Haben Page 15

  “Hello.” I slide into the seat next to her.

  “Hey, Haben!”

  “Stacy, right?” Stacy is an experienced guide dog handler from Wisconsin.

  “Yeah.” She reaches under the table to check on her dog, London.

  Maxine’s back nestles against my shoes. I keep my feet still so she can nap. “How was your morning?”

  “It was terrible.”

  My eyes widen. “What went wrong?”

  “Oh…everything.”

  “Everything?” My pitch rises as I draw out the word.

  “Yeah.” She laughs. “But it was all my fault. I made a mistake.”

  Maxine stands up, turns around, and lies back down. She drapes a paw over my right shoe. “So what happened?” I ask Stacy.

  “I got lost in a parking lot.”

  “Oh no!”

  “I spent like ten minutes trying to get out.” Amusement and frustration mingle in her voice. “I figured it out, though, eventually.”

  “That’s good.” I ponder her story for a minute. “How did you get into the parking lot in the first place?”

  She answers in a quiet, sheepish voice, “That was London.”

  “These dogs!” I laugh. “Mine has been getting into trouble, too. She peed in the hallway today, and last week she peed in the training center downtown. She wakes me up in the middle of the night, so I never get a full night’s sleep. It’s like I’m parenting a newborn.”

  “But we love them regardless, don’t we? Because they give us freedom and independence.”

  Reaching for a glass of water on the table, I decide to keep my thoughts on that remark to myself.

  My freedom and independence come from me. My confidence comes from within. Choosing to partner with a guide dog is a choice. It’s not better or worse than a cane, just different. A cane would catch a row of plants, preventing me from tripping over them. A cane would let me sleep instead of interrupting my dreams with earthquakes. A cane doesn’t pee. The power of the simple device has a breathtaking elegance. Maybe I should stick with using a cane.

  But then, walking with a dog feels amazing. Maxine moves smoothly through space, gliding around obstacles with ease. A cane would need to first make contact with an obstacle before I could walk around it. Also, holding the harness for a long time doesn’t exhaust my arm the way holding a cane does. With additional eyes and ears, the dog offers more environmental feedback, more safety while crossing streets, more security navigating the world.

  I would rather walk with a guide dog than a cane, but peeing indoors is a dealbreaker. My future involves classrooms and courtrooms, law school and law firms. Professionalism necessitates navigating those spaces without dog urine. Maxine is a sweet dog, but if she keeps this up I’m going to have to resume using a cane.

  After a long day of training, Maxine and I visit the student lounge before heading to bed. “Hello?” The room seems empty. Sitting down on the couch, I take out my iPhone. Apple just created VoiceOver, a screenreader that converts graphical data on the screen to synthesized speech. It’s the first speech synthesizer that I can actually hear—the high-frequency voice falls within my limited range of hearing, and earbuds allow me to bring the sound directly to my ears. The revolutionary VoiceOver has created access to the iPhone and an array of powerful tools now available on the go—GPS, email, books, and the internet. I’m still blown away by the fact that I can actually text people.

  Maxine jumps up. I look up and notice several people entering the room. They talk among themselves. I can’t hear the conversation, so I go back to my phone.

  “What are you doing?” a voice asks.

  I study the person sitting next to me: a guy about my height, with a black Lab. I smile. “Hi, Country Kid.”

  A woman on the other side of the couch cheers. Keianna! She came up with the nickname after Peter regaled her with stories from rural Texas.

  “Are you going to answer my question?” Peter asks.

  “I’m texting.”

  “Who?” he demands to know.

  “Gordon. He’s from Alaska.”

  “Whoa. Does he have an accent like Sarah Palin?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll ask him.” Imagining Gordon’s reaction makes me laugh.

  The man on my right calls out, “Someone’s dog is licking my feet.” Sebastian is a religious leader in Florida and wears black robes. An instructor said they partnered Sebastian with a black Lab to match his cassock.

  Inspecting Maxine’s nose, I find it by Sebastian’s feet. “Baby girl, that’s not professional. Come on, move just a little bit. Good, Maxine! Good girl!” She stretches out on the floor facing a different direction.

  “The way you talk to her is so sweet,” Sebastian says.

  “That’s because I’m not speaking German.”

  He chuckles. “Como te llamas?” He asks for my name.

  I’m surprised. We’ve all been in this program for three weeks now. “Me llamo Haben.”

  “Heaven? Como cielo?”

  My mind takes a moment to translate his words through my limited high school Spanish. When I get it, I try to suppress my mirth. “No, not como cielo. My name is Haben. Though I am heavenly.”

  The room bursts into laughter. The sound makes my heart dance. Getting people to laugh diffuses any disability-related awkwardness. Humor draws people in, paving the way for meaningful connections. At some point in my childhood I discovered the goodwill sparked by bringing laughter into people’s lives, and I’ve been developing my sense of humor ever since.

  Sebastian switches to English. “Haben, Peter is calling you.”

  “Oh.” I turn around on the couch to face Peter. “Did you say something?”

  “Yeah. I was wondering, could you get me a drink?”

  “I could. Or maybe I should let you practice being independent.”

  “Nooo!” he wails. “That wouldn’t be kind at all!”

  “Just this once.” Standing up, I gesture to Maxine. “Maxine, forward. Good girl!” Halfway across the room, she stops to pee. My blood boils. “Pfui! Pfui!” Taking deep breaths, I try to calm down. “Keianna, Maxine just peed!”

  “It’s okay. She’s still learning. Babies mess up sometimes.”

  I march off to a shelf with cleaning supplies. Grabbing paper towels and a cleaner, I return to the carpet. I tear off a few sheets of paper towel, fold them over, and drag them over the carpet searching for the wet spot. Maxine nudges my arm. “Sit. Rest.” I hesitate, then mumble, “Good girl.”

  After cleaning up and washing my hands, I announce to the room, “I’m going to bed.”

  “Are you upset?” Keianna asks.

  “Yes.” Maxine follows as I walk over to Keianna. “We’ve been here three weeks and she’s still having accidents.”

  “It gets better over time. Trust me. They act up during training, but after training everything gets better. Just don’t go to bed mad at your baby.”

  Sighing, I stand up. “Maybe she’s not cut out to be a guide dog.” The words squeeze my heart, foreshadowing the pain of a breakup. I walk to my room with a lump in my throat.

  The following day, I tell George we need to talk. He takes a seat across from me in the student room.

  “Maxine has been having a lot of accidents,” I tell him. “They happen so often I don’t even think they can be called ‘accidents.’ I don’t think she’s qualified to graduate. I can’t take a dog that’s not housebroken.”

  “Do you like your dog?” he asks.

  I glance down at the dog sitting between us. Maxine points her ears, taking in every word. “I like her a lot. She’s smart, she’s sweet. She’s a really cute dog. But that’s not the point.”

  “And how’s her guiding?” George continues, seeming to miss my concerns.

  My temples throb with a headache. “I’m not complaining about her guiding. She’s doing great. Every day she guides better and better. But she’s still peeing inside! That’s the issue.”

/>   “Maxine is an amazing dog. One of the best I’ve ever worked with. She didn’t have accidents when I worked with her. Are you giving her opportunities to use the bathroom outside?”

  Too frustrated to speak, I nod my head yes.

  “And does she do anything when you take her outside?”

  I nod again.

  “Then you’re doing just fine. Continue giving her opportunities to go outside.”

  “You don’t understand. It’s been three weeks and she’s still having accidents. We’re almost at the end of the program. I can’t take a dog that pees inside.”

  “You don’t have to take her. You can leave her here. It’s your choice. But if I were you, I would take her. She’s one of the best dogs I’ve ever seen. Really smart, really loves to please. You two have bonded well. She really likes you.”

  My eyes water. I struggle to hold back the tears. “I like her, too, but peeing inside is not acceptable. I plan to go to law school and become a lawyer. Traveling with a dog that has frequent accidents is unprofessional. Do you understand that it’s not okay?”

  “Of course. I agree with you. But she is house-trained. German shepherds are particularly sensitive and struggle with change. She’s going through an adjustment process. It just takes time.”

  “When will she stop having accidents?”

  “I can’t give you an exact date. You can leave her here if you want. No one will force you to take her, but she’s a wonderful dog. Give her more time.”

  I begin petting Maxine as my mind grapples with the decision. She is a lovely dog. I adore her. I didn’t come here for a cute dog, though—I came here for a service animal, and a service animal that has accidents every other day is not acceptable.

  What should I do?

  I have a few weeks before fall college classes start. If she’s still not house-trained by September, then I’ll send her back to The Seeing Eye. I swallow, trying to clear the lump in my throat. “Okay, I’ll give her more time.”

  “Excellent. Good choice. Anything else we need to discuss?”

  I shake my head, still petting Maxine.

  George stands up and heads to the door. “You two are doing great. Keep it up.” He steps out and closes the door.

  As I run my hands through Maxine’s soft fur, I give her the update. “Pumpkin, you’re on probation.”

  Maxine has memorized the routes to all of my college classes, and her favorite path is the one we take to go home. Once I give her the signal, her four legs start working double-time, just short of a run. Her excitement travels up the harness, through my arm, and up to my mirroring smile. Maxine moves with an elegance that earns respect from everyone around us. My classmates and professors call her perfect. I pet her, praise her, and sometimes correct her. They’re right, though. She’s perfect.

  Maxine hasn’t had an accident since leaving The Seeing Eye three months ago. Not a single one. Not even during our eight-hour journey back to Oregon. Looking at her now is like looking at an adult and trying to remember the person as a two-year-old going through potty training.

  During training she didn’t care about me enough to keep me safe or keep the carpets clean. Love takes time. Love forms through the expression of genuine appreciation, the creation of clear boundaries, the practice of forgiveness, and mutual respect. Over time, these experiences weave together, forming a strong bond between two beings. Time and experience have fostered a trust that draws us together, building a shared understanding that continues to grow.

  There’s another big change: Maxine stopped making earthquakes. Nowadays, I let her sleep on my bed. She promised not to tell The Seeing Eye.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Love Is Following Me

  up an Iceberg

  Juneau, Alaska. Winter 2010.

  Despite heavy gloves, my fingers feel numb as I scramble up the iceberg on my hands and feet. This iceberg stands just a half mile away from the Mendenhall Glacier.

  Located in Juneau, Alaska, the Mendenhall Glacier is one of the most spectacular places on planet Earth. Every so often, the glacier drops icebergs into the large lake in front of it. Gordon, his friend Sam, and I were walking across the frozen lake toward the glacier when we discovered the most incredible iceberg. It’s The Iceberg of icebergs. It rose right out of a dream: a round hill on one side, and on the other…a perfect ice slide!

  Of course we want to climb it and slide down. Sam went first a few minutes ago; now Gordon and I are climbing the steep hill. My arms feel shaky. I could slip, or the great glacier could calve, or the lake could crack, or this iceberg could fall apart. I quiet my fears, reminding myself that every adventure has a risk. Besides, Sam and Gordon grew up playing on this lake. When in Alaska, do as the Alaskans do.

  “No!” Behind me, Maxine has started walking up the iceberg. I pack authority into my voice, “No!” Maxine keeps climbing. Fear pulses through my veins. “Pfui!” She reaches me seven feet up the icy hill. “You weren’t supposed to follow me up here! Maxeeny, this isn’t safe. You need to get down.”

  I call up the iceberg to Gordon. “Hang on! I’m going to take Maxine down. I’ll be right back.”

  Climbing backward, I carefully make my way down. “Maxeeny, come!” She turns toward me. “Good girl! Come!” My feet reach a smooth surface. The lake. I stand up. “Maxeeny, you can do it. Come.” She leaps off the iceberg and lands by my feet. “Good girl! Don’t ever do that again.”

  I walk over to Sam. He lives here in Juneau and has been Gordon’s close friend since grade school. “Would you hold Maxine for me?” I hand her leash to Sam.

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “Thanks, Sam. Bye, Maxine! Be good.” I pet her back, and it feels strange having a glove between us. It’s winter break of my senior year. I’ve been in Alaska for a few days now, but I’m still not used to having my hands covered.

  I cautiously walk back up the hill of ice. The iceberg becomes steep about five feet up, whereupon I lower myself to my hands and feet. My gloves sweep the ice before sinking the weight of my body into my hands. My feet, encased in thick wool socks and winter boots, test a step before placing my weight down. The surface has smooth areas, bumpy areas where solid chunks of ice protrude out of the hill, and areas with a layer of loose, tiny pieces of ice and snow.

  Reaching above me brings something new into focus. A new protrusion to grip. A new hole in the ice to perch a foot. My feet slip often as I survey the slope through my boots until I land on a solid foothold.

  Every few steps I squint and search for Gordon’s red-and-black parka. Its contrast against the ice enhances his visibility as he waits for me to catch up. Sam powered through this slippery slope three times faster than me. Gordon can climb fast, too, but he’s not here to race. He wants to introduce me to this glorious winter wonderland.

  As I climb, the red-and-black parka looms closer and closer. The hill levels, and I realize I’ve reached the top. My arms balance my weight as I carefully turn and sit next to Gordon. Sitting on the biting cold surface is unpleasant, but my arms and legs sigh with relief. I survey the world I’ve just conquered, a dazzling bluish white world of ice. The fact that this is all water fills me with awe. I’ve been walking on water, climbing water, sitting on water…

  Gordon’s voice startles me. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t a Californian! Have you come to steal our ice?”

  “If you cooperate, we’ll let you keep half of the glacier.” Gazing out on the world from my glacial throne, I spot a dark blob in the distance that must be Sam and Maxine. “How high up are we?”

  “About twenty feet. By the way, Maxine is crying.”

  Guilt squeezes my heart. “It’s okay, Maxine! Don’t worry! I’ll come back!” Poor Maxine. If I’d known we were going climbing today I would have left her at home. Maxine hates being separated from me—when something comes between us, she makes the most pitiful sounds. When I go skiing, she cries. When I go ice-skating, she cries. When I take a shower, she cries. Maxine hat
es having anything between us, even a bathroom door.

  “She’s watching you with her ears pointed. If Sam weren’t holding her leash she’d probably be up here with us.”

  I shudder. She could slip. She could fall. “Thanks for watching her, Sam!”

  Sam shouts something.

  Gordon relays the message. “He’s saying he sees huge cracks in the ice where I’m sitting. He’s lying.”

  My mind pictures the ice shattering, dropping us into an abyss. “Let’s move. Where’s the slide?”

  Gordon gets on his hands and knees, crawling a few feet to the right. “Come over here, but stay to my right.”

  My arms tremble as I crawl along the ice wall beside Gordon.

  He guides my hand four feet to the left. “This is the edge. It’s about a twenty-foot drop.” He moves my hand to the right. “On this side there’s a wall. Stay in the middle and you’ll be fine.”

  Sam starts shouting.

  “He’s cheering,” Gordon explains.

  I smile. So many people would scold me with a persistent chorus of “You can’t! You shouldn’t! You won’t!” But Sam and Gordon are the opposite: not only do they share their Alaskan playground, they cheer me on, too. Even Maxine doesn’t hold me back; she just wants to be by my side.

  “Are you ready?” Gordon asks.

  “No.” I blush, embarrassed. “Is there anything else I should know? Anything else you should describe?”

  “Umm, no, not really. Just stay away from the edge on the left and you’ll be fine.”

  I move an inch forward, then stop. My stomach is in knots. My mind keeps conjuring up calamities: what if I lose control on the ice? What if the slide has a bend and I miss it because I can’t see it? Every cell in my body is telling me not to slide into the unknown. “Any more descriptions?” My voice cracks, and I try to steady it. “Anything else I should know?”

  “Maxine still has her eyes on you. She wants her mommy.”

  Oh no, she’s going to watch her mommy fall off an ice cliff. I scoot back from the slide. “Can you go first? Then I can sort of follow you.”