Comet's Tale (8 page)

I have myself bred a hound whose eyes are the greyest of grey. A swift, hardworking, courageous, sound-footed dog, and she proves a match at any time for four hares. She is moreover most gentle and kindly affectioned, and never before had I a dog with such a regard for myself.

That certainly sounded like the greyhound I lived with, and I wasn't alone. Since adopting Comet I had spoken to a number of people in Sedona whom I had spied walking their greyhounds. Determined to learn from these other custodians, I listened carefully as they related stories about their new friends. The retired racers were unusually sweet, calm, and intelligent, the owners reported. However, some of their observations gave me pause. Nearly all of the rescued racers suffered from insecurities as a result of their mistreatment at the dog track. The most common of these were separation anxiety and timid behavior in certain situations, for instance, when it thundered loudly or when public areas became confused and noisy with activity. No matter the hound, though, they all delighted in running—stretching their muscles and exhausting their energy in the exuberant celebration of speed.

It was one of these greyhound owners who told me about a vacant horse arena where I could unleash Comet and let her race to her heart's content. I would stand in the middle of the arena while Comet streaked around the perimeter, as smoothly powerful as a Porsche. She'd do five or six laps, and then without warning she'd rush at me at top speed. At the very last moment she would veer to the side, actually brushing my cane. Then she'd shoot off again as if fired from a slingshot, leaving nothing but the swirling air to wash over me like canine laughter. It was quite a thrill.

I was confident that Comet was exceptionally well adjusted for a retired racer, and she was clearly intelligent. Still, I wasn't an expert on the breed. Maybe it would be wise to call Maggie, who had first introduced me to greyhounds via the regal Lance. For some reason I felt foolish asking her, “Have you ever heard of a greyhound service dog?”

Her warm chuckle made me feel a little better. “No, I've never heard of that. To be honest, I've never even thought of such a thing. But what a wonderful idea.”

At least I wasn't a complete fool. “I'm seriously considering it. Are you still flying around the Southwest, saving the greyhound world? How's that going?”

“Not too good,” Maggie confessed. “With so many tracks closing, there's a glut of dogs waiting for rescue. Saving them one or two at a time with my plane isn't helping enough. Someone needs to organize a larger effort. Funding some of the bigger rescue groups with money from a real job is probably my best bet right now. I've decided to move to California, sell some real estate, and see what the future holds. Whatever it is, it'll never be as rewarding as rescuing these dogs.”

With Maggie's reassurance, the service dog idea began to nag me as persistently as my mom's Yorkie, a nonstop yapper.
I could always check into buying a dog that's already trained. Ah, maybe not. I think three dogs is Freddie's limit. Maybe it's best to give up on such a crazy stunt. Then again . . .
Pam's words bounced around my thoughts: “Have you asked Comet?”

“Comet, what would you think if I asked you for a little help once in a while?” Comet opened her eyes just wide enough to let me know that both of us had already made up our minds.

I started our new adventure by looking at several websites dedicated to service dog training so I could get an idea of how a good candidate behaved. Comet seemed to meet the requirements. She was “clean and healthy,” didn't “solicit attention,” didn't “vocalize unnecessarily,” and didn't “urinate or defecate in inappropriate locations” (unless you were a mole).

There was also a list of minimum training standards. At the top of it: “Must be trained to perform three or more tasks to mitigate the client's disability.” Coming up with things I needed help with was not a problem. If it required movement, I probably needed help with it. The challenge was in training a dog to assist with actions usually performed by humans, such as opening doors and helping someone in and out of a chair.

I knew from being around herding dogs that training a canine to perform tasks wasn't as simple as issuing a command to sit or stay. A working dog needed a context:
What is it that you need help with, and how does what you're asking me to do help?
Family pets and farm dogs were well acquainted with human activities. By now Comet was attuned to my daily routines, so I figured she would catch on to my requests fairly quickly. Equally important when it came to service training, family pets and farm dogs craved human approval. Retired racing greyhounds did not. After being raised like livestock, there was only the slightest human-dog connection. Pleasing someone was a concept as foreign as being loved, although the fact that Comet did not run away when she had the chance indicated she might be different. After she pulled her cot from the bedroom to sleep at my side during the food poisoning ordeal, I was certain of her affection for me. For the most part, though, asking a greyhound to help you was like asking a chicken to take a bath. This was not going to be a run-of-the-mill obedience exercise. Maybe I needed a professional trainer.

With help from the Internet, yellow pages, and the local library staff, I cobbled together a list of people who trained assistance dogs and started calling them. My request to have a greyhound trained was met with incredulity at best.

“Greyhounds are too stupid to do anything but run.”

“A greyhound? Are you nuts?”

“You might as well try pissing up a rope.”

Angry and frustrated, I punched in the number of the last trainer on the list, a man named Charlie. I could swear I heard a muffled snicker when I asked my question, but it was better than the open guffaws of the other trainers. Without much hope, I continued. “If you won't train the dog, can you at least give me some help with the basics, like the standards or process of accreditation or whatever?”

“Pets that just do tricks aren't allowed,” Charlie grumbled. “And just because the mutt makes you feel good doesn't count. Therapy dogs aren't service dogs.”

“So I've been told ad nauseam.” I snapped. “Listen, all I'm trying to do is get some help with stuff I'm having trouble doing.”
Stuff!
My language skills were shriveling faster than my muscles.

“Why don't you get a Lab or a regular dog that you know can do the job?”

Despite my annoyance, his gruff delivery made me laugh. “She
is
a regular dog. But I know what you mean. I'm finding out that greyhounds are not the breed of choice.”

“You're right about that. But I've gotta tell you, I can't really say why. I've never worked with one. Never had any reason to get away from what I know works. What makes you think this greyhound could be of any use to you?” His growl was still skeptical but not nearly as harsh.

“You mean besides the fact that I absolutely adore her?” A low chuckle vibrated in my ear. “She has a lot of traits in common with some good dogs that I've known before. She doesn't go out of her way to get attention and hardly ever barks. She's calm, even around crowds or loud noises, but she's interested in everything. And because of the track, she's used to being in small places for extended periods of time without whining or going to the bathroom.”

“She's good with kids and other people?” He actually sounded curious.

“She'll stand still forever when somebody wants to pet her. And, for whatever reason, she loves little kids.”

He continued to question me, and I eagerly provided the answers. Greyhounds are not susceptible to typical canine diseases and rarely have hip dysplasia. While not as stout as retrievers, their large rear leg muscles make for a strong, stable base. I emphasized the incredible patience Comet displayed when riding in the truck or standing on the sidewalk in a crowd. She could go for hours without any type of break, not showing even the slightest anxiety.

Charlie listened for several minutes before interrupting. “If I didn't know she was a greyhound, I'd say you had a good candidate for training. It's the running after things that'd worry me.”

“So, would you train her?” I was hopeful for the first time.

“No, I've got plenty to do without learning a new breed. But give me your address and I'll send you some standards that are out there for the blind and deaf dogs, and a new accreditation process that's being bandied around for service dogs.”

I recited my address before he warned, “Now, before you go off on a wild goose chase, you'll save yourself some money if you make sure she has the right disposition. Get her around as many crowds and noises as you can. Test her physically by leaning on her with your weight and pulling back hard on the leash. That'll give you a better idea of her strength. Get her around lots of kids. If she don't bite or kill somebody, you'll be a off to a good start.”

I wasn't quite sure he was finished so I didn't respond. “One more thing, make sure you know what it is you want done. Don't waste everybody's time by teaching her things you don't need. It'll help you both understand each other.”

“Anything else?”

“Get a regular dog.” A loud laugh rolled into my ear just before the click.

And that was it. There wasn't a trainer in all of Arizona willing to risk his or her reputation on a greyhound. The closest I was going to get to professional assistance was the package of information Charlie had offered to send. When that finally sank in, I was left with one option: to train Comet myself. After all, I had trained my share of hunting and herding dogs. I had nothing to lose, plenty of time, and the conviction that if I was up to the challenge, Comet would be, too. I gathered the tools I thought I would need—chew bones and a megasized carton of liver treats—and prepared to launch Comet on her second career.

8

NOVEMBER 2000–JANUARY 2001—ARIZONA

Teaching a dog new tricks always has its ups and downs. Teaching Comet to assist me was more like being strapped to a series of bottle rockets, each with its own unique explosion. Part of the reason for the combustibility was the list of things I needed help with—nothing on it related to chasing rabbits or hurtling around a track at forty-five miles per hour. Comet would definitely need to acquire a new skill set.

It had taken me a week of close scrutiny to isolate some of my more frustrating activities. After looking at the list, I had the same feeling that hit me when I knew Old Yeller was going to die. Fortunately, by then it was the weekend before Thanksgiving and Freddie was on hand to help me prioritize my needs. She had come down for a brief scouting mission in preparation for the family's visit at Christmas. I could tell that my list of limitations came as a shock to her. After reading it, she gently set it on the table and stared out at the frozen water in the backyard fountain. But in a few moments she collected herself and said, “You need another challenge to take on. I knew this dog would be good for you!” My wife's smile was as relaxed and genuine as I had seen it in a long time. Freddie picked up the list again and took a serious look at it. “I think you should start with the basics, the one or two things you struggle with the most every day.”

I had almost four weeks to work with Comet before the family arrived. Heeding my spouse's wise advice, I decided to start with the most basic activity of all, opening doors. The house had lever door handles, which were definitely easier to manipulate than knobs. My challenge was trying to push the lever down with my elbow while grasping my cane for balance. Sometimes my weight would shift too far forward and the door would fly open, launching me onto the floor. Comet hated when that happened; she'd stand nearby with a tucked tail, almost as if she were the one facedown on the carpet. She got tense whenever I had to open a door because she never knew if I would make it through intact. I had tried leaving all the interior doors open, but one or more would inevitably slam shut if I opened a window somewhere else in the house. Comet and I would both jump at the sudden rifle crack of the slamming door. For both of us, being able to open and close doors easily would mean an improved quality of life.

Teaching a dog to push a door open would be easier than teaching her to pull it. “Come here, girl,” I called to Comet from the bedroom. After a couple of begging shouts, Comet carefully approached the threshold. I figured that as soon as I shut the door in her face, her desire to be with me coupled with her dislike of closed doors would trigger a desperate need to gain entrance.
I'll just leave her for a few minutes and then crack the door.
It had been my experience with the goldens that the tiniest door opening was an invitation for them to poke their noses through and push their way inside. I was positive I could feel the anxiety increasing from the other side of the door as ten minutes crawled past. I listened intently for any sounds of distress. Comet was always quiet, but I didn't want her to suffer unnecessarily.
Enough!
I finally pulled the door inward a crack, ready to lure her with a few encouraging words. I peeked through the crack. Comet lay sprawled on the sunlit carpet, fast asleep.

All good experiments require a little tinkering in order to eliminate unwanted variables. I just didn't know what the variables were. In Sedona, just like at the lake house, if I was inside or outdoors without her, Comet would stiffly stand at the door, glaring a demand for passage. So why had my trial been met with such indifference? Eventually I realized that Comet was perfectly fine with me alone in another part of the house as long as I couldn't escape to the outside without her.

Enlightened, I took the opportunity the next morning to exit the bedroom while Comet luxuriated in the warm spot I left behind in the sheets. I closed the door and waddled to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. Comet was trapped in the bedroom, and she knew that I now had access to all of the doors that opened to the outside. She couldn't keep her eye on me if she stayed on the bed with the door closed. My third scoop of beans into the grinder was met with a small cry from the other side of the bedroom door. Five inches of nose and snout emerged as I inched the door open. Not willing to let the teaching opportunity pass, I held a liver snap directly above her black nostrils. Because the door opened toward Comet, her head-wedging attempts were slower than a simple push. But as soon as the opening was wide enough, Comet sprinted through. My smiling anticipation of our reunion was dashed when Comet pompously ignored both the treat and me.

I could see that Comet was upset by the change in our routine. Maybe I needed to issue a command that she would understand as a signal for her to get into training mode. “How about I let you know by saying, ‘Time to work'?” Thereafter, I notified the Queen in advance about any training exercises (Jenny's apt nickname had stuck). “Time to work” also became invaluable over the years when I wanted Comet to stop socializing. Amazingly, that's all it took to transform her from a crowd-loving celebrity into a snobby attendant no longer interested in the masses.

I worked with Comet for an hour or two every day on learning to open a door. When Freddie's holiday arrival was still two weeks away, Comet was already short-circuiting my attempts to push the interior house doors open, especially if in helping she could prevent my unannounced exit without her. Most important, I could almost see the pride in her eyes when I said, “Thank you, Comet.” I'd like to take credit for the remainder of her training, but all it took was this lightbulb of understanding to flash: Comet was making it easier for me to navigate around the house, and I was immensely grateful for her help. While gratitude was once a totally foreign concept to Comet, she began responding to my praise like a professional butler, head up and smiling eyes to the front. This understanding was a coal-fired, blacksmith-forged bond of caring that Comet has never broken.

Comet could soon negotiate opening a door like a thief, as long as the latch did not click into the notched slot. Unlike the average dog, who might nudge a door open if it was already ajar and there was something he desired on the other side, Comet would open a closed door and do it at my command. With only days remaining before our surprise holiday presentation for Freddie (who was scheduled to arrive three days before the rest of the family), there was still time to dream up a new experiment. “Let's learn to open the door when the handle is latched.”

My inspiration for the training method originated in a visit to our local pet supply store. Because of her sweet disposition, Comet was one of only a few dogs allowed into the small shop. There was always a treat waiting for her, and she could roam the two narrow aisles as she pleased. One pleasantly crisp afternoon, I waited at the counter while the owner wheeled a cart loaded with a forty-pound package of dry kernels and a stack of canned dog food to my SUV. After returning, she began to tabulate the bill. “Do you want me to ring that up, too?” The owner's smile was directed over my shoulder.

“I think I've got everything.”

“Almost everything,” she hinted. Turning, I discovered Comet lingering two steps behind me holding in her mouth a black and tan, nappy-furred stuffed toy that resembled a baby javelina.
That's what I get for letting her hang around Cody and Sandoz—damn juvenile delinquents!

“His name is Booda,” said the shopkeeper.

Comet spent the rest of that day attacking the javelina and flinging it into the air with her long, muscled neck. It was cute for the first two hundred times.

During ensuing visits, Comet went on to acquire a stuffed animal collection that would have been the envy of any little girl. I finally put a stop to the thefts the day I found a long-armed stuffed blue monkey sitting in the passenger's seat on our drive home. It was that monkey who got the job of teaching Comet how to open doors.

My plan was brilliant in its simplicity, if I do say so myself. I hid all the other stuffed animals in a box in the garage, and then I tightly tied the monkey's long arms around the bedroom door lever. My hope was that when Comet noticed the monkey she would pull at him, thus lowering the lever and opening the door. With no other toys around, boredom would become my ally and the monkey's worst nightmare.

I sat in my recliner, peeking over the top of my newspaper to watch Comet investigate the case of the missing toys. First she poked her nose under and around every piece of furniture. Then she collapsed onto her side in front of the couch, fishing for clues by sweeping her long legs under the frame. It didn't occur to her that she was the only one who could have hidden a toy under the furniture. I could tell her frustration was mounting when I became the object of Comet's classic eye-laser probing. “Why don't we check the bedroom?” I innocently suggested. I carefully opened the door only halfway before Comet followed me in. “Look what I found hanging on the door!”

I love watching Comet calculate her options. A quiet staring tenseness soon morphs into a sparkling glint in her eye, followed closely by
Aha!
as her eyes open wide in anticipation of upcoming fun. In this case, her reaction was much too grand for the room. Comet launched herself up and forward, flying headfirst directly at the pleading monkey. Comet, the monkey, and one side of the double door entry smashed violently forward. Before I could comprehend that the cracking sound was doorway trim giving way, Comet landed and vehemently jerked the whole mess backward, only to launch herself forward again.
This is going to get expensive!
Banging, slamming, twisting, and jerking—in minutes Comet managed to make the monkey a dual amputee, his cotton innards strewn all over the floor.
A new version of manslaughter—monkeyslaughter!
My chortling snorts, interrupted by bursts of hysteria, didn't help as I attempted to free the monkey from the handle before Comet brought the whole door crashing down.

By the time Freddie arrived on the morning of December 22, Comet had a new blue monkey. I allowed her unlimited playtime with her toy in the great room, no door involved, while Freddie prepared her holiday feast. This monkey lasted a whole two days.

Before dawn on Christmas morning, we were rudely awakened by a crashing slam at the bedroom door.
“Mon Dieu!”
yelped Freddie, grabbing at me. I had secretly handcuffed a pink monkey to the lever, but Comet and I had not perfected our act. To say that I leaped from bed would be a stretch, but I did scramble over and pull the stuffed toy from the handle. Freddie instantly caught on. “Oh, Wolfie. You were trying to surprise me, weren't you? You're teaching Comet how to open doors.” Her voice, so gentle and sweet, actually caused me to blush.

“Comet, why don't you go play with your monkey in the great room. I'm going to spend some time telling my wife how beautiful she is.” I don't think Comet cared that I shut the door behind her.

FREDDIE, JACKIE, MY
mom, and my sister Debbie's family all convened in Sedona two days later, but Kylie and Lindsey couldn't adjust their holiday schedules to join us. It was my first Christmas without them, and it felt like somebody had bruised my heart with a sledgehammer. The loss wasn't made any easier by my cloudy notion that the girls just didn't want to be around me. I imagined they felt the way I had about my grandma after her leg had been amputated due to diabetes. I was thirteen at the time, in theory old enough to graciously ignore the sight of her empty pant leg. But it totally unnerved me. I couldn't look at it, and I couldn't stop thinking about it. I loved my grandmother and was ashamed of my queasiness. It was easier just to avoid her. Instead of splitting the holiday between me and their mother as they usually did, my daughters had probably decided, “It'd be a lot more fun to spend our entire vacation in Florida with Mom.” It hurt like hell, but I could certainly relate.

The family's lack of enthusiasm about Comet's new door-opening skill didn't improve my spirits. I had to keep reminding myself that they thought Comet was just learning a trick, and an unimpressive one at that. My mood lightened at the news that Jackie was going home with my sister, which meant Freddie could stay with me for an extra week.

After the family departed, Freddie delved into an online investigation of service dogs. “Wolfie, did you know that there aren't any certification standards?” I watched her frown at the information on the screen. “From what I can tell, there are only suggestions for how the dogs should behave and what type of assistance is considered proper. I can't see that they need any special tags or vests. About the only thing that can happen is that a business can kick them out if they aren't behaving—barking, running around, bothering people.”

“No legal standards at all?” It occurred to me that if one thing went wrong while Comet was in a public space, she would never be allowed back. “I just want to do this the right way. The suggested standards of behavior and minimum requirements specified by the service dog groups make perfect sense to me.”

That week I lucked into a new training technique with Comet. Determined to teach her to calmly pull open a levered door handle, I tried attaching her leash before a training session. It worked. For some reason, my holding the leash made Comet focus on the task at hand. By the time Freddie boarded the airport shuttle, Comet was proudly pawing down door levers all over the house. My days of belly flopping into a room were over.

As we waited for the shuttle, Freddie said, “Don't forget about the stuff I ordered for Comet. The vest is bright purple, with ‘service dog' stitched on the sides. And the collar and leash are made for handling helper dogs. That way, when you're out in public, people will know she's working.” Her words puffed out in frozen clouds. “I'm so proud of you for training her!” A kiss and exhaust fumes were all that was left behind.