Thunder Dog - Michael Hingson [32]
She has her ears too; dogs can hear sound at four times the distance humans can. That means if I can hear things happening twenty steps below, she can clearly hear what’s going on eighty steps below. She also has a powerful sense of touch. Not only does she hone in on the signals I send through my hand on the upright handle of her harness, but her entire body is covered with touch-sensitive nerve endings, and around her eyes, muzzle, and jaws, she has exquisitely sensitive hairs called vibrissae that continuously feed her information about her environment.
On top of that, dogs seem to have a sixth sense, sometimes surprising us by predicting earthquakes or finding their way home from a distant location. They can read our moods through our pheromones, the chemicals produced by our bodies in connection with emotion. They seem sensitive to changes in the earth’s magnetic field and to infrared wavelengths of light. And, like Roselle did earlier this morning, dogs can detect sudden changes in barometric pressure, like when a storm is brewing.
Thinking about Roselle’s special abilities gives me confidence. We are going to make it out. My teamwork with Roselle and the confidence it gives each of us seem to transmit to the people immediately around us, almost like a zone of security. We are close on the stairwell and our defenses are down. All we have is each other, and there is a feeling of working together to make it out safely. We are strong.
A few steps below, David calls out. “There are firemen coming up the stairs. Everyone move to the side.” I go down to where David stands.
It’s the 30th floor, and here they come. As they approach, we instinctively string out into a single-file line to let them pass. The firefighters are loaded down with equipment. Besides having to wear protective thigh-length jacket and pants, most of them carry fifty or sixty pounds of gear, including helmets, gloves, axes, and air tanks. They are tired and sweaty, and they’re not even halfway up to the fire.
Later, reports on the events of September 11 would suggest that the firefighters in the stairwell didn’t know much more about what was going on than we did. Cell phones and radios weren’t working well and communication was spotty at best. Oral histories from the few firefighters who survived say they were “clueless” about the details and knew “absolutely nothing” about the reality of the impending crisis.2
“Hey, buddy. Are you okay?” The very first of a long line of firefighters stops and talks to me on the 30th floor.
“I’m fine.” I feel Roselle moving and I know he is petting her. It doesn’t seem like the time to give him a lecture about not petting a guide dog in harness.
“We’re going to send somebody down the stairs with you.”
“You don’t have to do that. Things are going fine and I don’t think I need help.”
“Well, we’re going to send somebody down with you, because we want to make sure you get down okay.”
I think of the millions of pieces of burning paper raining down outside my office windows. These guys need to get up those stairs to fight the fire.
“You don’t have to do that.” I can tell he’s determined to help me. “I’ve got a guide dog and we’re good.”
“Nice dog,” he says, stroking Roselle. She is friendly, as usual, and gently mouths his hand.
“Anyway, you can’t get lost going downstairs.” I try to make it light.
His voice deepens and takes on a bit of an edge. I can tell he’s used to being listened to.