Last Wednesday at around 9:30 AM, I was sitting in a circle with a high school wrestler, an aspiring English teacher, a nun, the owner of a small business, a circus clown, an administrative assistant, the matriarch of a large family, and several other men and women from a variety of backgrounds.  All of us were blind, and each of us was eagerly waiting to learn the name, gender, and breed of the guide dog with which we would soon begin developing a relationship.  Each of us had spent the past 36 hours at Guiding Eyes for the Blind learning the lay-out of the building; how to use the slip collar, leash, and harness; and the obedience routine we would be using every day to show the dog who’s in charge.  We had ridden in a van to a large house 30 minutes away where Guiding Eyes instructors had played the role of guide dog so they could better determine which of the specially-trained dogs would best fit each of our physical needs, lifestyles, and quirks.

“Peter,” intoned one of the instructors.  I leaned forward.  “Your dog is a–“

“Hold on,” interrupted the other instructor.  “There’s a problem with the equipment.”

As the instructors worked towards fixing the system that made it easier for a deaf-blind student to hear what was going on, I leaned back, annoyed with the interruption but amused by the memory of being told about my first guide dog 33 years earlier.

“Peter,” one of the instructors had intoned.  I had leaned forward.  “Your dog is a Weimaraner–“

“A what?” I interrupted.

“A Weimaraner.”

“What’s that?”

“You’ll find out!”

When the instructor ordered me to encourage the dog to come to me, I realized that I didn’t know its name.

“Her name is Heidi,” he had told me.

“Sorry for the delay, Peter,” the instructor said.  I leaned forward again.  “Your dog is a male Black Lab named Heath; H-e-a-t-h, Heath.”

“Heathbar,” I mused aloud, trying to cement the name into my soul.  “Are you sure he isn’t a Chocolate Lab?”

An instructor brought Heath to my room 15 minutes later.  I heard the jangle of the collar as he explored the room, briefly touching my hand in passing.  The instructor gave me three dog treats which he took grudgingly.

After a while, the instructor left the room leaving Heath and me connected by leash.  I let him lead me around the room.  I sat on the bed and felt his muscled compact body and big head.  I sat on the floor and he licked my face and gently wagged his tail.  I brushed my teeth as he sniffed the floor.  He wasn’t particularly interested in me, but I wasn’t concerned.  It takes time to build a relationship.

As I’m writing this two days later, Heath is lying contentedly in his crate after walking with me in a park connected by harness in the New York August humidity and roughhousing with another dog in a dog run.  We have also walked together on semicrowded sidewalks, crossing several large streets along the way.  He has a rapid pace, a confident pull, and a no-nonsense working style, once guiding me around a soda can.  The instructor describes him as a football player with a regal horse-like head.

We seem to be bonding.  He usually does what I ask.  He enjoys rolling around on the floor, and responds to my silly noises by jumping on my shoulders to lick my face.  And he’s beginning to sigh when I hug him or scratch his belly.

Along the way, the instructors have offered two phrases that all of us who are trying to change behavior should keep in mind:

* Take it one day at a time; and

* If you reward crap, you’ll get crap.

As this journey continues, my challenge is to fight against habit and muscle memory to absorb the new training techniques I am being offered; and the journey is fun.

Please remember that I continue to tweet about my Guiding Eyes experience under the hashtag #pageb.