Of Mousetraps and Men
Tom leaves tomorrow for an intense three-week training session with a new guide dog, his third. Seems a logical time to pay tribute to the first two.
Blake, Tom’s first guide dog, was a tough act to follow. A yellow Labrador retriever with all of his instincts intact, Blake loved water, balls, Frisbees, and food. Especially food. He was impossible—always sneaking a cookie (or ten) from the cooling rack, or pulling out a loaf of bread (and eating it) while I was unloading groceries, that sort of thing. And he raided the garbage anytime it smelled interesting. Finally, Tom called the guide dog school for advice. How could he teach Blake to be polite about food? The shocking answer was to put a set mousetrap on the top of the garbage, then leave it overnight. One sprung trap, and Blake would learn a lesson he wouldn’t soon forget. We were reluctant—it seemed so mean! But after Blake ate a two pound package of Velveeta cheese and a loaf of bread, then gassed the entire P.E. Dept., we gave it a shot. Tom carefully set the trap on top of the garbage and we went to bed. The next morning, the garbage was all over the floor, with the still-unsprung trap in the midst of it. Sheer luck protected Tom’s bare feet from learning that lesson Blake wouldn’t soon forget. We learned to secure the garbage with clothespins and lock Blake in the bedroom. Tom ran with Blake for several years, training him to jog on leash while guiding, and it was Blake who got to take Tom around Brussels, Belgium, including a lovely cathedral with a grumpy priest who insisted that we get the “hoond” “oot” of his church. We never did get the poor guy to see Blake’s side of things. Blake was rather vocal, too, sighing audibly (to Tom’s students’ delight) when class lectures became too boring.
But dogs don’t live as long as people, and Blake got old. Tom went back for Guide Dog #2, David. Blake’s puppyhood had been spent hiking, kayaking, camping, canoeing. David went on cruises, had a Frequent Flyer card, attended Mass every week, and loved going to the mall. The first night Tom had David, as is the rule, Tom tied him to the end of the bed. David cried all night, and by the second night, Tom was breaking the rules in order to sleep.
Food has never been the way to David’s heart. Whenever he feels the least bit out of sorts—it’s too hot, or too cold, or Daddy yelled at him and his feelings are hurt, or any number of other little irritants, David simply refuses to eat. This can become a problem, especially when Tom is on a tight travel schedule and needs for David to be at his best. We have discovered that singing like Mickey Mouse motivates David to eat, and so on any given trip, at one point or another, you’re likely to hear nonsense songs, sung loudly and in a high-pitched voice: “Eat your foodsies, eat your foodsies, yumyumyum!” and other silly variations. Sorta gives the lie to all that dignity and pomp and intelligence we credit guide dogs with….
And yet, David has been a terrific dog, especially in unusual or unfamiliar situations. He can take Tom straight to the cigar area of Heorot to get a stogy, or to the bathroom next door. In the San Antonio airport, where inexperienced security workers completely denuded David of harness, leash, and collar, leaving the dog free to roam naked through the area, David acted like the classy professional he is, helping Tom get through while the gear was elsewhere.
He has always been eccentric, though. The first time we took him swimming, in the placid Guadalupe River in Texas’ Hill Country, he cowered at the shore. Finally, he timidly stuck a toe in, and eventually—since it seemed so important to his family that he do so—he paddled out to my sister and jumped into her arms, 80 lbs. of frightened Labrador. I don’t believe he has set foot in water since, except his bath, which he accepts with an air of resignation.
He has earned his rest, and his old man sweater.
