Authors: Tom Sullivan,Betty White
He brought his eyes back south and
took in the vista of Pyramid Peak, looming so close he felt he could almost
touch it. This was a mountain he loved to climb. Beyond he could also see
Castle Peak. And because the day was so clear, in the far distance he could
make out the outlines of the mountains that made up the San Juan Range.
Never, he realized, would he ever
take any of this for granted. He was at the top of the world, relishing one of
the best moments of his life.
And now he wasn't alone. He heard
her cry before he saw her: a golden eagle, diving for a pika and getting it.
There was now one less rodent on the mountain and an eagle to share lunch with.
He watched as the bird chewed its prey, sitting motionless on the thermals.
Now there's
something I wish I could do
, he thought,
sit up there all day and not have
to work hard.
"You're beautiful," he called to the
eagle. "Beautiful."
The bird moved her wings slightly,
like a princess acknowledging the presence of a commoner.
Okay, bird,
he
thought.
I get
it. It's your sky, but today it's my mountain.
By the angle of the sun he reckoned
it to be just after two o'clock. Time to start down, he knew. Even though the
light would last until well after 8 p.m., he never wanted to run the risk of
not getting down before dark, especially when all he had with him was a
daypack.
He allowed himself a fifteen-minute
nap, resting on the warmth of the sunny rock with his jacket as a pillow. Call
it a catnap or dognap or people-nap, when he stood and stretched, he felt
amazing—at one with his own physicality, at peace with his emotional state,
connected to the earth, and ready to return to civilization and all the
challenges that were waiting for him.
He began working his way back down
the exact route he had ascended. He was careful but catlike as he moved over
the loose scree. Though it sometimes moved under his foot, he was on to the
next stone before danger could threaten. His eyes never stopped evaluating the
placement of his feet, and he had an uncanny sense, developed over years of
climbing, regarding the feel of the rock. He was like a ballet dancer with a
wirewalker's appreciation for the risks involved.
He had been descending for about an
hour and a half when he came to a particularly squirrelly area of loose junk—he
never used the word
scree
—made worse by the runoff from a mountain stream.
Careful now,
he
reminded himself.
Be very careful. Don't rush.
A whir just to the right and above
him made him turn his head, and from the corner of his eye he once again saw
the beautiful eagle diving for something to eat. Later he would wonder if the
turning of his head changed the angle of his foot plant or broke his
concentration. All he knew for sure was that the fall began oh so slowly.
Rock slid from under his boots.
Slow falls are the ones that kill you, mountaineers say, because you work so
hard to maintain balance that you lose it.
Like the wirewalker knowing in an
instant that there's no net below, Brenden understood this. He had time to
think about it as he desperately competed with gravity to maintain his balance.
For a moment he thought he'd make
it as he sort of slalomed along the top of the sliding stone. But then he
tipped forward, his chin dropping to his chest—a human bowling ball bouncing
down a natural alley to strike stone pins that could not be knocked down.
He screamed, or he thought he
screamed, as he bounced along. He heard more than felt the crack of his
climbing helmet as his head tattooed the boulders. All of this might have taken
mere seconds—almost no time at all in the scheme of life—but the impact would
resound forever in the man he would become.
Unconscious now, he continued to
careen along until finally he came to a blessed stop against an outcropping
that probably saved his life.
The mountains give, and the
mountains take. How Brenden would come to understand that fundamental truth.
Bart knew he was in trouble. The
big, black Labrador lay with his head on his paws, listening to Lady as she
screamed at him. When she yelled this loud, he knew she was really mad. The dog
raised his head and sat up when Lady waved the shoe she had just taken from
him—or at least what was left of it. The high heel that had come off was still
in his mouth.
"Look what you've done! My new
shoes! You are a bad, bad dog!
Bad
! I can't take this
anymore!"
Hearing the commotion, the dog's
master came in to investigate. Being blind, he couldn't see the damage, but his
wife's fury made the situation clear.
Man didn't yell, but Bart could
tell from his voice that he wasn't happy.
"Calm down, honey. How did he
get hold of them? Did you leave them on the floor?"
"Don't you dare try and blame
me for this. I told you the last time this happened that I have had all I can
take. What do I mean, the last time—there've been too many times. I'm through
with this animal!"
"You don't mean that, dear.
You know how much I need him. He helps me more than—"
Lady cut him off. "Oh sure,
you're
fine. Strolling around the neighborhood or showing off to your friends. What
about me? What about the turkey? What about the Christmas tree? When he knocked
it over, who had to clean up the mess? Not you! Sometimes I get the feeling
that dog's more important to you than I am." She paused for breath, but
not for long. "Make up your mind; either he goes or I do!"
Slamming the broken shoe into the wastebasket,
she stormed out of the room, the man right behind her.
The big, black dog was always tense
when he heard them argue, but this time seemed worse than usual. He lost all
interest in the shoe heel and for once didn't automatically follow the man but
slid to the floor and stayed where he was, his chin between his paws. He could
hear their voices, still raised, going on and on in the other room.
Bart liked Man, but he didn't
understand Lady.
Why did she talk
so loud?
A picture came into the dog's mind.
The loudest he had ever heard her
yell was that day with the turkey. Oh, it smelled so good when they were eating
it. Afterward, she put it up on top of the fridge. If he wasn't supposed to
touch it, then why did she put it where he could reach it? All he had to do was
put his paws up on the door and pull it down. She must have heard the platter
break—she sure came running. But he got some of it. Oh, he was sick after.
Real
sick. Man tried to help, but Lady acted mad at both of them.
She really yelled that time.
Soon the angry voices calmed
somewhat and eventually ceased altogether. The dog stood up and shook himself
hard enough to rattle his collar. He hoped things were good again. Time to go
check on dinner.
"Yes. It
is
too bad
. I'm
very sorry to hear it.
So
—I'll make the arrangements and
get back to you. No, I understand. Thank you."
Hanging up, Smitty sat very still,
his frown deepening, his hand still on the phone.
Beth turned from the file cabinet.
She had been Smitty's assistant for too long not to recognize an unusual
reaction for this normally upbeat man. "Problem?" she asked. Smitty's
tight voice reflected his frustration. "It's Bart again. The partnership
didn't work out. He's being returned." Smitty sighed. "I really
thought I'd found the right guy for him, but he's caused so much trouble around
the house they're giving up on him and sending him back. What a shame. They did
so great in training together."
"Can't you just send somebody
to check out the situation?" Beth knew the protocol. Now and then a dog
and the new blind owner had trouble adjusting when they went home together
after the supportive environment of Guide Dog School. It was nothing new.
Sometimes it took a couple of follow-up visits from the school personnel to
smooth out the rough edges.
Smitty shook his head.
"We've done that twice
already."
"Twice?!"
"Twice. Bart's a handful—I
admit it. He's such a magnificent guide—one of the best ever—but he's on energy
overload. Too much, it seems, to work with a guy who tunes pianos for a living
but then just goes home and stays put. Bart loves to work—
loves
it.
That's why they did so well in class. I know I broke every rule to get him in
guide dog school, talking the bosses into taking this pound puppy. But there's
something special about this one—he's going to be an amazing partner for
someone. I just know it. When he's in harness, he's perfect—it's his off time
when he screws up."
Tossing his glasses on the desk,
Smitty pushed his chair back. "I should have seen this coming. I was just hoping
. . ." His voice trailed off.
Beth smiled. "Well, you'll
just have to find somebody else for—what's his name?—Bart. Maybe he just needs
a little more training. He can go into reissue."
Smitty took a long beat. "He's
been there."
"What do you mean?"
"This dog's on his third
go-around."
"What are you talking
about?"
"When he came back the second
time, I couldn't bring myself to put him into career change. He's just too
good. You don't know this dog."
Smitty got up and walked to the
window. Looking out over the lush green campus he could see a handler
exercising a yellow Labrador retriever down below. Farther on, two girls were
chatting as they walked a German shepherd and another yellow Lab.
"I changed his name to
Bart," he said quietly. "I did some creative record changing and sent
him through the program all over again. He knew the stuff already—he must have
been bored stiff."
Beth was shocked.
"But that's against all the
rules! You'd fire somebody for doing that!"
Smitty had no answer. He just shook
his head again.
Beth couldn't let it go.
"Smitty, you've trained more
dogs than I can count. They don't all make it—of course not. How come you're so
upset about this one?"
Smitty shrugged and went back to
his chair.
"I know I'm over the top with
this dog, but there is something about him—it's hard to explain. There are a
lot of good ones, but the really great ones don't come around that often. I
could sense it in him back when I saw him in the pound. I just have a gut
feeling that with the right person—a
strong
one—this dog would knock your
socks off."
"Sounds like that's what he's
been doing already." Beth still didn't get it. "How come somebody
didn't recognize him?"
"He only trained with me.
Nobody else was that close to him and"—Smitty allowed himself a small
chuckle—"unless you really know them, black Labradors do have a tendency
to look a lot like other black Labradors. Nobody picked up on it."
The room was quiet. Beth waited for
him to go on. When he didn't, she asked, "So what are you going to do this
time?"
"I . . . don't know."
Bart managed to avoid
conflict
with Lady by staying out
of her way, and a few days passed without incident. Everything seemed back to
normal.
This morning started off the same
as all the others, with an early walk. Man buckled Bart into his harness, and
they headed out into the clear morning air, the energetic dog making sure to
put just enough pressure on the harness to lead his blind master.
The quiet neighborhood of
tree-lined streets and tended gardens could seem, to anyone who noticed such
things, as if the calendar stopped fifty years ago. The other dogs, the
children playing, an occasional passerby, even the cats that darted across
their path—Bart ignored them all. He was in harness. This was work time.
His regular routine included
heading for the little mom-and-pop grocery a few blocks away, where Bart
accepted his usual warm greetings while Man bought his sweet rolls and orange
juice. Then they headed home. Same as always.
When they got back, Man removed
Bart's working harness, then sat down to eat his breakfast with the dog beside
him, staring, hoping for a handout.
When the doorbell rang, Man went to
answer, Bart at his side. It was no one Bart recognized, but the person was
invited in, so the dog greeted him politely, then went over to plop down out of
the way. Man called Lady, and the three people sat down to talk.
To Bart, lying on the cool hardwood
floor between the rugs—chin on his paws, ears alert—the talk seemed to go on a
long time. Now and then they would look over his way, and it didn't take much
to know they were talking about him. He didn't raise his head, but his eyebrows
twitched as he moved his eyes from one face to the other. Everybody was so
serious. They didn't seem happy.
At last they stopped talking, and
Man and the person stood up. When Man picked up the harness with the big square
handle, Bart got up and moved forward, expecting to be buckled in as usual. He
was surprised when Man pushed him away.
"No, Bart. Back."
Instead, Man handed the harness to
Person, along with Bart's leash.
His
leash! Then Man bent down and
hugged the dog and petted him—hard. The slow wag of tail in response was tentative,
questioning, but Man didn't answer.
Lady just sat there.
Person and Man shook hands. They
exchanged a few words. Then Person—not Man—clipped the leash to Bart's collar
and headed for the door.
Confused, the big dog didn't move.
"Heel, Bart." Person gave
the leash a tug. "Come on, boy. Let's go. Bart, heel!"
At the familiar command, Bart
reluctantly moved to the door. Person didn't stop but headed on down the front
steps toward a car parked at the curb. When they got to the bottom of the
stairs, things suddenly felt all wrong to Bart. He pulled back on the leash and
turned to see if Man was coming. He was just in time to see the door as it
closed.
"Good boy, Bart."
Person's voice was warm and reassuring. "It's okay, big guy. Bart,
heel!"
But this time the dog would have
none of it. He tried to shake loose of the leash, locking all four brakes and
desperately pulling back.
Person was patient but firm.
Without forcing the issue, he continued to reassure the dog as he worked him
step-by-step down the path to the car. Opening the rear car door, he stopped
his urging and simply waited. He continued to speak in a warm, low tone, using
Bart's name again and again as he rubbed the soft ears and scratched the dog's
chest. Bart's rapid heartbeat began to subside.
"Good boy, Bart! In you
go."
For this dog, obeying was a way of
life, but now it all felt weird. This wasn't the right car. Why wasn't Man
coming with them? What was he supposed to do?
Person slowly lifted the dog's
front feet up into the car and continued to push until Bart was forced to
scramble up onto the backseat.
"Good boy! That's it,
Bart—good!"
Closing the door, Person moved
around into the driver's seat to start the engine.
The dog sat as if carved in
stone—or perhaps ebony. His gaze fixed straight ahead, he didn't even glance
out the window as they pulled away from the curb.
This was like another time that he
could remember. It was at his other house. He liked those people a lot, until
one day somebody came and talked with them. Then Bart was taken away. He never
saw those people again.
The pictures in his mind made Bart
uncomfortable, prompting a deep and audible sigh. The worst time of
all—ever—was the day he lost the special man he loved the most. That was at
another place a long time ago. People called that man Smitty, and Bart worked
with him every day. Smitty taught him things, and if he did them right, he
would get lots of praise—maybe even a treat.
Then one day Smitty took him to
that other house with those nice people, but when he went away again, Smitty
didn't take Bart with him. He left him there. And he never came back.
Bart finally let his front feet
slide until he lay curled up on the car seat, head down, eyes wide open, his
mind still full of questions.
Person eventually switched on the
radio, and the miles increased. Between the hum of the motor and the motion of
the car, the pictures in the dog's mind began to fade and intermingle until he
finally fell into a fitful sleep, which lasted until the car turned off the
road and stopped beside some gas pumps. Bart sat up and watched as Person got
out, put the hose in the tank, and came around to open the door and slide into
the seat beside him.
"How you doin', Bart? How
about a walk? Bet you might have to go."
Person picked up the leash and got
out. "Come on, Bart, let's go
park."
Bart heard the familiar command and
was less resistant this time. He allowed himself to follow the man to a nearby
pet area.
Park
meant relieve himself, which he promptly did, then returned to the car without
objection.
Back on the road, Bart went to
sleep almost immediately, as the best way to pass the time. He didn't know how
long they'd been driving when he felt the car turn onto a side road. He stood
up but sat again quickly as the curve in the road made balancing difficult. Out
the window, he could see the lush, green countryside, and suddenly, for no
accountable reason, he felt a small rush of excitement. He didn't notice when
Person picked up the cell phone and punched a number, but at Person's first
word, the dog froze.
"Smitty? We just turned onto
the campus, so we'll be there shortly. Yeah—he's doing okay. It was a little
rough at first, but he's doing fine."