Kristy Thomas, Dog Trainer

  As soon as the class was over, Karen ran to Scout. “You are the smartest puppy in the whole world,” she said. Then she looked up at Imani, who had joined us. “I’m going to be a dog trainer,” she announced.

  Karen’s ambitions are wide-ranging and change often, so I wasn’t surprised by her latest career plans. Imani nodded seriously and said, “I started training my first dog when I was about your age. Her name was Tinker and she was the best dog I’ve ever had.”

  “Is it hard?” Karen asked.

  Imani thought about it for a moment, then said, “It’s hard work sometimes but never dull. Every dog is different.” She stroked Scout’s head. “I like working with these guys. They have been responsibly bred and they’re usually some of the easiest dogs to train.”

  “She gets more special training when she goes back to the guide dog school,” Karen said.

  Just then, we heard a yelp and then a roar of barking and snarling and snapping. Startled, I looked around to see that Britty had launched herself at Fender.

  Imani moved quickly. She caught Britty’s leash and pulled her back in midspring. Fender’s owner already had a tight grip on Fender and was keeping him away. As if she had eyes in the back of her head, Imani spun around and stepped in front of Shug, who was dragging her owner at top speed toward the brouhaha, determined to join in.

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” she said to Shug, giving the leash a quick snap and bringing Shug to a halt.

  Shug immediately sat down and looked up at Imani innocently.

  “Look,” said Karen. “Fender is afraid of Britty!”

  It was true. The big shepherd puppy was pressed against his owner’s shins, his tail tucked between his legs, while Britty, now several yards away, continued to growl softly.

  “I’m sorry,” Britty’s owner gasped. “She’s like that sometimes.”

  “No problem,” said Imani. “In the next class we’ll talk about dog interactions and socialization. That means training your dog to get along with other dogs.”

  I glanced down at Scout. She was standing, staring at the other dogs, but she wasn’t growling or pulling on her leash. “Good girl,” I whispered. I knew then that Scout was going to be a wonderful guide dog.

  I was startled when Deb answered the door when I arrived for my afternoon baby-sitting job.

  “Uh, hi, Deb,” I said. Then I added, “It’s me. Kristy.”

  Deb raised her hand to touch her dark glasses and said, “Duh. Come in.”

  She stepped back. Her welcome was not the most gracious one I’ve ever received, but what could I say? The last time I had seen her was on the day of my disastrous visitor idea. “Thank you,” I said with a calm politeness that would have impressed Mary Anne. And since it is polite to ask, I continued, “How are you?”

  Wrong question.

  Scowling, Deb replied, “How do you think? Blind, thank you.”

  She turned and walked down the hall, her hands outstretched slightly in front of her.

  Jed came bounding into the hall. “We got a new play set. It has a sliding board shaped like a dinosaur! Come see!”

  He raced away and Mr. Cooper appeared. I felt dizzy for a moment, as if I were on the set of a play in which the actors keep entering and exiting from every direction.

  “Hi, Mr. Cooper,” I said.

  “Kristy, how are you doing?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I told him. “I hear you have a dinosaur in your backyard.”

  He laughed. “Yes. That’s where you’ll be spending most of your afternoon. Mrs. Cooper had to go into New York for a conference today, as you know. I’m going to pick her up at the station and then we’re going to do some errands. We’ll be home by five-thirty. Mark and Jed are in the backyard, and Deb is in the den, with the television on.”

  I nodded and said, “And your list of where to reach you is on the counter by the phone in the kitchen?”

  “Mm-hm. Well, I’d better get going.” With a wave and a jingle of his car keys, Mr. Cooper was gone.

  I stopped in the den and said, “Deb, do you want to come out into the backyard? It’s a beautiful day.”

  She shrugged. But to my surprise, she also clicked off the TV with the remote and stood up. “I want to go to the video store,” she said. “There’s nothing to listen to on television. I want to listen to some new movies.”

  “Maybe we can do that,” I said. “Let’s go see if Mark and Jed want to go to the video store.”

  Deb sighed as if asking her brothers was the biggest pain in the world. I had to smile. Her reaction sounded like a fairly typical big-sister response. Maybe, I thought, she was beginning to adjust to what had happened.

  Boy, was I wrong!

  Since I’m a fast learner, I didn’t offer to help Deb find her way to the backyard. Instead, I just kept talking as I headed, not too quickly, in that direction.

  She followed me slowly, stopping to grope for the back steps with her outstretched foot. She didn’t respond to anything I said and she let the back door slam hard behind her.

  Mark and Jed looked up. Jed shouted excitedly, “Deb! Hey, Deb!”

  “I can hear fine,” Deb said. “I’m blind, not deaf.”

  “Take it easy, Deb,” I said mildly.

  She ignored me.

  “Come play with our new swings,” Mark said.

  “The slide is shaped like a dinosaur,” Jed added. “It’s cool.”

  “Very cool,” I agreed. It was a new swing set with a slide at one end. The boys climbed up the front of the dinosaur and over its shoulder, and slid down the slide which curved along its back and tail.

  “Come try it,” Jed urged.

  “Come on,” I said to Deb.

  She took a few steps out into the yard and stopped. Mark jumped off the bottom of the slide and ran toward her. He slid his hand into hers and tugged. “Come on. I’ll show you how. It’s easy.”

  Deb turned her face down toward his voice. She seemed to be considering the possibility.

  “I’m going to give it a try,” I told her and climbed up the dinosaur steps as Jed shrieked with delight.

  I slid down and shouted as I reached the bottom.

  “That’s great,” I said.

  “I know,” Jed replied and hurled himself after me.

  I looked up, hoping to see that Deb had joined us. But she hadn’t moved, and as I watched, she pulled her hand free of Mark’s. “I don’t want to slide on a sliding board,” she said. “I want to go to the video store.”

  “No-o-o,” wailed Jed. “Our dinosaur just got here.”

  “Can’t we keep playing? Please?” Mark begged.

  “Maybe we’ll go a little later, Deb. How does that sound?” I asked.

  “I want to go now,” Deb insisted.

  “In a little while,” I told her.

  “Fine!” Deb snapped. “Be as selfish as you want. I’ll just sit in the dark in the den until you’re ready.” She turned and walked back to the house. I held my breath, afraid she would trip over the stairs. But I was also afraid to help her.

  Not only did she make it through, but she managed to slam the door behind her.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said to Jed and Mark. “Stay here.”

  I went into the house after Deb. She had already returned to her now-familiar position in the chair near the television.

  “Deb, we’ll go in a little while,” I assured her. “Why don’t you stay outside with us?”

  In answer, she picked up the remote control and clicked on the television.

  I went to the window and raised it slightly. The window looked out onto the backyard. “I’ve opened the window,” I told her. “If you need anything, just call.”

  She didn’t answer. I left her sitting in the chair, staring into space behind her dark glasses.

  Although I didn’t think Deb could get into any trouble sitting in the den, I checked on her several times while we were swinging and sliding. She hadn’t moved. After the first couple of time
s, when I spoke to her through the window and she ignored me, I didn’t speak.

  At a quarter to four, we trooped back inside. “Deb,” I said as we hurried down the hall. “Are you ready to go to the video store now? Because we …” My voice trailed off.

  Deb wasn’t in her chair. The television was no longer on.

  “Deb?” I said to the empty den.

  “Maybe she’s in her room,” Mark said.

  “Or the bathroom,” Jed suggested.

  But she wasn’t in either place.

  Suddenly I had a very bad feeling.

  Deb Cooper was missing.

  Don’t panic, I told myself. A good baby-sitter doesn’t panic.

  “We’ll check the entire house,” I told Jed and Mark. “Just to be sure. Deb could be hiding.”

  “Hide-and-seek!” Jed said. He ran up the stairs with Mark behind him.

  I did a quick check of all the downstairs closets. I even looked in the walk-in pantry in the kitchen. But Deb wasn’t there.

  I ran upstairs to find Mark and Jed dodging from one room to another, throwing open closet doors and looking under beds calling, “Deb, Deb, where are you?”

  They still thought it was a game.

  To begin my search of the upstairs I went into a room at the other end of the hall and paused by a window. A movement far down the street caught my eye.

  Squinting, I tried to remember what Deb had been wearing: a red cotton sweatshirt and jeans.

  The figure moved, then stopped. It was wearing jeans and something red.

  It was Deb.

  “Mark! Jed!” I called, dashing into the hall.

  They poked their heads out of Jed’s bedroom. I thought fast. “Hide somewhere in your bedroom, Jed, or in Mark’s and count to five hundred. Then wait and I’ll come find you.”

  “Hide-and-seek!” Jed sang out again, and the boys disappeared into Jed’s room as I raced out of the house in the direction where I had seen Deb.

  As I ran, I saw Deb stop again and turn. She was clearly disoriented and confused. She took another step, then another. She stumbled off the curb and took three quick steps to regain her balance. I yelled out to her, but I don’t think she heard me.

  She had walked into the middle of the street.

  I stifled a cry as I saw the light turn red. Deb was safe for the moment — as long as she didn’t move out of the crosswalk.

  She moved forward. She stepped out of the bright painted lines and into the traffic.

  Someone honked. A second horn joined in.

  A woman leaned out of her window and said, “Hey, kid, watch where you’re going! You’ll get hurt!”

  Deb jumped back.

  I sprinted into the intersection and grabbed her arm. She leaped into the air as if I had shouted “Boo!”

  “Deb, it’s me,” I said, fighting to keep the panic out of my voice. “Come on.”

  She grabbed my arm with both hands, but she didn’t move.

  The light changed. Horns blared.

  “Deb, turn and walk with me,” I ordered. “We’re in the middle of the street and we need to walk back to the sidewalk.”

  Her grip on my arm tightened painfully. But she turned as I did and began to walk — no, shuffle — back to the curb.

  Some of the horns stopped, as if the people inside the cars realized that it wasn’t helping. Still, it seemed to take forever for us to reach the side of the street.

  “Step up for the curb,” I said. “Okay, now walk forward. Good. We’re on the sidewalk.”

  Dimly, I heard the cars begin to whoosh past behind me. I realized that my knees were shaking. I wanted to scream.

  Instead, I kept my voice calm as I said, “Deb, what were you doing?”

  “Go — go —” She took a deep breath and swallowed. “Going to the video store.”

  “Well, you were going in the wrong direction,” I said, my voice rising in spite of myself. “You could have been killed.”

  I was harsher than I’d intended to be, because I was still scared. It made me feel sick to think about what could have happened.

  “Maybe that wouldn’t have been so … so … bad….” She shook her head.

  “No!” I shouted. “I mean, yes. It would have been bad. You’re blind, Deb. But you still have a family, people who love you, friends who care about you —”

  “Friends!” Now Deb’s voice rose too. “Friends? What friends? I don’t have any friends.”

  “Well, you haven’t exactly made it easy, have you? If you treated them like you’ve treated me, or your family, maybe they got the idea you didn’t want them around!”

  “I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me,” she cried furiously.

  “Well, then, stop acting like someone people should feel sorry for! You can’t change what happened, Deb. You’re going to have to deal with it.”

  “As if you know about it,” she shot back. “You’re not blind. You can see. You can go out whenever you want. You don’t need other people to help you get dressed or walk or …” For a moment, I thought she was going to cry. But she didn’t.

  We stood facing each other on the sidewalk. Then Deb did something that took me completely by surprise. She pushed her dark glasses back onto the top of her head. “Do I look funny?” she asked. “Tell me the truth.”

  “No,” I said, and I was telling the truth. “You look like you. Just the same. You can lose the shades.”

  She thought about that for a minute, then nodded. “Maybe,” she said.

  She reached out her hand. “Kristy? I’d like to go home, please.”

  I linked my arm through hers. We walked slowly back to the house. Deb didn’t speak again, but I thought about what had happened and decided that in spite of the near disaster, maybe it had been a good thing.

  Deb wanted to be independent. And she understood now that she was going to have to work to get there.

  When we reached the house Deb let go of my arm. “Thank you,” she said. Then she added, “Don’t tell Mom and Dad.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Just this once.”

  Deb smiled. It was a very small smile, but it was a smile.

  And at that moment, Jed popped out and shouted, “You didn’t find us, Kristy! You’re ‘it’!”

  “Congratulations, class,” Imani said, looking out at her students. Six of the students wagged their tails. The rest of us smiled.

  We had finished our puppy training course. Today we would graduate. But first, Imani wanted to put us through our paces for the audience.

  Audience? Yes. My family had turned out in its entirety, from Emily Michelle to Nannie. The only member missing who might also have been interested was Shannon. But we had already signed her up for the next class.

  Although my family dominated one side of the training area, other dogs had their fans too. Fender’s family (his human family) was there, and several girls were cheering Britty on. The husband of the woman who had brought Grace, the rottweiler, to class ran in late, frantically following us with his video camera.

  Imani was rock-calm through it all, which seemed to calm the dogs too. She lined us up and said, “Sit.” Watson said to Scout, “Sit” — and she did.

  The puppies demonstrated their mastery of “Sit,” “Down,” and “Come,” and walked in a circle on their leashes without pulling (at least, not too much). Cameras snapped and the video camera whirred. Several times, I admit, I led the crowd in applause.

  Through it all, the owners of the puppies dished out lavish praise with the occasional firm, quiet “No” when a puppy didn’t get a command right on the first try.

  Oh, Shug, the bull terrier, still thought it was very funny to swing her behind around and sit on her person’s foot on the “Sit” command, and Britty stared hard at the man with the video camera and gave him a warning bark. But that didn’t mean that each and every one of the puppies weren’t champion, A-plus, number-one students.

  Imani more or less said the same thing as she handed out ou
r certificates of graduation. “You’ve done a good job,” she told the class. “You’ve taken an important step toward being good, responsible dog owners. A well-trained dog can go almost anywhere, and that’s the best, most loving gift you can give your dog. Congratulations!”

  More applause. Many more pictures, including a formal class photograph taken by someone from the community center so that we could all have a copy (the community center would post the photo on the center bulletin board as well). There was also a more informal group photograph with the entire audience squeezed in.

  Afterward, there were dog-shaped cookies and juice for the people, and chunks of carrot and bananas for the dogs, as well as any of the special treats that their owners had remembered to bring.

  Once we’d gotten home, Watson and I took Scout out for a walk.

  I looked down at her. “She did great, didn’t she?” I said.

  Watson nodded. “She’ll be a fine guide dog someday.”

  I felt a sudden pang. Scout was growing up so fast. In no time at all, it would be time for her to leave us. How could we give her up? My pride in her was mingled with a sudden sadness.

  I sighed. “I wish she could be a puppy forever.”

  I felt Watson glance at me. Then he patted my shoulder. “We won’t lose track of Scout,” he told me, as if he had read my thoughts. “Remember? We can even see her again, if she’s placed with someone nearby, after a year has passed.”

  “It won’t be the same,” I said and sighed again.

  And then something totally unexpected happened. We rounded a corner and came face-to-face with another guide dog.

  But this wasn’t a guide dog in training. This was a working guide dog — a regal, beautiful Labrador.

  “Oh!” I exclaimed.

  The young man with the guide dog turned his face toward us, giving us a questioning look.

  “Um, hi,” I said. “We have a guide dog too. I mean, we’re puppy walkers. We have a guide dog in training. She’s with us right now. Her name is Scout.”