airplane. Something made him sit in this seat and
endure the humiliating questions of a kid and his mother. Something sent him to
the guide dog school. Was it hope for independence? Was the need to be a part
of the world still basic to who he was as a person? Was it to retain—or
win—Lindsey's love?
Lindsey,
Lindsey, Lindsey.
At that point
Clapton sang some piece of blues about a woman doing some guy wrong. In a
moment of stark candor, the thought hit him that this could be what he would
soon face with Lindsey. No, he couldn't believe it. She truly loved him, didn't
she? And if she did, his blindness wouldn't matter. Love sticks it out through
the tough stuff. But on the other hand, why should a beautiful, gifted girl
like Lindsey hitch her wagon to a blind horse? He would hold her back, and she
was too spirited to be held back. It didn't make sense for her to stick with
him, and if she chose to call it quits, he couldn't blame her.
No! Brenden thought with a passion that
made him grit his teeth. I can't let it happen. I will not
hold her hack. I will show her that I can become a whole person. And if I
can't, well, I still have my other option.
After touching
down in San Jose, a retired schoolteacher with a lifetime of wisdom met
Brenden. He introduced himself simply as John, and as Brenden quickly learned,
a blind father had raised him with a no-nonsense philosophy that said anything
was possible if you were willing to work hard. This guy could care less if
Brenden was blind or had two heads. He was what used to be called in the
vernacular a man's man. He figured that everybody was the same until proven
different. And so, for the first time since his accident, Brenden found himself
relaxing and sharing normal conversation with this guy on the one-hour drive to
the school.
"What's
it like there, John? I mean, what does it look like?" Brenden asked.
"Oh
man," John said, "it's beautiful. The country is really rolling and
lush. The buildings are Spanish California-type architecture with a whole lot
of brick and tile. The kennels, well, the kennels are nicer than most of the
hotels you find in this country. And the dorms, all the students get their own
rooms, along with three squares prepared by some really good cooks. All in all,
it's a good life while you're there. You'll be with us for a month, right?
Because it's your first dog?"
"I guess
so," Brenden said.
"Oh,
they've done the job with people tougher than you." John laughed.
"Some of the war vets we've had in here are really hard cases. You're a
picnic compared to those guys. Do you know that since we opened this campus in
1956, we've put over ten thousand teams into the field?"
"Teams?"
Brenden asked.
"Yeah,
my friend, that's what you're going to be—a team, you and the dog."
Brenden
didn't answer, and John didn't push him. They drove in silence until they
reached the campus and went through the gates. Brenden was struck by the myriad
smells, and John noticed him sniffing the air.
"You
like the smells, Brenden? I do too. All the plants were chosen to make all you
new students understand how glad we are to have you here. Let me help you with
your bags and introduce you to the admissions staff."
John took Brenden
to his room and allowed him to unpack.
"You're
just in time for dinner," John told him. "Now you'll find out what I
meant when I said the food was great."
John escorted
him to the dining room and seated him at a round table with what felt to
Brenden like six or seven other students.
The
house-mistress introduced him. "Everybody, this is Brenden McCarthy. He is
here for the first time, so don't scare him away with your horror
stories."
There was
laughter around the table.
A voice at
the other end put in, "First time? Wow, I got my first pooch in the 1960s,
and now I'm back for my fifth."
"Heaven
help the dog, Jimmy," a woman's voice put in. "You're such an old
curmudgeon, any animal you get is going to be in a hurry to get back to
endure the humiliating questions of a kid and his mother. Something sent him to
the guide dog school. Was it hope for independence? Was the need to be a part
of the world still basic to who he was as a person? Was it to retain—or
win—Lindsey's love?
Lindsey,
Lindsey, Lindsey.
At that point
Clapton sang some piece of blues about a woman doing some guy wrong. In a
moment of stark candor, the thought hit him that this could be what he would
soon face with Lindsey. No, he couldn't believe it. She truly loved him, didn't
she? And if she did, his blindness wouldn't matter. Love sticks it out through
the tough stuff. But on the other hand, why should a beautiful, gifted girl
like Lindsey hitch her wagon to a blind horse? He would hold her back, and she
was too spirited to be held back. It didn't make sense for her to stick with
him, and if she chose to call it quits, he couldn't blame her.
No! Brenden thought with a passion that
made him grit his teeth. I can't let it happen. I will not
hold her hack. I will show her that I can become a whole person. And if I
can't, well, I still have my other option.
After touching
down in San Jose, a retired schoolteacher with a lifetime of wisdom met
Brenden. He introduced himself simply as John, and as Brenden quickly learned,
a blind father had raised him with a no-nonsense philosophy that said anything
was possible if you were willing to work hard. This guy could care less if
Brenden was blind or had two heads. He was what used to be called in the
vernacular a man's man. He figured that everybody was the same until proven
different. And so, for the first time since his accident, Brenden found himself
relaxing and sharing normal conversation with this guy on the one-hour drive to
the school.
"What's
it like there, John? I mean, what does it look like?" Brenden asked.
"Oh
man," John said, "it's beautiful. The country is really rolling and
lush. The buildings are Spanish California-type architecture with a whole lot
of brick and tile. The kennels, well, the kennels are nicer than most of the
hotels you find in this country. And the dorms, all the students get their own
rooms, along with three squares prepared by some really good cooks. All in all,
it's a good life while you're there. You'll be with us for a month, right?
Because it's your first dog?"
"I guess
so," Brenden said.
"Oh,
they've done the job with people tougher than you." John laughed.
"Some of the war vets we've had in here are really hard cases. You're a
picnic compared to those guys. Do you know that since we opened this campus in
1956, we've put over ten thousand teams into the field?"
"Teams?"
Brenden asked.
"Yeah,
my friend, that's what you're going to be—a team, you and the dog."
Brenden
didn't answer, and John didn't push him. They drove in silence until they
reached the campus and went through the gates. Brenden was struck by the myriad
smells, and John noticed him sniffing the air.
"You
like the smells, Brenden? I do too. All the plants were chosen to make all you
new students understand how glad we are to have you here. Let me help you with
your bags and introduce you to the admissions staff."
John took Brenden
to his room and allowed him to unpack.
"You're
just in time for dinner," John told him. "Now you'll find out what I
meant when I said the food was great."
John escorted
him to the dining room and seated him at a round table with what felt to
Brenden like six or seven other students.
The
house-mistress introduced him. "Everybody, this is Brenden McCarthy. He is
here for the first time, so don't scare him away with your horror
stories."
There was
laughter around the table.
A voice at
the other end put in, "First time? Wow, I got my first pooch in the 1960s,
and now I'm back for my fifth."
"Heaven
help the dog, Jimmy," a woman's voice put in. "You're such an old
curmudgeon, any animal you get is going to be in a hurry to get back to
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