One of the great joys of raising a puppy to be a guide dog is taking him out in public as part of the socializing process. Tony was already the most adorable Black Lab puppy I had ever seen. He was even more so wearing the little yellow coat identifying him as a guide-dog-in-training, which allowed him in restaurants and buildings where dogs are usually not permitted.
Our trips in public could also be a hardship. It wasn’t going places that was difficult. I enjoyed being out with Tony, whose eagerness to meet new people even conquered his dislike of car rides. Most people were just as eager to meet him.
That’s when our excursions would become difficult. After explaining why a puppy was with me in a place where dogs are not usually allowed, people almost inevitably asked what I had come to think of as The Question: “What is it going to feel like when you have to give him up?”
I had learned to dread The Question.
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 | | Tony at eight weeks of age |
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It had taken months to understand that I was actually being asked something else. It seemed people really wanted to know what special knowledge or power I possessed, to endure the heartache of voluntarily surrendering this wonderful puppy to someone else forever. They seemed to think I owned some special insight, which, if I shared it, would relieve them of their own heartache. Perhaps they could banish the lingering pain from the day that special one, with those shining eyes, had announced that while they could still be friends, their lives must be lived apart. Somehow, armed with the same strength that allowed me to give up my wonderful puppy, they could recover from that betrayal, or the loved one who contracted the long illness for which science still hunts a cure, or that dark night the police officer came to the door, eyes carefully lowered.
I still hadn’t found a good response to The Question. “It’s the only way you can raise a guide dog,” I would say, but that satisfied no one. They sought an insight I don’t possess.
That was my concern the day I brought Tony to visit Sharon Heron’s second grade class, to talk about how a puppy becomes a guide dog. How would I answer The Question? I couldn’t even find a satisfactory answer for adults, never mind children.
I stood in front of the class and made Tony assume the “down” position. My plan was to give my talk, answer questions, then let Tony meet the kids. Tony had other plans. As I began to speak, he yelped, looked straight up at me, then toward the children seated around him. He made it clear he wanted to meet the kids immediately, and I had to relent. A puppy must be a puppy. He greeted each one, tail wagging, straining against the leash, tongue ready to offer a gentle lick to any young face within reach.
After describing what we had to do to raise this special puppy, I asked if the class had any questions. I waited for The Question.
The first questioner asked what kind of dog Tony was, even though I had already mentioned that during my talk. I patiently repeated that he was a Black Lab. Then, despite Sharon’s urging that they ask questions, not tell personal stories, many of them felt obliged to tell me about their own dogs.
By far, however, the most persistent question inquired about what would happen if Tony got lost.
“Well,” I explained when it arose, “It’s very unlikely, because he is only allowed outside when he is on a leash or in his pen.”
That didn’t satisfy the next questioner, who asked how we would get him back if he still got away.
“If that ever did happen, his collar has a metal name tag with my name and address, so the people who found him could call me to come get him.”
That seemed a neat enough explanation, but I underestimated the enormity of this problem for my listeners. The next kid wanted to know how we would get him back if that tag fell off.
“That’s a good question,” I said, thinking I could put this problem to rest, “that’s why he has another tag with the phone number of the Guide Dog Foundation on it, so they could call me to come get him.”
It still wasn’t enough. The next questioner envisioned a worse scenario, asking how I could possibly get Tony back if his whole collar came off and he had no tags? What would happen then?
Finally an answer came that did put the question to rest.
“Even if his whole collar came off,” I explained, “he has a little tattoo inside his ear with his guide dog number, and that can’t come off.”
They accepted that. I guess an identifying tattoo for a puppy makes sense to kids who have sports heroes covered with a variety of tattoos. Several of them went on to relate how their own family pets had been lost and then reclaimed.
The Question never came.
It fascinated me that so many questions focused on how to retrieve a lost dog. I guess to a second grader things are repairable, they can be made better some way, you just have to learn how. These children belonged to that golden time before the arrival of lost love, lost friendship, of loss for which there is no repair. They still lived before the discovery we each must make that some loss is final, that there are faces we will never be allowed to see again. They did not yet know that some kinds of loss can only be endured, not repaired.
They asked me for nothing more complicated than straightforward answers, rather than insights I do not possess. For that I was grateful. It was a great joy to again see the world through the eyes of a seven year old.
