“Got it,” I say. “Nugent, forward.”
And we’re off—fast! I have to power-walk to keep up with him.
“You weren’t kidding,” I tell John. “What happens if Nugent gets a handler with short legs, like me?”
John strides beside us easily. “Matching the dog and handler is the most important thing we do. Nugent will be a good guide for a tall, athletic person, someone with a strong personality, who isn’t afraid to charge into a crowd. Relax your hand a bit.”
Good advice. I’m clutching the handle way too tightly.
“We’ll walk through the park to town. When we get all the way down to the corner, tell Nugent to take a right,” John instructs.
We walk along in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the beautiful day and the company of a good dog. My legs have warmed up, and I can match Nugent’s gait now. This is different from walking Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock (and every other dog I’ve walked) wants to hunt around, smell, and explore. Nugent wants to move, to get where we’re going.
Scattered around the park are other guide dogs working with instructors or their new handlers. I think I see Mr. Carlson and Scout, but I don’t want to holler and distract them. The only sounds are good ones—people praising dogs, telling them how good and wonderful they are. This place has what Brenna would call “good vibes.”
“Can I close my eyes?” I ask. “You know...”
John nods. “You want to see what it feels like for James and Scout, right? Go right ahead. Trust the dog. He knows how to take care of you.”
I look straight ahead. The sidewalk is smooth. There’s nothing in our way. I close my eyes and keep walking.
“Wow! It feels like we’re speeding up.” I open my eyes. “It’s kind of scary.”
“Try it again,” John urges.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m not going to open them again. I’d like to slow down, but Nugent is setting the pace. The harness! With my eyes shut, I notice the position of the harness in my hand a lot more. I can feel how Nugent walks, his shoulders rolling slightly from side to side.
“Wait a minute,” I say, my eyes still closed. “What’s he doing?”
Nugent has slowed down. Now he stops, still standing at my left side.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing. He’s waiting for you to tell him what to do,” John says. “The sidewalk here is shaped like a T. You can go left or right. If you keep going straight, you’ll walk into the road. Nugent is trained to cross only at corners, so he won’t let you do that.”
“OK, Nugent, right.”
The handle shifts as Nugent turns to the right. I step to the right, and we are off again.
“Great job, Maggie,” John says. “Tell him to halt, and I’ll take over.”
“Nugent, halt.” The dog responds perfectly, and I open my eyes. “Good boy!” I say. He wags his tail and smiles.
John takes the handle of the harness from me. “You’re really good at picking up Nugent’s signals,” he says. He takes a thick blindfold from his back pocket and ties it so that his eyes are completely covered. “Forward, Nugent.”
We start walking again.
“Don’t you have to tell him where you want to go, like, ‘Nugent, let’s get a water ice,’ or ‘Nugent, take me to the grocery store’?” I ask.
“Nope, that’s a common myth,” John says. “Guide dogs don’t take you places. They follow directions. It is up to the handler to know where she’s going. Think of it this way: the handler is the navigator and the dog is the driver. Nugent, left.”
Nugent guides John to a branch of the sidewalk that goes off to the left.
“Traffic lights are another myth,” John continues. “Some people think that guide dogs know it is safe to cross the street when the light changes from green to red. That’s wrong. Dogs don’t watch the light. They watch for cars and listen to the commands of their handler.”
As John talks, I keep an eye on Nugent. We pass a bakery, a flower shop, and a deli that smells like cheesesteak sandwiches, but nothing distracts him. He walks right past a woman leading two yipping Maltese dogs without a glance. He doesn’t even sniff a fire hydrant. It’s amazing.
“Good boy, Nugent!” John praises enthusiastically. Nugent wags his tail and keeps walking.
“We’re coming to a busy intersection,” I warn.
“I know,” John says. “Nugent knows, too. Just watch. Whatever you do, don’t grab the harness. That’s like grabbing the steering wheel of a car. It will ruin his confidence.”
Nugent stops at the corner. The traffic rushes past us on the street. Then the light changes.
“I listen carefully to make sure that the traf fic has stopped, and then we go,” John explains. “Nugent, forward.”
As John steps off the curb, a car comes around the corner, right in his path. Before I can say anything, Nugent freezes, and John hastily steps back on the curb. The car drives past us.
“Good boy,” John says, giving Nugent a hug. “Now forward.”
Nugent checks the road, then leads John safely across. I walk with them.
“That was incredible,” I say when we reach the other side. “He saw that car coming and stopped you. He saved your life!”
“That’s what we call intelligent disobedience,” John says. “It is the hardest thing to teach. The dog has to disobey a command from the handler when he knows the handler might be hurt. Guide dogs do that every day.”
We cross another street and head back toward the school.
“I don’t want you to get the wrong impression, Maggie,” John says. “Guide dogs are not superheroes or robots. They are just highly trained dogs that work with motivated, independent blind people.”
Just like my science teacher.
John and Nugent drop me off at the van. I find Gran still at the vet center deep in a discussion about hip problems. She can talk about hip problems for hours. I wander around until I find Mr. Carlson sitting on a bench under an ancient maple tree. Mr. Carlson has a Braille magazine in his lap, but he’s not reading it. Scout rests at his feet, staring at the guide dogs and their handlers still practicing in the park.
I walk over to the maple tree and sit down. “Hey, Mr. Carlson,” I say.
“Hi, Maggie,” he says. “Did you have fun?”
“You’d better believe it.” I tell him all about the puppies and my walk with Nugent. He doesn’t say much, like his mind is somewhere else.
“How is Scout?” I ask. “Did the vet agree with Gran?”
Mr. Carlson nods. “Yep. The swelling of his paw has already gone down a bit. He’s fine.”
“That’s good,” I say.
“Um-hmm,” he replies.
What do I say now? I can’t just leave. That would be rude. I think about it for a minute.
“What did you mean yesterday when you said that you and Scout got lost?”
“Oh, that.” Mr. Carlson gives a little laugh. “It would have been funny if it wasn’t so awful. I didn’t think I would have any trouble finding my way around the school. I taught there, sighted, for ten years.”
“And? ”
“And I couldn’t find the upstairs conference room. Talk about embarrassing! I felt like an idiot.”
I don’t say anything.
Mr. Carlson continues. “And then the way I stepped on Scout’s paw and hurt him... well, it wasn’t a very good way to end the first day of school. Coming back here,” he waves his arm to show the campus of the guide-dog school, “makes me realize how much I’m doing wrong.
I lean forward and put my elbows on my knees. He sounds serious. Scout turns around to look. I bet he can hear the defeated tone in his companion’s voice. I wish I could pet him and tell him it will be all right.
“It can’t be that bad,” I say.
“You don’t know the half of it,” he says. “I’m too busy for Scout’s obedience lessons. He was upset when we got lost. He thought it was his fault, but it was mine. I wonder... ”
>
“Wonder what?”
He takes a deep breath. “I wonder if I should have waited a year—gotten into the swing of teaching, then applied for a guide dog.” He pauses and smooths his beard. “I wonder if I should give him back.”
“You can‘t!” I exclaim. “You can’t give up! I know about dogs, Mr. Carlson. Scout is amazing. He’s like a genius dog, I swear. He wants to work with you. You just need more time together.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“I know you think I’m just a kid, but I really do know dogs. You just have to ... ”
I stop. Who am I to tell a teacher what to do?
“No, go on,” he says. “What were you going to say?”
Gulp. Go ahead, MacKenzie.
“First, you have to tell Scout when he does a good job. Praise him. If you don‘t, he thinks he messed up. It’s like if you gave us a test, then never told us what our grades were. That wouldn’t teach us very much, would it?”
Mr. Carlson feels along the bench until he finds Scout’s long leash. He holds it loosely in his hands. “I hadn’t thought about it like that before.”
Scout sits up.
“Pet him. Give him a hug,” I suggest. “He knows something is bothering you. He wants to help. He wants to make you happy and proud.”
Mr. Carlson gingerly puts his hand out. Scout leans into it. Mr. Carlson pats his dog once, then puts his hand on the bench.
“You’re being very helpful, Maggie, but I don’t think you’re old enough to understand how complicated this is. I want the best for Scout. That’s why I think that maybe he should go to someone else. I’m not ready for him.”
The stubborn part of me flares up. “You’re going to quit?” I ask angrily. “Don’t you believe in that stuff that teachers always tell kids: ‘Try your best,’ ‘You can do it,’ ‘Don’t give up’? Is it all a lie?”
Scout looks at me anxiously, his tail turned in, his head lowered but in a submissive posture.
“Sorry, Scout,” I apologize. “I’m not mad at you. Mr. Carlson, you have to give yourself a chance. Working with Scout, obedience training, learning to love and respect each other—that’s homework. You’re the king of giving out homework. It’s your turn to do some. Don’t give up. It’s too important.”
“It sounds like you’ve heard this before,” he remarks.
I kick at a tuft of grass. “Yeah, you could say that. I’ve heard it a lot.”
We sit quietly for a moment. The guide dogs and handlers are walking back from town. The park is quiet except for the calls of mockingbirds and blue jays. Mr. Carlson strokes his beard for a while, then speaks.
“How long should I give it?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re the dog expert,” he says. “How long should I try? A month? Two months?”
“A week,” I blurt out.
“A week?”
“That’s all you need. Think about it. He’s a trained guide dog. You are—”
“A trained blind guy?” he interrupts with a sly grin.
“You know what I mean. You know the basics, but you have some work to do. And I can help. I’ve worked with lots of dogs and their owners. I could watch you work with Scout—give you some tips.”
Mr. Carlson laughs, a real belly laugh. “Tips would be helpful, but you know what I really need? Someone to help me map out the middle school so that we don’t get lost again.”
“I can do that, I think. I got lost the first day, too. Maybe we should learn our way around together.”
“Can you meet me before school on Monday?”
“Will you spend the rest of the weekend telling Scout he’s awesome and smart and wonderful? ”
Mr. Carlson nods. “I promise. It sounds like we have a deal.” He puts out his hand to shake.
I grasp his hand and shake once.
“Deal! ”
Chapter Seven
Sunday goes by in a blur because Gran goes into a rare fit of housecleaning. Zoe and I pick up, scrub, dust, vacuum, pick up some more, try to watch TV, get kicked out of the family room, start the laundry, and mop the kitchen floor.
I’m actually grateful when Gran says it’s time to do homework. But, man, am I tired!
OK, get a grip. It’s time to be Middle-School Maggie, ready to take on the scariest homework assignment in the world. I spread out my agenda book, folders, and binder and line up my pens and pencils like toy soldiers.
Attack!
I read my social studies chapter (the Constitution—takes forever), write my English essay (well, OK, it’s the sloppy copy), and finish fifty math problems (argh!). I take a quick break to let out Sherlock, then sit back down to do my biology.
I am supposed to memorize my notes. How do you do that? And we have to know the whole chapter about the eye and the vocabulary words? Mr. Carlson’s nuts. No one could expect that much out of a group of seventh-graders.
I read the chapter and vocab words. Once.
There, I did it. I studied.
I hope Mr. Carlson and Scout did their homework, too.
Gran drops me off at school early on Monday morning. I sit on the front steps, watching the teachers pull into the parking lot. How is Mr. Carlson going to get here?
Here comes the answer—a bus. It drops him off at the corner in front of the building. The traffic is thick with rush-hour commuters. Mr. Carlson and Scout wait until the light changes, then cross the street safely.
“I’m over here,” I call. “On the steps.”
“Forward, Scout,” Mr. Carlson commands. Scout is pulling at the harness and Mr. Carlson looks a little off balance, but they quickly cross the lawn in front of the school. My teacher is wearing khaki pants, a long-sleeved white shirt, and a tie with an exploding volcano on it. He must have a huge tie collection. He looks tired. There are dark circles under his eyes.
“I wasn’t sure if you were going to be here,” Mr. Carlson says.
“I was thinking the same thing about you,” I say. “Did you two do your homework yesterday?”
Mr. Carlson grins. “We practiced obedience lessons in the front yard until we wore a patch of grass down to nothing. Also, you should have seen the mess I made when I tried to change Scout’s bandage.”
I glance down. The gauze on the dog’s paw is a little uneven, but it looks clean and secure.
“You did a good job,” I say.
“And it only took an hour,” Mr. Carlson says. “But you’re right. I did it. It’s a start.”
I open the door and follow the pair inside.
“Scout, halt,” Mr. Carlson says.
We come to a stop in the front lobby.
“This is the part of the school I know best. I know how to get to the office, the library, my classroom, and the cafeteria. I got lost trying to get to a conference in Room 312. That’s back in the new wing, near the computer lab.”
“I’ve never been there.” I snatch a piece of paper from a table in front of the office. “We can use this map.”
“Maggie,” Mr. Carlson says. “A paper map doesn’t help me.”
Duh. “You need a map you can feel, don’t you? I saw one at the guide-dog school. It had raised lines on it.”
“That’s a tactile map. We feel the outlines to learn where the rooms, halls, doors, and windows are located in a building. They make them for towns, college campuses, ski runs, and golf courses, too.”
I trace the corridors on the paper map with my fingertip. “I could make a tactile map of this. It would be easy. I could use Popsicle sticks or toothpicks.”
Scout’s tail sweeps back and forth over the floor. Mr. Carlson thinks about it for a moment, then nods.
“That would be great,” he says. “The art teacher has some supplies you could use.”
“Excellent! But first we have to learn how to get to that conference room.” I consult the map. “We need to walk down to the library and take a left.”
“We can do that. Forward, Scou
t.”
We weave our way through the school, getting a few curious glances from kids who are here early to work on the school newspaper or go to band practice. Mr. Carlson concentrates, trying to picture the way the school is laid out.
Scout picks up the pace a bit and pulls on the harness. Should I say something? Scout pulls harder. He’s walking too far ahead, making Mr. Carlson lean. Mr. Carlson stumbles over a bump in the carpet. I reach out to steady his arm.
“Hang on, hang on,” Mr. Carlson says in frustration. “Scout, halt.”
We stop. Mr. Carlson looks like he’s silently counting to ten, the way Gran does when she’s mad.
“Do you really think this is going to work? One week and we’ll be fine?” he asks me.
“Absolutely,” I say. “Scout has started to form some bad habits. They can crop up quickly. He knows you like to walk fast, and you don’t correct him to keep him by your leg. He’s dragging you.” I remember back to what it felt like to walk with Nugent with my eyes closed. “I bet it’s harder to feel the position of the handle when he’s out so far in front.”
“It is. It makes me feel out of control. I need to make him heel. We worked on ‘Right’ and ’Left’ a lot yesterday. I should have thrown in a few ‘Heels,’ too.” He takes a deep breath. “Thanks, Maggie. We’re under control. Where to next?”
“We’re coming up on a right turn and then a staircase.”
“Scout, right,” Mr. Carlson says firmly.
We all round the corner and start up the stairs. Scout starts to pull ahead again.
“Scout, heel,” Mr. Carlson quickly commands.
The dog pauses, then walks in the correct position by his master’s leg.
“Ahem,” I say.
“Good dog, Scout,” Mr. Carlson says.
“Good job, Mr. Carlson,” I joke. “Up one more flight, and take a right at the top of the stairs.”
Scout guides perfectly.
“Here we are,” I say. “The conference room.”
Mr. Carlson puts his hand out and feels the raised numbers on the sign that hangs by the door. “Excellent,” he says. “That wasn’t so bad. Thanks, Maggie. You’ve been a great help.”