Thunder Dog - Michael Hingson [2]
From the beginning, Michael was treated no differently from his brother. He was encouraged, nurtured, and loved. He was expected to grow and learn like any other child. He was allowed to explore the neighborhood on his own two feet, on his bicycle, and then with a guide dog. He never went to a school for the blind or lived in a community set apart. He never felt handicapped or disabled. He knew he was different, but he decided not to let it stop him. Ultimately, through his parents’ decision to ignore the doctor’s strongly worded recommendation, Michael was given the chance to grow up and find his own way in a world not set up for someone like him.
This is the story of a man blind from birth who triumphed over adversity throughout his life. His hard-won survival skills and his feisty, can-do spirit prepared him to survive the World Trade Center attacks in a seventy-eight-story stairwell descent with his guide dog, Roselle. Michael’s blindness didn’t stop him from shocking the neighbors by riding his bicycle through the streets of Palmdale, California, as a child, and on September 11 his blindness became an asset as he survived and helped others during the worst terrorist attack ever on American soil.
Yet, there’s more. “The real story, in my mind, isn’t how I got out of the World Trade Center,” said Michael. “It’s how I got there in the first place.”
Forty-seven years after the birth of Michael Hingson, a yellow Labrador retriever puppy was born in the whelping unit of Guide Dogs for the Blind in San Rafael, California. The puppy’s name was Roselle, and she, too, was blind from birth. But sometime between her third and fourth week, she opened her eyes. On September 11, 2001, she saved Michael’s life. This is Roselle’s story too.
THUNDER DOG
1
DAY OF THUNDER
The bond with a dog is as lasting as
the ties of this earth can ever be.
KONRAD LORENZ
September 11, 2001: I can feel her body quivering. It’s twelve thirty in the morning, and Roselle is afraid of the thunder. Again.
Drowsy, I prop myself up on one elbow and reach down to stroke her back, then touch her ears. I finger their velvety softness. She reaches up and noses my hand. Usually her nose feels cool and wet, but this time it feels warm. She’s panting, and her damp, foggy breath hangs in the air between us.
I hear the rhythmic breathing of Karen, my wife. Good, she’s still asleep.
Roselle’s quivering becomes shaking, and I know I’ll have to get up. I lie back for a moment and listen. I hear the wind testing the windows but nothing else yet. Roselle knows a storm is brewing. She usually gets nervous about thirty minutes before the thunder rolls in.
I yawn and rub my face, trying to wake up. My alarm is set for 5:00, and I realize that by the time I get up with Roselle, wait out the storm with her, and get her back to bed, I’m not going to get much sleep. She stands up and begins to pant again. I sit up and rub Roselle’s chin and neck, then push my feet into my slippers and stand up, grabbing my robe. Roselle rubs against my legs, happy that she won’t have to face this storm alone. Her powerful Labrador retriever tail slaps against my knees once or twice as I follow her out of the room.
We head down the hallway, partly open to the first floor, then down sixteen stairs. The wooden banister feels cooler down toward the bottom. I remember hearing yesterday on the news that this storm is a cold one, blowing down from Canada and bringing the first touch of autumn to Westfield, New Jersey.
Roselle’s nails tap rhythmically as she crosses the oak floor in the entryway, passes the elevator door, and heads down the steps to the basement. I follow, listening for differences in the air that keep me oriented to the three-dimensional floor plan of our house.
I first began to hear my surroundings when I was four years old. Someone gave me a kiddie car that I could drive around the apartment. I quickly learned to work the pedals and tore through the rooms at high speed. One day, while out for a spin in the living room, I drove right into the coffee