by Sarah J. Blake
(Editor’s Note: The article below is the first in a series of four. Last September, when I read Sarah Blake’s poignant letter to her retiring guide dog, Elli, I asked Sarah if she would be willing to allow “Braille Forum” readers to accompany her on the journey of acquiring and adjusting to a second guide dog. The article below is a somewhat shorter version of that therapeutic letter. In the early spring, Sarah will describe the experience of returning to The Seeing Eye and getting to know her second guide dog, Dori. Then, in the early summer, we will check in again with Sarah to learn about her adjustment to the new dog and the dog’s adjustment to returning home with Sarah. In the fall, we will visit Sarah and her menagerie (Dori, Elli, and several cats) one more time to see how it was for all of them to learn to live and work together. We at “The Braille Forum” hope that you will enjoy the series.)
Big tears ran down my cheeks as I sat at my computer. I had thought I was doing well in adjusting to the prospect of retiring Elli, my first dog guide. Perhaps I was doing too well.
That was until I was notified that my class assignment at The Seeing Eye had been changed from November to September. Suddenly, reality began to set in. Right or wrong, I had made a choice to retire Elli, and now I would be entering a new era of life.
I had first begun to suspect that the time for retiring Elli was near during the summer of 1998. While attending the annual convention of the American Council of the Blind, I noticed that Elli’s enthusiasm for working was significantly diminished. She had always thrived on work, throwing her head into her harness as soon as I picked it up. Not even the stress of conventions had dampened her spirits until now.
A few weeks later, my mother and I noticed that Elli was having difficulty maintaining her energy level at the track. Usually Elli was the one who tired me. Now it was I who tired her. In December 1998, I had surgery and did not work with Elli for several weeks. I questioned the wisdom of putting a nine-year-old dog back to work after this time, and in March 1999, I took my first vacation without her.
I survived the vacation, and I thought that this meant I would survive going to The Seeing Eye with no problem. But going to The Seeing Eye was different. I hadn’t realized how different it was until this day.
Searching for some means of closure, I wrote a letter to Elli. I tried to capture my feelings about the change. “In a little over three weeks, I will be going somewhere very important,” I wrote, “and I’ll be leaving you behind. It’s not that I haven’t left you before. I’ve been taking trips for several months without you. ... But this trip is different. This time I’m going to get a new dog. It feels like I’m replacing you. Someone else is going to do your job. I guess that’s a little different from just not having you around. It’s having someone around who isn’t you. It’s letting someone else do what you should be doing.”
Writing those words made me realize the impact Elli had had on my life and how often I had taken her presence for granted. I spent the rest of my letter writing out my memories of our eight years together, trying to capture my feelings and Elli’s spirit on paper, trying to make them last.
“In May, 1991, I took this trip for the first time. ... It was a Saturday, May 18. I was on the airplane for a long time. I remember that as it was landing, I got scared. ‘What in the world am I doing getting a dog?’ I thought. ‘I don’t even like dogs!’
“But I had seen those proud guide dogs, and I thought they were the key to independence. Now I would be getting one of my own. ... My instructor had taught me some commands, and we had taken a practice walk. He held the dog’s end of the harness and leash, and I held my end. I gave him commands using the name ‘Juno’ as if he was a dog. ... On Sunday morning, I took another Juno walk, and after lunch we all waited around with mixed nervousness and anticipation. I had a roommate, Rachel. We compared notes on what we imagined our dogs would be like. We heard instructors saying ‘phooey’ to somebody’s dog, but it wasn’t mine or hers. Then the big moment came.
“‘Ms. Blake,’ my instructor called from outside my door. I went out to the lounge. He had already gone back out there and was sitting across the room with you. He told me to call you. I braced myself for the moment of truth and called your name.
“You came running over to me and started licking my hands. My instructor wanted me to stick my hand inside your mouth. Oh, how scary! What if you bit me? (Of course, you didn’t.) ...
“We spent that first afternoon just being together. I rubbed your belly. You gave me your paw in classic Labrador retriever fashion. You licked my hands but (thankfully) stayed away from my face. How did you know I hated having my face licked?
“Training was hard work. There were times one of us would rather play than work. But we worked hard, and the big day to go home finally came. We went to the airport, and I learned how to get you to ride under the seat in front of me on the plane. Dad picked us up from the airport in Houston, and I remember how proud Mom was to have you in her car! It made me feel like she was proud of me because you were mine.
“I turned 19 while I was there at the Seeing Eye. I’ve often said that you were my birthday present to myself. I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday present. You went to universities with me and sat for hours in class and in the library while I did research. You should have your Ph.D. by now. You’ve gone with me to make presentations to groups of children, university classes, and church groups. You’ve been on stages with me while I sang in choirs and by myself. You’ve gone with me to huge conventions and been a real trooper when all those people and other dogs were walking where I wanted you to take me. You’ve gone to banquets and never moved a muscle when I dropped a crumb from my roll on your nose. I don’t know many dogs who can achieve that. ... And now your time to have fun and just be a dog is here.
“... I know I need to do this. I know that you wouldn’t want me to be without the kind of help you gave me. But part of me doesn’t want to do this. That part of me doesn’t want anybody else doing your job. That part of me wants you to keep on doing it and feels guilty for letting you stop. You’re still healthy. Maybe you could still work. Maybe I just haven’t kept you in shape enough. Maybe if we started out slowly, you’d be able to work again. ...
“But I know how tired you are. I know you are in no shape to go traipsing around the country on all these trips while I look for jobs. I know you are in no shape to deal with full days at a university if I decide to go on to graduate school. You are about to be 10 years old. It’s time for me to let go. Somewhere in my mind I know that I am not betraying you or ignoring you and that both of us will adjust. I just wish it was easier.”
Writing the letter was more of a help to me than I ever thought it could be. It not only gave me a certain amount of closure regarding her retirement, but it also inspired me to write about the experience of transitioning to the new dog and the experience of having a dog guide in general. Elli now enjoys the high life of a spoiled pet, and I enjoy the company of not one but two wonderful Labrador retrievers. Elli’s retirement was one of the most emotional times of my life, but her working years made every moment of my grief worthwhile.