[nagdu] FW: [Nfbf-l] Guide dog leads vision-challenged professor tonew insight

Craig Heaps craig.heaps at comcast.net
Sat Feb 8 16:48:42 UTC 2014


I thought it was a terrific article.  As a partially sighted journalist 
myself who spent a lot of years trying to hide my limited vision, I could 
identify with her story.  The reporter told the story in a clean, 
straight-forward manner, with no forced sentimentality.

Craig and Chase (the Wonder Dog)


----- Original Message ----- 
From: "Sherrill O'Brien" <sherrill.obrien at verizon.net>
To: "Nagdu" <nagdu at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Saturday, February 08, 2014 5:32 AM
Subject: [nagdu] FW: [Nfbf-l] Guide dog leads vision-challenged professor 
tonew insight


> Good morning all,
>
> This article was just  sent, but is apparently from last October. At first 
> I
> thought it was an oh brother! here we go again! sort of article, but it
> turns out to present blindness in a very honest and positive way. It does
> mention the dog taking her places if she just says the word, but in the 
> end,
> this woman no longer hides her blindness. This is long, but worth reading.
>
> Sherrill
>
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: Nfbf-l [mailto:nfbf-l-bounces at nfbnet.org]On Behalf Of Alan Dicey
> Sent: Friday, February 07, 2014 9:13 PM
> To: Undisclosed-Recipient:;
> Subject: [Nfbf-l] Guide dog leads vision-challenged professor to new
> insight
>
>
> They sat together in the crisp wind, listening to the sea gulls fussing
> overhead.
> Wylie loved chasing birds, but now he just leaned against her, letting her
> hold him.
> "I'm so sorry to disrupt your life like this," she whispered. After six
> years, this would be their last night together.
>
> It would take six months, a long journey and a new dog for her to see what
> she never saw with Wylie.
>
> Deni Elliott, 59, is an author, ethicist and chairwoman of the journalism
> department at the University of South Florida Saint Petersburg.
> She has published eight books and more than 190 academic articles and 
> speaks
> at conferences all over the country.
>
> For half her life, she has been losing her sight.
> You wouldn't know it to look at her. Her gray-green eyes are clear and 
> wide.
> She is good at visually tracking voices, seems to see whoever is speaking.
> She never says she's blind. When people ask about her vision, she says
> simply, "I don't see well."
> Push her and she uses a metaphor. "Imagine you have a 1,000-piece jigsaw
> puzzle. Well, I only have 100 pieces left and they're all over the place,"
> she said. In the right light, a few more pieces fall into place - enough 
> for
> her to read the enlarged letters on her computer, or type in fonts the 
> size
> of headlines. Sometimes, everything suddenly goes black.
>
> Last year, even the final puzzle pieces began to disappear.
>
> Wylie, her 80-pound German shepherd guide dog, seemed to notice the 
> change.
> Deni's relationship with the dog, always uneasy, grew more complicated.
> When Deni got Wylie, he was 8 weeks old with too-big ears. At the 
> trainer's
> house, he ran straight to her, plopped on her feet and cocked his head.
> He stayed by her side constantly after that, going to the Saturday Morning
> Market, the Quaker Meeting House, baseball games. He commuted from Tampa 
> to
> California, squeezing under her plane seat - flying 125,000 miles in a 
> year.
>
> Wylie was Delta's first Diamond Dog.
> He saw her through her divorce and breast cancer. He understood full
> sentences. He chased cats.
> And he pulled so hard he hurt her shoulder.
> Deni and Wylie were in a constant tug of war, both of them vying to be in
> charge. She struggled to get him to yield to her, to stop yanking so hard.
> But the more sight she lost, the more her guide dog seemed to treat her 
> like
> a blind person.
> Deni told her students Wylie was her "big, goofy frat boy. He has a very
> Kantian way of doing things. You know, Kant - the German philosopher," she
> said, seizing every teachable moment. "Well, Wylie has that good sense of
> principle, but he does his job out of duty, not love."
>
> Finally, she said, "the frustration had become more than either of us 
> could
> handle." She decided she had to give up Wylie, find him someone who would
> better suit his temperament.
> And get herself a new dog.
> "It's the right thing to do," she said, ever the ethicist. "It's for the
> greater good."
>
> So last January, after that tearful night on the beach in Hilton Head, 
> South
> Carolina, Deni and a friend delivered Wylie to a Non Profit in nearby
> Columbia where he would learn to work with veterans suffering from
> post-traumatic stress disorder.
>
> The veterans program wanted Wylie right away. But Deni couldn't get her 
> new
> guide dog until March. For six long weeks, she wouldn't have a dog by her
> side.
> A white cane would help her find obstacles. But it couldn't steer her 
> around
> skateboarders or sniff out the bathroom.
> When you have a dog, people focus on the animal, Deni said; they don't
> really see you.
> With a cane, everyone knows you're blind.
>
> When it was time to say goodbye to Wylie, Deni led him to an office at the
> nonprofit and whispered into his neck, "You're going to stay here for a
> while. Have fun, okay?"
> Wylie wagged his tail.
> "Okay, then, be a good boy," Deni said, hoisting his harness over her left
> shoulder. He wouldn't need that anymore.
> Then she unfolded a white cane and tapped her way toward the door, alone.
>
> Deni grew up near Washington, D.C., with an older sister, both parents and
> always at least one dog. She didn't know how bad her eyesight was until 
> her
> third-grade teacher saw her squinting at the board. Glasses showed her a
> world where trees had leaves instead of big green capes.
> As she got older, her sight started deteriorating. Through college at the
> University of Maryland, grad school at Wayne State in Detroit, and a Ph.D.
> program at Harvard, Deni kept seeing eye doctors, adjusting her glasses,
> chasing what was left of the light.
> She kept thinking someone would find a cure while she could still see. So
> she never fast-forwarded to what it would feel like to watch her friends'
> faces fade, how much it would hurt to walk into a wall.
>
> At Utah State, in her first tenured position, Deni finally got a 
> diagnosis:
> bilateral progressive optic neuropathy. A form of multiple sclerosis, 
> which
> would get worse. Soon she had to give up driving.
>
> She qualified for a guide dog in 2000, when her vision dropped to less 
> than
> 10 percent. By then, she was teaching at the University of Montana.
>
> She never considered getting her partner from a guide dog school, where 
> she
> would have gotten a 2-year-old canine bred and trained for service work. 
> "I
> couldn't imagine putting my life in the paws of a dog I didn't know since
> puppyhood," she said.
> So she found someone who would train Oriel, her new golden retriever, to 
> be
> her partner. Oriel, she told everyone, was the perfect dog. "Like driving 
> a
> minivan. Steady and reliable."
>
> After seven years of criss-crossing the country with Deni, Oriel got 
> tired.
> That's when Deni's trainer found Wylie, who came from a long line of 
> service
> dogs. The trainer drilled Wylie for almost a year before Deni started
> working with him.
> Wylie was her Porsche. Too sleek and fast, she said, too much for her. "I
> always felt like I was holding him back."
> Their relationship, she said, was "one of the biggest failures in my 
> life."
> Once she realized she couldn't make it work, she decided to let a
> professional pick her next partner.
>
> After months of research, she enrolled at Guiding Eyes for the Blind in
> Yorktown Heights, Nork York. The school, which opened in 1954, breeds and
> trains dogs - and has made more than 7,400 matches. Thanks to donations, 
> the
> dogs and training are free.
>
> Deni qualified for a class for experienced handlers, so she would stay in
> the dorm for only 10 days. The next opening was during her spring break.
> As the date loomed, Deni wondered whether she could go through with the
> trip. She hadn't been a student for years. And she had never been around a
> bunch of blind people.
> She wrote in her journal, "I'm afraid I'll be frustrated with a dog 
> trained
> to work with a REALLY blind person."
>
> FEBRUARY
> Without a dog she was alone, off-balance, insecure. No paws on her bed or
> panting in her face. No one to walk her to school or curl beneath her 
> desk.
> The house was too quiet. At night, she started locking her windows.
> "I'm tense all the time; I walk with my head down, thinking I'm going to
> trip," she said. "A cane is an obstacle locator. A dog is an obstacle
> avoider."
> With a dog, her world was as wide as his field of vision, hearing and 
> smell.
> Now it stretched only as far as the cane could reach. "And it's so 
> lonely -
> there's this dog-sized hole in my life. No one comes up to say, 'Hello,
> Sweetheart!' to the cane."
>
> She could feel people staring, pitying the blind lady. She heard them
> talking about her. "That poor woman." "Oh my god, I'd kill myself if I 
> ever
> . . ."
>
> All those years, thinking that if she ignored her disability, nobody would
> see it. Now everyone knew.
>
> MARCH
> Deni arrived at Guiding Eyes on a gray, snowy afternoon. An instructor
> showed her to her dorm room, gave Deni the key and described the layout in
> clockwise order:
> Here's your closet, bathroom. Nightstand, bed, window. This is how you
> adjust the blinds. Outer door, refrigerator. Desk, dresser. Another closet
> with dog food.
> Deni nodded, grateful and surprised. No one had ever oriented her to a new
> space like that. When she stayed in hotels, she had to feel around for 
> walls
> and furniture, trying not to trip.
>
> The next morning, she met the other students. Among them were Sonia, a 
> baker
> and mother of three; Erik, an occupational therapist; and Kara, a young
> mother and artist who made her living painting murals.
>
> For the first exercise, the "Juno walk," instructors pretended to be dogs.
> Students had to walk them through the streets, practicing commands and
> proving their prowess.
> "Here, take this harness," an instructor told Deni. "You're going to heel
> me."
> Deni grabbed the handle. "Okay. Heel, Juno," she said, trying not to 
> laugh.
> She had never walked a human. She felt weird telling this woman, "Good
> girl."
> Along sidewalks, down and up curbs, across busy intersections they walked.
> Deni mastered the commands, but tugged too much, as if the instructor 
> might
> try to tow her the way Wylie did. Every few minutes she tilted her head,
> trying to catch the light.
> "Just relax and follow your dog," said the instructor, Kate 
> Schroer-Shepord.
> "You might do better if you close your eyes."
>
> On the third day, Deni and the other students filed into a big room ringed
> with folding chairs. Deni sat in the center and collapsed her cane.
> "This is an unbelievably exciting day," an instructor said. "They're 
> getting
> your dogs ready as we speak."
>
> Guiding Eyes breeds about 400 puppies a year, mostly Labradors, the
> instructor explained. They stay with their moms until they are 6 weeks 
> old,
> but are immediately socialized with other dogs, cats and people.
> Then puppy raisers take them home - and into the world, walking them 
> through
> gravel and grass, under bridges, up stairs and into elevators, on buses 
> and
> subways, into hardware stores and restaurants.
> When the dogs are about 2 years old, they get matched with their new
> partners. "I just want four legs and a tail," Deni said when someone asked
> what kind of dog she wanted. She was hoping for a female, a yellow Lab 
> with
> a quick gait and sense of humor. But she kept telling herself to trust the
> experts.
>
> Of 160 partnerships a year, an average of five don't last. Sometimes the
> person and dog's speeds don't match; sometimes it's their personalities.
> Deni's instructor, Graham Buck, had been at Guiding Eyes for 24 years and
> matched more than 400 people with canine partners. He got to know Deni on
> their chilly walks. Graham believed Deni needed a dog who was confident
> enough to help her relax, but not one who thought he knew everything. One
> with a shepherd's energy but without a shepherd's possessiveness.
>
> "Okay, now we're going to tell you your dog's name, breed, color and 
> gender,
> and then we will bring them to your rooms," an instructor said. "We need 
> you
> all to set good patterns, so stay seated. If you get on the floor, the dog
> will climb all over you."
>
> Instructors went around the circle, describing each dog. "Deni," Graham
> said. "You are getting a yellow female Labrador named Alberta."
> "Thank you!" Deni cried, grinning. "Alberta . . ."
>
> In her room, she paced between the door and window, waiting. She was so
> anxious she couldn't sit down.
>
> "Deni, are you ready?" Graham called. "Here comes Miss Alberta. She's 22
> months old and her hair is the same color as yours."
>
> Deni dropped to her knees to feel the dog. Alberta was much smaller than
> Wylie, in height and girth; her nose was wet. "Hi, honey! Look at you!"
> She knew her teacher was watching, but she couldn't help herself. She sat 
> on
> the floor, pulled her new partner into her lap, and buried her face in
> Alberta's soft fur.
>
> That night, for the first time in weeks, she slept deeply.
>
> Deni worked well with Alberta. But by the second day, Graham could tell 
> she
> didn't totally trust her new partner. Deni was still struggling to see
> through the splotches, trying to steer.
> "Alberta's got this," Graham said. "You don't have to see."
>
> Deni may have been unsure of the dog, but she had complete faith in 
> Graham.
> So under a stoplight on a bright, snowy morning, with cars and buses
> whizzing by, she shut her eyes, relaxed her hold on the harness and let 
> the
> dog drive.
>
> She felt the rhythm of Alberta's walk and fell into the flow. "It was like
> dancing," she said later. "Like trotting on a horse. No, smoother. Once we
> really hit our stride it felt like I was floating."
>
> No one had ever told her she didn't have to see. Finally, she stopped
> pretending she could.
>
> Now that someone else was training the dog, Deni could focus on herself. 
> "In
> academia, she's always in control, she's the one everyone looks up to,"
> Graham said. "But with Alberta, she's able to let go of that."
>
> And for the first time, she had instructors who could train her. 
> Initially,
> Graham said, Deni was "very guarded, almost premeditated with her 
> movements
> and words. But as the other students started to share their stories, 
> things
> they had stumbled over - and achieved - Deni started to open up," Graham
> said. "I think she began to accept herself."
>
> Deni had expected to stay holed up in her room at the school. She didn't
> think she belonged with all these really blind people. Besides, she had
> articles to write, papers to grade. But she found herself drawn to her
> classmates. She grew closest to Kara, the artist. Like Deni, Kara had been
> losing her sight slowly, moving to larger canvases and brighter colors to
> compensate. What will you do when you can't see at all? Deni asked her.
> Kara smiled. "Sculpture."
>
> They were eating salads one night, their dogs splayed at their feet, when
> someone asked, "Has anyone found the oil and vinegar?" Everyone started
> feeling around, fingering salt shakers and water glasses, until someone
> touched the right bottles.
> "No one said, 'It's over there.' Or, 'Right beside you.' All of us 
> searched
> together and it was okay to not know, to ask for help," Deni said.
> "My ability to fake sight wasn't needed."
>
> In Saint Petersburg, a Guiding Eyes trainer followed Deni and Alberta
> through their routine. He taught Alberta to ignore lizards and watch for
> low-hanging palm fronds. He helped her learn to ride the escalator at
> Penney's.
> After the trainer left, Deni taught her new partner to find her keys and
> carry her dog bowl to the sink. She took Alberta to the Mahaffey Theater 
> and
> Disney World. "She's just so sleek and fast," Deni said.
>
> She called Alberta her Mercedes. She nicknamed her Albee, after her 
> favorite
> playwright.
> And at the end of April, when Albee turned 2, Deni threw her a birthday
> party, with a meatloaf cake and a cardboard tiara. "Good girl," she kept
> saying. "I'm so glad you came into my life."
>
> Albee gave Deni confidence, a new way to navigate the world. "She knows 
> when
> I get disoriented, knows to stop and let me get my bearings before she 
> takes
> me exactly where I want to go." When Deni said, "office," or "home," 
> "bank,"
> or "meeting," Albee could take her to all those places, avoiding every 
> palm
> frond along the way.
>
>
> AUGUST
> Acceptance came slowly, like the darkness. By summer, Deni started doing
> things she swore she never would.
> Some changes were obvious: She bought sunglasses. Not the old people's
> cataract wraparounds, or the thick Stevie Wonder ones. Deni chose stylish,
> sassy shades with scarlet frames. She even wore them inside. "They really 
> do
> help cut the glare."
> Other signs were more subtle. Instead of trying to guess who was talking 
> at
> staff meetings, Deni asked her colleagues - whom she had worked with for
> years - to introduce themselves so she would know who was sitting where.
> "With this new dog, Deni seems a lot calmer, even happier," said Robert
> Dardenne, a friend and fellow professor. "I think she's more prone to
> adapting herself to do things than to getting things to accommodate her. 
> But
> she recently asked for a new computer that would help, and I think that's
> great."
>
> "My attitude has always been to not think about my vision. It's not your
> problem," Deni said. "But I had to learn that sometimes it really does
> matter. And it's okay. I feel less embarrassed, now, about asking for 
> help."
>
> Being at the guide dog school helped her surrender to the darkness. "Not
> just give up control, but really get comfortable with my own 
> vulnerability",
> she said. "I feel more honest now."
> She still thought about Wylie every day. For six months, he had been in a
> program where prison inmates retrained him to work with veterans. But no
> veterans wanted him; at 7, they thought he was too old.
> Finally, in late August, Deni got a call from a man named Fred Grooms, a
> retired veteran who volunteers with the service dog program in South
> Carolina. He had been taking Wylie home on weekends to play with his 
> teenage
> daughter, who has migraines and mobility issues. Grooms was calling to say
> he had adopted Wylie. That weekend, he had taken him to a lake with a 
> bunch
> of kids where the dog spent all day diving off a dock.
>
> Deni sobbed, imagining her big frat boy of a dog surrounded by squealing
> kids. It helped, knowing he finally had a family.
>
> Albee needed more of that kind of fun, Deni decided. So she enrolled in a
> Rally class - a competition where people lead their dogs through a course,
> stopping to perform commands. After a couple of sessions, Deni had to 
> admit
> she couldn't read the command signs. But instead of dropping out, she 
> wrote
> to the American Kennel Club and got permission to use a sighted guide.
> Now, a volunteer reads the signs to Deni, who gives Albee the commands. On
> their last run, they earned a perfect score.
>
> "I'm not going to say that losing my sight has been a blessing," Deni 
> said.
> "But I am learning to adapt, and to ask more of the sighted world."
>
> When classes started this semester, Deni stood before her students, 
> wearing
> dark glasses. "This is Albee, my guide dog," she said. Then, for the first
> time, she introduced herself like this:
>
> "And I am your professor, Deni Elliott. If you want my attention, don't
> raise your hand. Make some noise. I might look at you, but I won't see 
> you.
> I'm blind."
>
> Times news researcher Caryn Baird contributed to this report. Lane 
> DeGregory
> can be reached at degregory at tampabay.com or (727) 893-8825.
>
> Guide dog leads vision-challenged professor to new insight 10/09/13 [Last
> modified: Wednesday, October 9, 2013 6:49pm]
>
> C 2013 Tampa Bay Times
> - - -
>
>
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