitty said, touching Brenden's shoulder. "That's exactly what we want. By the end of this month, we want you to be able to control your dog because the dog wants to work for you. Now give me the command."

Brenden took the handle of the harness. "Smitty, forward."

The man stepped out at a brisk pace, snapping the harness with aggressive forward pressure. Brenden was forced to keep up. As they reached the curb, Smitty stopped abruptly enough that Brenden stepped over the edge. Smitty's free hand flashed out, protecting the blind man from falling.

"You see," he said. "I told you. The dog will come up to the edge of that curb smartly. You have to be alert. Let's try it again."

The next time Brenden stopped perfectly with his toes square to the line of the crossing.

"Okay," Smitty said. "Now give me the command again."

"Smitty, forward," Brenden said. But as they crossed, the trainer purposely slowed. Brenden was not feeling pressure in the harness.

"Encourage me," Smitty said. "Encourage me to pick up the pace. Sometimes dogs are afraid when they make a crossing with a new person. Tell me to hop up—that's the command they all know—and use my name. Come on, Brenden, encourage me."

Brenden laughed. "Okay. Hop up, Smitty, let's go, boy. Come on. Hop up."

"Remember, name first."

"Smitty, hop up."

The trainer picked up the pace and arrived, stepping up the curb an instant before Brenden did and stopping.

"Brenden, the dogs are trained to put their front feet on the curb to let you know that you're going to be stepping up. After a while, they won't do that—I mean, when you go out into the world. You'll just make the crossing, and the dog will learn to just give you a feel for pause as they step up. That's part of the nuance that we talked about: the seasoning, when the dog begins to read you as much as you read him."

As they walked along the next block, Smitty talked to Brenden about the different kinds of curbs he would encounter.

"Not all curbs are straight. You may remember from the time you were sighted. Sometimes curbs are rounded. Those are much harder to grasp for the student, and you have to trust your dog to line you up squarely to the direction you want to go. Then, there are the wheelchair ramp curbs. Those can be really tricky because the dogs tend to stop early at the top of the ramp rather than taking you all the way to the edge of the curb. There's also what we call flush curbs. You encounter these in a parking garage or an alley, and the break is not really a curb. It's just sort of a space in the street. The dogs understand these things, but very often masters force the animal over the edge, and sometimes the dogs start to take these kinds of crossings for granted. You'll really have to use your ears and be aware of what you're doing, most particularly listening to traffic. This work takes concentration, Brenden, a lot of concentration, but the rewards are worth every bit of effort you'll put into becoming a good team."

Brenden couldn't help but be touched by Smitty's enthusiasm, and that glimpse of hope that he felt on the way to the guide dog school once again made a fleeting appearance.

"Okay," Smitty went on, "when we get to this curb and I stop, we're going to make a lateral crossing. To do that, I want you to give me the command, 'Smitty, around,' and then step back and allow me to move up to the curb on your left. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I get it, Smitty," Brenden said.

"Okay, here comes the curb."

Brenden stopped perfectly and gave the trainer the command for around, lining up for the north/south crossing. The pair did it very well.

"Nice job, Brenden," Smitty said. "You have potential."

Over the next three hours, the pair worked on walking through the door of a building, finding an elevator, and searching out an empty chair in a crowded restaurant. After the lunch break, Smitty talked about how to correct a dog when the animal makes a mistake.

He did this with a vivid demonstration. He and Brenden came up to a curb, and Smitty stepped right out without pausing, causing Brenden to trip slightly

"Drop the harness," he said, "and take the leash in both hands. Now, jerk the choke chain until it tightens as you tell the animal no."

Brenden practiced this three or four times, once using the phrase bad dog along with the word no.

"Don't ever say that," Smitty said. "The dogs are never bad. They are just wrong. You never want to do anything to break the animal's sense of self-worth. It's critical that they feel as good about themselves as you feel about your success as their working partner."

Brenden was surprised at how much there was to learn, and reluctantly he had to admit to himself that he actually enjoyed the experience. He couldn't help but appreciate Smitty's ability, and he found that he really liked the guy's company. Smitty was a teacher, and Brenden always respected those who knew more about things than he did.

In the afternoon the work was repeated, but this time Brenden was introduced to the simulator. This four-wheeled contraption, designed in Denmark, allowed the men to attach the harness to the vehicle, and the trainer walked behind, creating momentum by pushing the odd-looking contraption forward. This was important, because now the student had open space in front of him without the instructor there as a buffer.

By the end of the second day of class, Brenden and Smitty had covered virtually all of San Rafael's downtown area, and even an athlete like Brenden had to admit he did have sore feet. He couldn't believe Jimmy, the old guy. His enthusiasm was catching as he held court during dinner the second evening.

"Okay, everybody," he said, the passion obvious in his delivery. "One more day of this Juno crap, and we will meet our dogs. Tomorrow night, boys and girls, we get to know man's best friend."

"You mean your only friend, don't ya, Jimmy?" Lorraine never let up on him.

The old man led the laughter. "You're just upset, Lorraine, because we didn't fall in love years ago. Maybe it's not too late."

Brenden heard something whizz through the air—did Lorraine actually throw a roll? Judging from the soft thud and Jimmy's laughter, Lorraine had apparently hit her target.

"I don't think you're blind, Lorraine," Jimmy said. "That's much too fine a shot. Maybe I should have fallen in love with you. That probably would have been the best thing that ever happened to you."

Lorraine sighed. "Oh brother." But there was a smile in her voice, and everyone at the table, including Brenden, could feel it.

After dinner, students were separated out to have one-on-one interviews with their trainers. The class of twelve was divided into four groups of three, with four instructors assigned, and as the evening went on, gradually trainers invited students to join them in a quiet room for a one-on-one talk.

Actually, all of the instructors evaluated the students over the course of the first couple of days. But now it was time to try and put the pieces together, allowing trainers to create the people/animal matches that would lead to wonderful life fulfillment for both.

Smitty talked through a few details on Brenden's application.

"Well, Brenden, I see from your application that you're very much an outdoorsman and that you love sports. Did you play many sports in high school and college?"

"Yeah," Brenden said, his face taking on a dark expression. "Yeah, I played everything—quarterback on the football team, captain of the baseball team, point guard on the basketball team.

And then there was skiing and hiking. Most particularly"—he paused—"most particularly, mountain climbing."

Smitty jumped in, understanding. "That's where you got hurt, wasn't it, Brenden?"

"That's how I went blind, you mean," Brenden said. "Okay," Smitty said, "that's how you went blind. So?" "So, everything," Brenden said. "That's how I became"—this time, the words poured out—"that's how I became handicapped, or—what do they like to call it now?—disabled or challenged?"

"But that's not why you're here," Smitty said. "You're here to gain the independence, or maybe I should say the interdependence, that comes when you fall in love and share your life with a friend—a furry one, for sure, but you'll never have a better, more loving pal. And by the way, dogs are the ultimate chick magnet. The women flock to a good-looking dog. You'll never be short on dates. Do you have a girl?"

"I had one," Brenden said quietly. "I don't know anymore." "Well," Smitty put in immediately, "when you bring a pooch home, she's going to love you both. The fastest way to a girl's heart is to hook her up with a Lab, a golden, or a shepherd. Wait and see."

Brenden found himself getting a little fed up with this whole sanctimonious idea that if you had a dog everything would be just peachy-keen.

"Listen," he said, "you make it seem as if the dogs make everything just hunky-dory. I mean, if you have a dog, life is perfect."

"I didn't say that," Smitty said. "Remember when we were working today and you tripped over curbs, and a couple of times I let you thump into bushes, and then there was the door that nearly hit you in the head. There will be a lot of that when you get your dog, because even though we've poured our hearts and souls into these animals, they are as new at this work as you are, and each of you will have to decide to invest in the other. That's what all of this is about, Brenden, a mutual investment in each other."

Both men were quiet.

"I don't know if I want all that," Brenden finally said. "I don't know if I want the responsibility, and I don't know if I really want to try that hard to be good at this."

"Well," Smitty said, not hiding the sarcasm, "what's the alternative? A cane? You already told me you hated the stick. Or just hanging out in your house, letting your mother take care of you?"

"Shut up," Brenden said. "That's not fair. I've only been blind a little while."

Smitty softened. "I know that, Brenden. I really do know that, but I swear, if you give the dog and me a chance, we'll give you the greatest gift in the world."

"What's that?" Brenden asked, leaning forward in his chair, interested in the answer.

"Freedom," Smitty said. "Wonderful, blessed freedom."

Brenden thought about that as he lay in his bed later that night. He thought about how much he really wanted freedom, how much he really wanted to feel alive. Again, there was that faint glimmer of hope, like a butterfly flitting around in his stomach. Was the trainer right? Could he love an animal? Was freedom possible?

 

At about the same time, Smitty also lay awake, thinking his own thoughts. Was this the guy he wanted for Nelson? Had he found the person who could make it happen with the energetic black Lab? It would be risky, he considered. What if Brenden cracked, folding up like a cheap suit at the animal's intensity? What if he went home, beaten, and Nelson was forced to return to the kennel one more time? Could the dog handle defeat? How many times could he think he had found the right master and then experience rejection without being shattered?

Smitty knew that animals have delicate psyches, just as people do, and he understood completely that Nelson had just about come to the end of his capacity for failed experiments. The next two weeks would tell him a lot, and he found himself tossing and turning, unable to sleep as he considered what would happen when the man and the dog began their odyssey tomorrow evening.

 

chapter thirteen

 

Dinner was over, and the moment had arrived. All the students moved into the big common room and sat in chairs spread out with enough space so that their animals could lie comfortably next to them.

Brenden sensed a change in the atmosphere. People were quietly anticipating what was to come. It was much like the feeling he used to get before taking the field for a big football game. Nervous anticipation, he decided. People on edge. And what was he feeling? Despite himself there was a sense of—what was it? Anticipation? Curiosity? Dread? Hope? He couldn't tell.

He still did not quite believe that he really wanted a dog, but he had to admit that the last two days with this guy, Smitty, had been—well, it had been interesting. He had learned a lot, and he noticed that his senses were much more alive than they had been when he was sighted or in the rehabilitation program. He at least acknowledged to himself that he was willing to experiment, to meet this new animal, to check it out and see what happened.

The sliding door opened at the far end of the room, and he heard the sound of jingling chains and leashes. Spontaneous and enthusiastic applause broke out. The dogs were here, and so was Smitty.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen," he announced. "Your best friends have arrived, or at least I hope so. Remember the basic rule. At this point in your relationship, the dogs know more about the work than you do, so you're going to have to earn their love. Because of the way things operate around here, with most of you coming back for your second, third, or—"

"Fifth dog," Jimmy put in.

Smitty chuckled.

"Or fifth, Jimmy. I know most of you, and so I've got a pretty good idea of the matches we've made. Let's begin. In deference to your age, Jimmy, we'll start with you. Stand up and take two steps forward."

Jimmy's chair squeaked as the old man stepped out. An assistant came forward with Nan, and as Jimmy's hands stretched out and touched her, tears began to fill his eyes and pour down his face.

"Oh Smitty," he said shakily, "you old son of a gun. You found another golden. Oh my, another golden."

Jimmy was hugging the young dog now, and she licked his face.

"A match made in heaven, Jimmy," Smitty said. "Made in heaven."

Lorraine was next, and she was given one of the new Labradoodles that Smitty said would be great for her to work with on the west side of Manhattan.

Now Smitty stood in front of Brenden. "Well, Brenden, I know it's your first dog, and you're probably pretty nervous, but I want you to know that I think I picked you out a great one."

Smitty was glad that Brenden couldn't see his eyes, because behind them was his passionate hope that this young guy might just be right for Nelson.

He went on. "I know we talked about your application and your desire to be active, so we chose an animal that we think can be just as enthusiastic. Let me introduce you to your new black Lab guide dog, Nelson."

Brenden heard the jingling of a collar and the click of nails on the tile floor as someone brought this Nelson across the room. What was he supposed to do? Reach out and pat the animal or stand still? He didn't know, and more than that, he felt embarrassed and somewhat awkward among these people who seemed to be so comfortable in their relationships with new dogs.

"Come on, Brenden," Smitty said, "reach out and pat him. He's right in front of you."

Brenden moved his hand tentatively forward, and his motion seemed to unnerve the young dog. He turned his head and sort of stepped back.

"Come on, Nelson," the woman handler said, encouraging, "meet your new master."

"Maybe we should forget it," Brenden blurted out.

Smitty interrupted. "Maybe you ought to get right down there on your knees, pal, and give him a hug. That's what they want. They want to know you love them."

Smitty didn't miss the way Brenden knelt in front of the dog. Thirty years of working as a trainer told him immediately that this newly blind guy still wasn't sure if he wanted an animal or not, and Smitty noted that he would have to continue to watch closely for all of the danger signs. Smitty hoped he hadn't made another mistake.

Brenden's hands were finally exploring the animal, feeling the contours of a large head, thick neck, broad shoulders, deep chest, short, coarse coat, and a tail that now wagged with delight at being petted, even if the touch was tentative.

"All he wants is to work and be loved," Smitty said. "Not too different from any of us, if you think about it. Now Andrea will give you his leash. Just tell him 'down,' and keep him right next to your chair while we give out the other dogs."

Over the next half hour Brenden listened to the overwhelming happiness as the rest of the class met their new guide dog companions. What he felt was a mixture of discomfort and fear as he realized how little he knew about working with animals.

Oh sure, he loved Gus. Gus was his friend. But their relationship didn't involve any direct responsibility, one for the other. He had to admit he was scared. Afraid of—what? Failure? He wasn't sure.

He held the leash tightly in both hands and never reached down to pat the animal that lay quietly on the floor next to his chair. Every once in a while the young man touched the dog with his foot just to make sure he hadn't moved, but he simply wasn't comfortable enough to make real physical contact.

He noticed that every time Smitty came by, the dog's tail thumped the floor. That's who he loves, Brenden thought. He loves his trainer. Well, he probably doesn't have to worry. I may not be around long anyway.

Smitty addressed the group again. "Okay everybody, you know the rules. No cheating and trying to work with your animal until we start class tomorrow. Just love them and keep them at heel, and don't let them mess with the other dogs. Let's have a nice social hour, and then we'll turn in. There'll be a lot of work tomorrow, so try to catch some real Zs, even though I know you'll probably be up all night checking to make sure that your new friend is real."

Jimmy interrupted again. "Hey, Smitty, is it all right, since I've had four dogs before this girl, if I teach her to go down the hall and find Lorraine's room?"

"Jimmy, you're impossible," Smitty said with a smile in his voice. "Okay Breakfast is at seven. See you in the morning."

Smitty watched Brenden from a distance, understanding the tension the guy felt. I'm going to have to get in this young man's head, he realized, looking at him for probably the tenth time. If I had it to do over again, I don't think I'd give Nelson to this guy. The dog is too good. As of now, I don't know if McCarthy can ever come to appreciate him, but I've been wrong before, so we'll try it. We'll see.

When the social hour was over, Smitty made sure he accompanied Brenden and Nelson to their bedroom. The dog kept pulling on his leash, trying to get to Smitty. Brenden was surprised that the trainer completely ignored the animal.

"Why don't you talk to him?" Brenden asked. "He obviously wants to be with you and not me."

"That's true," Smitty said, "but you're his master now. Other than to correct him and work with you, I have to ignore him."

Brenden still didn't understand. "But isn't that hard?" he asked. "I mean to not pay attention to him?"

"It's the toughest part of what I do"—Smitty sighed—"when I have to give up a friend, but that's part of the job. There is compensation. When I see a team come together, it feels great. I hope that happens to you, McCarthy. Now reach down at the end of the bed. You'll find a tie down link, and I want you to attach Nelson's leash to it. Do you feel it?"

Brenden bent down and found what Smitty was talking about.

"When you go to bed, he may do some crying as long as he thinks I'm still in the building, but don't pay any attention to him. Just tell him no, and if he keeps it up, give him one reassuring pat. No more than that. If you give him too much love, he'll think that crying at night is okay. There's a lot of psychology in this process, Brenden. There's an awful lot to learn."

As the door closed and Smitty left the room, the Lab began to whine. Brenden hated the sound.

"Okay, fur ball, okay," he said, "just shut up, will ya? I probably don't want to be here any more than you do, but for now we're stuck with each other, so let's try to get a little sleep, okay?"

The dog's answer was to whine again, forcing Brenden to climb out of bed and pat him.

"Listen, Nelson," he said in the dark, "you seem like a nice enough fella, and I'm sorry you drew me. Let's just try to get along, all right?"

The animal sniffed the man as if he was trying to decide where Brenden was really coming from. Then he rolled onto his side, exposing his belly, and the man tentatively rubbed it. The dog's sigh said he was resigned to the idea that he would be staying here tonight, and he soon fell asleep. He probably thought his present circumstance was at least better than the kennel. Brenden climbed back into bed and fell asleep as well.

 

Brenden didn't need his alarm clock to wake him up the next morning. The big dog licked his foot. Somehow in the night, the man extended it outside the sheets, and his toes were very much in the animal's reach. The dog gave a good morning lick to each one.

Other people were already up. Brenden could hear the sounds of dogs and humans moving up and down the corridor outside his door, and he soon joined them. He was surprised when everybody headed outside before sitting down to breakfast.

"It's time to park our dogs," Jimmy said. "This is when you find out if you really want one, when you have to clean up after them."

"What are you talking about?" Brenden said. "You mean we actually have to—"

"That's right," another student's voice chimed in. "You have to get right down there and pick it up."

"Actually," Smitty said, "there's a technique, but you won't be learning that today. We have a common area for parking. These guys are just giving you a hard time, Brenden."

"Parking?" Brenden said. "That sounds like a pretty good word for what happens."

"You'll find out how good it is," Jimmy told him. "That's a word you really want your dog to know."

Everybody talked about the dogs during breakfast, giving first impressions and sharing how special each already thought his or her new friend to be. They all expressed feelings except Brenden. At this point, he had no feelings about Nelson. They were just there together, not bonded.

All the students crowded into vans, and at a little after eight, they arrived at the lounge to begin the first day's interaction with their new working partners.

As Brenden would quickly learn, every day began with obedience. Those basic commands of come, down, sit, stay, and heel reminded the dog he now worked for a new master and gave the student the confidence to believe that he could handle his animal.

This work went on through the morning, and after lunch Brenden was surprised when Smitty told him that they were actually going to be harness training with their dogs right away. He hadn't realized it would happen that fast.

They stood outside the lounge on the corner of First Street, an area that Smitty said was a long block of just straight walking.

"Don't worry," he told Brenden, "all you're going to do is walk up and down here, maybe a hundred and fifty yards, to get used to the feeling of a real animal pulling on the harness. Okay? I have to warn you, Nelson is a particularly strong dog. When you give him the command, 'Nelson, forward,' you're really going to get a response, so be ready to feel some real torque in the harness. The key to good work is not in how hard the dog pulls but in how steady the pull is. If it's steady, you can read it and understand the subtleties, and I can tell you from my work with Nelson, his pull is wonderful. Are you ready? Okay, give him the command, and then follow your dog."

The butterflies were back in his stomach as Brenden took a deep breath. My maiden voyage, he thought. It'll probably be like the Titanic.

"Okay," he said. "Nelson, forward."

The animal turned his head to look at Smitty, first questioning and then taking on an expression of profound sadness.

I know, boy, Smitty thought. You've been through this twice before, but it has to work out this time, Nelson. It has to work with this guy.

"Again, Brenden," Smitty said, determined. "Tell him forward again."

Brenden repeated the command. "Nelson, forward."

Again the big dog's eyes found his trainer, forcing Smitty to look away. Knowing what he had to do, the trainer reached out and gave the animal a sharp tap on the shoulder.

"Tell him again, Brenden," Smitty said. "This time be even firmer."

Brenden did as he was told. "Nelson, forward."

With one more look of resignation to his trainer, the dog moved out smartly, and for the first time Brenden felt the excitement of moving through space with the animal tracking in a perfectly straight line.

Smitty dropped back a few steps, and when he did, the dog's head turned to follow him, still hoping, even though he kept moving down the street.

"Brenden," Smitty told the new handler, "correct your dog and say, 'No, straight.'"

The big dog understood he had been corrected. He still wanted to work for Trainer. That's who he loved. But the man held the leash and the harness, and the animal had been conditioned to always obey the harness. Discipline took over. Nelson settled down and began to show Brenden why Smitty believed that this dog was the best he had ever trained.

Over the next hour they moved up and down the straight street, gaining confidence with every pass. For the first time, Brenden was in a good mood as they joined the others for dinner that evening. He actually engaged in conversation and found that some of the students were people he really enjoyed.

People, he thought. These are real people. They're blind, but their hopes and dreams and feelings are just like everyone else's. The conversations ranged from sports to politics, music to good books, but inevitably came back to the commonality of disability and dogs. Brenden was surprised to learn how many different jobs were represented in this class.

There was Alberto, a Puerto Rican American who lost his sight through retinitis pigmentosa and was now living in

Boston working as a computer programmer for a major software company.

Lorraine was a social worker, spending her life making a difference for senior citizens struggling to adjust to disability.

Jimmy had been a schoolteacher. "Imagine that," he told Brenden. "I taught public school for thirty-five years, most of it with a dog in the classroom. You think I was popular?"

Suzanne was a homemaker with three children. Eddie Harrison was a piano tuner who made his rounds using public transportation, taxis, and, most importantly, his dog to make a good living. There were a couple of musicians and a fascinating guy named Mark West, who was a trial attorney.

As Brenden listened, he wondered what he would do with his life. It was much too soon to know, but after the terrific day he'd just had with Nelson, he began to look at the possibilities with new eyes. My life could be worthwhile, he thought. Maybe he would find a reason to believe living could be worth it.

 

Nelson had been through all of this before. In the beginning there had been a family with two little kids he loved to play with when he was a puppy. Then Smitty had been his master. He loved Smitty. Then he had been given to another man and after that to Man and Lady. He did the job, but he had been with none of them long enough to care about them. And now he took commands from this new guy, who smelled different from the others, who felt different when he held the harness, who commanded him differently and patted him differently.

The confusion and sadness showed in his eyes and in the way he always tried to search out Smitty whenever everyone was together. He couldn't understand. Why was he going through all this again? He was an unhappy black Lab, and what he wanted was to be with Smitty.

Another day ended with the man going to sleep and the big dog staying awake long into the night.

He knew it was wrong, but he decided to chew on the socks Brenden had left on the floor. His anxiety, along with his sense of frustration, made him restless and uneasy, and he just had to have something to bite on.

After the socks came the soft patent leather of Brenden's expensive loafers and then a flannel shirt that was one of the man's favorites. A warm breeze blew through the open window, and Nelson registered the sound of a car passing by on the main road just outside the campus. His animal brain connected car with go. But where? It registered. To Smitty. He needed to go to Smitty, and the need was impossible to fight. Placing his paws on the windowsill and looking out, he made a dog's uncanny assessment that if he jumped he could land on some bushes and then continue with a leap to the ground.

Okay, go! The screen crashed, and the big dog landed perfectly on the bushes and then on the ground. Shaking once, he trotted off—a black dog on a dark night in search of his master, in search of Smitty.

 

chapter fourteen

 

The crash of the screen jolted Brenden awake. Struggling to understand the sound, he remained still for a moment, waiting to see if some other kind of catastrophe would follow.

Soon he decided he was safe and remembered that he wasn't alone. "Hey, fur ball, are you okay?" he called.

There was no response anywhere in the room. Brenden tried again.

"Nelson. Come here, Nelson. Are you all right?"

Again there was no response, and Brenden climbed out of bed, not really worried but certainly curious. Not knowing his room very well and being newly blind, he moved slowly, his hands groping in front of him as he widened his circle. After finding no dog, his feet kicked—what was it? Reaching down, he was surprised to discover—what? The heel of. . .

"Oh no," he said out loud. "The heel of my shoe. My loafers."