Thunder Dog - Michael Hingson [11]
On Dog Day, we sat through a morning lecture about the dogs, ate a quick lunch in the dining room, then went to our rooms to wait. I was so nervous I couldn’t sit still enough to listen to a talking book in order to pass the time. I sat and fidgeted, getting up to pace back and forth when I could no longer stand it. My roommate felt the same way. Finally, I was called into instructor Bruce Benzler’s office.
“Mike, sit quietly,” he said. “Your dog is Squire. Squire is a dark red golden retriever, about sixty-four pounds. I want you to be patient. Don’t say anything. I’m going to let the dog in, and we’ll see how he reacts to you.”
Mr. Benzler got up and walked to the door. He opened it, and Squire walked in the room. He came straight over and started sniffing me all over. I was excited and my hands itched to pet him, but I obeyed and sat still. Squire inspected me for about thirty seconds then sat down next to me and waited. “It looks like you found a friend,” said Mr. Benzler. I gave Squire a hug. My heart was pounding.
“You can take Squire back to your room now,” said Mr. Benzler. “Use his leash, and ask him to heel. Then take some time to get to know each other.”
Squire and I headed back to my room. I felt like I was walking on air with Squire by my side. When the door closed behind us, I sat down and talked to Squire for the next couple of hours. I’d known plenty of dogs, but I’d never met a dog before that was so mature and well trained. I felt an immediate bond with Squire. He liked me and seemed interested in me. We just seemed to fit.
Squire and I developed a partnership, and I learned how to read Squire’s body language through the handle of the harness; I could almost tell what he was going to do before he did it. I think he learned to read me too. He was much more than just a pet. Squire was my best friend, and we became a team as he guided me safely through the halls of Palmdale High School for the next four years. He was a quick study. When faced with a gaggle of girls in a crowded campus hallway, Squire learned to stick his cold, wet nose under a miniskirt or two. When the girls would shriek and jump out of the way, my brother, Ellery, swore that Squire actually grinned. I suspect I almost received a few slaps and I am sure I was the subject of many angry looks, thanks to Squire.
Squire and our dachshund, Pee Wee, got along famously and wore tracks in the carpet chasing each other up and down the hallways of our house. The two dogs developed a game where Pee Wee raced down the hallway, with Squire in hot pursuit. When they got to the living room, Pee Wee bunched up his long, narrow body like a spring and jumped up on the couch. Squire would run up and grab him off the couch, flip his little sausage body over on the ground, and gnaw on his stomach, play-growling all the while.
I know Pee Wee must have missed Squire when he went with me to college. After a few years with me at UC Irvine, Squire grew old and tired. He was eleven years old and couldn’t keep up with me anymore. The very worst thing about guide dogs is they don’t last very long. The average guide dog only makes it as a working dog until the age of nine or ten because guiding is both physically and emotionally stressful for the dog. I loved Squire, and I think the relationship with your first guide dog is something like the first time you fall in love. Squire occupied a special corner in my heart. Forever. But it was time for him to retire, and he went to live with my parents back in Palmdale with his little buddy PeeWee. Squire lived to be fourteen years old, a good, respectable age for a golden.
After Squire retired, I headed back to San Rafael for a second time, and Guide Dogs paired me with another golden retriever named Holland. He was a good, steady guide dog. He took me through my graduate