Teacher's Pet (5 page)

Every school in America should have a puppy pen. That way any kid having a bad day could visit for fifteen minutes of puppy love. That would cure anyone's bad mood. I bet grades would go up, too.

“Do you raise all the puppies here?” I ask as I toss a ball across the pen.

John takes a brush from a hook on the wall and starts to groom the mom dog's coat. She closes her eyes in pleasure.

“We breed all our dogs here,” he explains. “The pups stay with their mother for eight weeks. Then we send them out to volunteer puppy-raising families. The puppy raisers take care of their pups until they're about eighteen months old. They teach them basic obedience and make sure they're exposed to lots of social experiences.”

“Do they teach any of the commands that the blind people use?” I ask.

“Only basic obedience, like ‘Sit,' ‘Stay,' and ‘Come.' The real work starts when the dogs come back here. If they pass their medical exams, the dogs are assigned an instructor, like me. We work with the dogs for about four months, teaching them the skills they need to be successful guide dogs. When the companions arrive at the school, they work with their dogs for a month. Assuming all goes well, the dogs and companions graduate and leave as a team.”

“Wow,” I say. “That's a lot of change, a lot of moving around for the dogs. How can they bond with anyone?”

John picks up the tufts of fur from the floor. “They are totally surrounded by love and affection every step of the way. Big changes are easier to handle if you know people love you—that's true for dogs and people. But it takes time and patience. The tricky part is when the dog and blind companion leave here and go back to real life. The outside world takes some getting used to.”

“I think that's what Mr. Carlson and Scout are going through,” I say.

“What do you mean?” John asks.

I stroke the head of the sleepy puppy in my lap and explain what I know. John lifts his cap, scratches the back of his head, and puts the cap back on.

“I knew it would be a challenge, starting with Scout and then going back to teaching right away,” he says. “But James, Mr. Carlson, is a really independent guy. And Scout is a smart dog, well suited for a teacher. They need time together, and they need to keep up on their training. And James has to remember to be affectionate with Scout.”

The puppy in my lap lets out a little snore. I wonder if there is something I can do to help. Teach my teacher? Is that possible?

“Come on,” John says. “You've seen the puppies. Now I want to show you how we train the adult dogs.”

“This is Nugent,” John says as he opens a kennel door. A medium-sized golden retriever with a shiny reddish coat bounds out. John bends down and hugs him, ruffling his fur.

“Do you want to pet him?” he asks.

“Can I?” I ask, puzzled. “Gran told me I shouldn't pet a guide dog, not even a little.”

John hooks a leash on Nugent's collar. “She's right. But Nugent isn't wearing his guide harness right now, so he's off duty. He knows that he's not working.”

I kneel in front of the happy dog and let him smell my hand. He sniffs it over very carefully, then gives it a big slurp.

“I like you, too,” I chuckle. As I reach out to pet him, Nugent rolls over so that I can scratch his belly. Oooh, he loves that!

After a few minutes of petting and playing, John fastens on Nugent's harness. It looks exactly like Scout's. Nugent stops acting goofy as soon as the harness is on. He sits attentively by John's left foot.

“Do you want to walk with him?” John asks.

“Can I? Wow! Sure!”

I take the harness from John. Nugent looks over his shoulder and smiles at me. John tells me to grip the handle lightly and to keep it back by my left leg.

“He's there to guide you, not to drag you down the street. But be prepared. Nugent walks quickly. The commands are simple: ‘Forward,' ‘Halt,' ‘Left,' ‘Right.' If he slows down to investigate or smell something, you say, ‘Hup-up.' Got it?”

“Got it,” I say. “Nugent, forward.”

And we're off—fast! I have to power-walk to keep up with him.

“You weren't kidding,” I tell John. “What happens if Nugent gets a handler with short legs, like me?”

John strides beside us easily. “Matching the dog and handler is the most important thing we do. Nugent will be a good guide for a tall, athletic person, someone with a strong personality, who isn't afraid to charge into a crowd. Relax your hand a bit.”

Good advice. I'm clutching the handle way too tightly.

“We'll walk through the park to town. When we get all the way down to the corner, tell Nugent to take a right,” John instructs.

We walk along in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the beautiful day and the company of a good dog. My legs have warmed up, and I can match Nugent's gait now. This is different from walking Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock (and every other dog I've walked) wants to hunt around, smell, and explore. Nugent wants to move, to get where we're going.

Scattered around the park are other guide dogs working with instructors or their new handlers. I think I see Mr. Carlson and Scout, but I don't want to holler and distract them. The only sounds are good ones—people praising dogs, telling them how good and wonderful they are. This place has what Brenna would call “good vibes.”

“Can I close my eyes?” I ask. “You know...”

John nods. “You want to see what it feels like for James and Scout, right? Go right ahead. Trust the dog. He knows how to take care of you.”

I look straight ahead. The sidewalk is smooth. There's nothing in our way. I close my eyes and keep walking.

“Wow! It feels like we're speeding up.” I open my eyes. “It's kind of scary.”

“Try it again,” John urges.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I'm not going to open them again. I'd like to slow down, but Nugent is setting the pace. The harness! With my eyes shut, I notice the position of the harness in my hand a lot more. I can feel how Nugent walks, his shoulders rolling slightly from side to side.

“Wait a minute,” I say, my eyes still closed. “What's he doing?”

Nugent has slowed down. Now he stops, still standing at my left side.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing. He's waiting for you to tell him what to do,” John says. “The sidewalk here is shaped like a T. You can go left or right. If you keep going straight, you'll walk into the road. Nugent is trained to cross only at corners, so he won't let you do that.”

“OK, Nugent, right.”

The handle shifts as Nugent turns to the right. I step to the right, and we are off again.

“Great job, Maggie,” John says. “Tell him to halt, and I'll take over.”

“Nugent, halt.” The dog responds perfectly, and I open my eyes. “Good boy!” I say. He wags his tail and smiles.

John takes the handle of the harness from me. “You're really good at picking up Nugent's signals,” he says. He takes a thick blindfold from his back pocket and ties it so that his eyes are completely covered. “Forward, Nugent.”

We start walking again.

“Don't you have to tell him where you want to go, like, ‘Nugent, let's get a water ice,' or ‘Nugent, take me to the grocery store'?” I ask.

“Nope, that's a common myth,” John says. “Guide dogs don't take you places. They follow directions. It is up to the handler to know where she's going. Think of it this way: the handler is the navigator and the dog is the driver. Nugent, left.”

Nugent guides John to a branch of the sidewalk that goes off to the left.

“Traffic lights are another myth,” John continues. “Some people think that guide dogs know it is safe to cross the street when the light changes from green to red. That's wrong. Dogs don't watch the light. They watch for cars and listen to the commands of their handler.”

As John talks, I keep an eye on Nugent. We pass a bakery, a flower shop, and a deli that smells like cheesesteak sandwiches, but nothing distracts him. He walks right past a woman leading two yipping Maltese dogs without a glance. He doesn't even sniff a fire hydrant. It's amazing.

“Good boy, Nugent!” John praises enthusiastically. Nugent wags his tail and keeps walking.

“We're coming to a busy intersection,” I warn.

“I know,” John says. “Nugent knows, too. Just watch. Whatever you do, don't grab the harness. That's like grabbing the steering wheel of a car. It will ruin his confidence.”

Nugent stops at the corner. The traffic rushes past us on the street. Then the light changes.

“I listen carefully to make sure that the traf fic has stopped, and then we go,” John explains. “Nugent, forward.”

As John steps off the curb, a car comes around the corner, right in his path. Before I can say anything, Nugent freezes, and John hastily steps back on the curb. The car drives past us.

“Good boy,” John says, giving Nugent a hug. “Now forward.”

Nugent checks the road, then leads John safely across. I walk with them.

“That was incredible,” I say when we reach the other side. “He saw that car coming and stopped you. He saved your life!”

“That's what we call intelligent disobedience,” John says. “It is the hardest thing to teach. The dog has to disobey a command from the handler when he knows the handler might be hurt. Guide dogs do that every day.”

We cross another street and head back toward the school.

“I don't want you to get the wrong impression, Maggie,” John says. “Guide dogs are not superheroes or robots. They are just highly trained dogs that work with motivated, independent blind people.”

Just like my science teacher.

John and Nugent drop me off at the van. I find Gran still at the vet center deep in a discussion about hip problems. She can talk about hip problems for hours. I wander around until I find Mr. Carlson sitting on a bench under an ancient maple tree. Mr. Carlson has a Braille magazine in his lap, but he's not reading it. Scout rests at his feet, staring at the guide dogs and their handlers still practicing in the park.

I walk over to the maple tree and sit down. “Hey, Mr. Carlson,” I say.

“Hi, Maggie,” he says. “Did you have fun?”

“You'd better believe it.” I tell him all about the puppies and my walk with Nugent. He doesn't say much, like his mind is somewhere else.

“How is Scout?” I ask. “Did the vet agree with Gran?”

Mr. Carlson nods. “Yep. The swelling of his paw has already gone down a bit. He's fine.”

“That's good,” I say.

“Um-hmm,” he replies.

What do I say now? I can't just leave. That would be rude. I think about it for a minute.

“What did you mean yesterday when you said that you and Scout got lost?”

“Oh, that.” Mr. Carlson gives a little laugh. “It would have been funny if it wasn't so awful. I didn't think I would have any trouble finding my way around the school. I taught there, sighted, for ten years.”

“And? ”

“And I couldn't find the upstairs conference room. Talk about embarrassing! I felt like an idiot.”

I don't say anything.

Mr. Carlson continues. “And then the way I stepped on Scout's paw and hurt him... well, it wasn't a very good way to end the first day of school. Coming back here,” he waves his arm to show the campus of the guide-dog school, “makes me realize how much I'm doing wrong.

I lean forward and put my elbows on my knees. He sounds serious. Scout turns around to look. I bet he can hear the defeated tone in his companion's voice. I wish I could pet him and tell him it will be all right.

“It can't be that bad,” I say.

“You don't know the half of it,” he says. “I'm too busy for Scout's obedience lessons. He was upset when we got lost. He thought it was his fault, but it was mine. I wonder... ”

“Wonder what?”

He takes a deep breath. “I wonder if I should have waited a year—gotten into the swing of teaching, then applied for a guide dog.” He pauses and smooths his beard. “I wonder if I should give him back.”

“You can‘t!” I exclaim. “You can't give up! I know about dogs, Mr. Carlson. Scout is amazing. He's like a genius dog, I swear. He wants to work with you. You just need more time together.”

“That's what they all say.”

“I know you think I'm just a kid, but I really do know dogs. You just have to ... ”

I stop. Who am I to tell a teacher what to do?

“No, go on,” he says. “What were you going to say?”