Tag: guide dog

My Furry Colleague and Her Sneeze of Needing Back Up

Well Noodle has done it again. Worked her way as an assistance dog into yet another hospital! Regular readers will remember the first part of the saga when I battled to keep her with me in a Paediatrics ward. You can read ‘How to Smuggle a Dog into a Hospital’ here.

We had a very difficult first fortnight in my new unit, questions and issues rained down on myself and my furry colleague near constantly. The subsequent flood filled me with hate for the whole hospital and very nearly washed me out the door. But we got through it. We learnt to groom before seeing the staff who will comment on Noodle’s shedding winter coat and we compromised on many an issue.

On admission I told the hospital about Noodle’s magic powers. But I don’t think they really believed that the little dog (rather shabby looking after a seven hour drive) could do all these things I was telling them.

The first time it happened they thought it was a fluke.
The second time they thought it was odd.
The third, they thought it was lucky.
The fourth, they realised that she is amazing.

And then it clicked. When Noodle watches me go into crisis, often dangerous or disabling for me, she will get out of the room. In fact sometimes she predicts it and won’t go in to the room at all. She will then do everything she can to get human assistance for me. In a ward like my current one there are many fire doors, so she is limited to pacing and barking, but at my old open plan unit she could run straight to the office and then straight back to me. Staff find her at the other side of a door and she greets them with what I have coined ‘The Sneeze of Needing Back Up’. It is distinctively loud and repeated over and over. Head up, head down, head up, head down. In all honesty it does look like the dog is trying to tell you she needs to place an urgent last minute bid on EBay. Either that or she has been given some sort of amphetamine.

Naturally, the incoming member of staff is usually slightly surprised at being so enthusiastically greeted by a Guide Dog who is usually the definition of cool, calm and reserved. On realising that I am not with her they begin checking for me everywhere, but I will always be behind the door that the dog runs to.

I have no idea what I would do without her. She’s learnt her technique over time. It has evolved as my health has deteriorated. She has done ambulances, she’s done three hospitals AND survived my final year of secondary school. I am beginning to wonder if there is anything this little dog can’t do?!

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Guide Dog of The Year: Beyond the Call of Duty

It isn’t every day that you find out that your guide dog has won an award. Let alone the prestigious ‘Guide Dog of the Year’. She was nominated several times over for her work to help me fight OCD and mental illness. I was too unwell to attend the awards, however myself and Laila (AKA Noodle) did have a mini award ceremony in the Unit. The best part of the experience though was having a photo-shoot on the hospital grounds and a video made. Laila goes beyond the call of duty every day and expects nothing in return. In the video you will see just some of the reasons why she won.

Talk to the Face, the Dog’s not Listening

Sitting in the church it was the average scene for any 10:30 am gathering. People bustled between each other for how-do’s and pleasantries. It was my second time here but the congregation seemed to have changed enormously, the many small children and their parents had probably headed somewhere for the holidays which left the slower of the worshipers to hold fort.

We prayed enthusiastically, we sang even more so, and it was all very nice. Then a sermon. Though I understand the concept of God and my faith in him is slowly building after an amazing time at a christian summer school, my principles remain untouched. The sermon went along the lines of sharing the word of God, however seemed totally out of sync  with the modern world. It was suggested that we bring up God in conversation with our atheist friends, our acquaintances and even people we meet in shops. I couldn’t help but find myself thinking how this probably wouldn’t be doing me any favours as a ‘let’s talk about God’ line with my local butcher would probably earn me only a smack in the chops. Our preacher then went on to exclaim how ‘as long as we have faith’ we will always have food, clothes and everything essential to live. Because God will provide it.

This is one hurdle in my religious journey that I struggle with. How can I accept that, when I know about the starving people living on the streets? The alone, the ill and the hungry. Are they not praying hard enough? If this is the case God doesn’t seem very charitable. Terrible things happen that make people lose faith; that doesn’t mean they should be given up on. Food doesn’t miraculously appear for those who pray, like some kind of halo-scanning drive through, Christians go to Tesco like everyone else. Though I (like many others) will be thankful for the food and the money we use to buy it, but it is through our own doing that we can feed ourselves. We can thank God for numerous things in the process of creating, buying, preparing and eating food but at the end of the day we have to do the leg work- and it costs. I am in no doubt that the people in Syria (a used example in the sermon) are desperate for food. They must long for it with every inch of their dwindling energy. So are they hungry just because they aren’t Christian and praying to the right God? In my opinion that is not cool.

After the service I faced misconceptions of my own over tea and biscuits. I am used to life with my guide dog and the often unwanted buzz that it brings. During a conversation with one lady she stopped mid sentence and went into a high and squeaky voice and fussed my dog. A voice of that pitch could only belong to a ‘dog lover’: the kind of people I see on a daily basis who say things like “I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help myself…”. I politely ask that Lai is not stroked at the moment. I can feel that my dog is a little jumpy, a fly (her chase toy) appears to have accompanied us into the room and I want to keep full control of her so she is on her best behaviour in this new environment. She doesn’t say anything, and seems to have taken this personally and disappears. Minutes later she reappears, however this time she brings with her a daughter.

“Go and introduce yourself to Lai.”

For a moment I think, hope, that she has just mistaken our names but as I focus I see that she is gesturing towards my canine companion and her daughter is launching herself on my guide dog. I remake my point, feeling slightly bad and a little confused, and the woman makes her apologies once more and we all join a group of happy chatters.

A minute later I am spoken to by another lady. I am happy to make conversation and chat but she seems to have her mind set on one topic only. Blindness. More specifically mine.
“Are you able to get about a bit then?” She asks. I notice instantly the way her tone has gone from friendly to pitying but holds no hesitation in asking the question. I tell her that I am independent and travel a lot, in fact I am living at a residential college in september. I restrain the cheeky voice in my head telling me to ask her the same question with a gulp of my tea. Though I answered pleasantly she seems a little surprised with my response, like she would expect the contrary.

“Have you always been blind?” She asks quickly. I have had this kind of conversation before with strangers, but never have I felt quite so interrogated. I explain that I am not completely blind, that I was born blind in one eye and the other eye’s sight deteriorated a lot when I was eleven. Her response was:

“That must of been traumatic. Did God bring you through?” It felt as if she had mixed up her expression. The first statement was said briskly as if she were making observation of the weather, and the latter like I was a dying kitten under a four by four. I decided to be honest: No actually, God didn’t bring me through. I looked for God but couldn’t find him. I had to do a lot of work myself and be strong. It was tough but you do what you have to do. Well… maybe I didn’t manage quite that but it went along those lines.

Without a beat she passed onto the next question. I couldn’t understand what her intention was, she hadn’t passed any comment on any of my responses. I am fine with people asking one or two, well thought out, questions about disability to me. I see that as helping spread awareness of visual impairment, however I just felt uncomfortable with this interrogatory style and her expectation that my life is limited and confined.

“So have you managed to get some kind of education?” She blasts on. I tried to work out whether her choice of words was intentional or just unfortunate but couldn’t come to an exact conclusion. I respond with yes, that I am waiting on the results of my GCSE’s and in september I will go to college and study Psychology, Sociology, English Literature A levels and Braille. She doesn’t know what to say and was clearly not expecting me to of had any kind of education at all. She muttered something about how she hopes I do well in my GCSE’s, and that A levels are very hard, before moving away.

I found my Dad who was happily chatting away to a man who appeared to be more the type of person you would expect to be in a church. He was polite, could hold a conversation and had a sense of humour. He also appeared to be the husband of the dog-loving lady from earlier. Conversation is light hearted about christianity and the structure of the church but the topic, as usual with strangers, turns to my guide dog.

“I won’t stroke her because she’s wearing that harness” says the man smiling. I smile gratefully back and am just about to ask him how long he has lived locally when his wife steps in.

“I just got told off for doing that.” I am completely taken aback. She doesn’t sound jokey or lighthearted, just outright bitter. I am confused and can feel little bubbles of rage popping in the back of my brain. It doesn’t happen often that I get angry, but the collective attitude of the people I had met seemed so negative, so confrontational, so backwards. There seems to be something inside me that says I shouldn’t even feel anger in a church, let alone show it, so I suppress it and smile.

“Please don’t feel like I was telling you off, I just needed to say that it isn’t a good time to stroke her right now.” She looks affronted. I can tell that in her mind she is seeing me as a rude teenager who shouldn’t of come to her church in the first place. Her husband steps in:

“Is it detrimental to their training if they are fussed?” He asks, keeping his lighthearted tone. I am so tired of this now. I become more and more aware that two out of the three people who had spoken to me seemed to see me as nothing but a chauffeur for an amazing dog or a disability to be examined. I decide that I might as well be honest.

Yes, it is detrimental to their training. Guide Dogs are constantly being trained and having their training reinforced by their owners. I depend completely on her to act perfectly in all kinds of social situations, and most importantly I put my life in her hands on a daily basis to live an independent life. Though people want to stroke her, sometimes I just can’t let that happen because I need her to stay calm and ready to receive commands. It is a lot harder to keep control of a dog which is over excited and I, as her owner, can recognise when it is an ok time for her to be petted and when it isn’t. And sometimes… just sometimes… I like people to talk to me rather than her!!

Well… maybe something like that… I am far too polite for my own good sometimes. Dad could sense my tension so we thanked them for the service and the tea and left. As soon as I stepped out of the graveyard I erupted into flames. I really do not feel anger often, I like to stay calm and hope that people will do the same around me. But this time I was furious.

If you are reading this thinking that this is a rant about religious people’s attitudes towards disabled people, stop. I know lots of religious people and I am religious myself. This is the kind of attitude that many disabled people face day in, day out, no matter where they are. It just happens that the most concentrated experience of people misjudging me was at a religious building on a summery sunday morning.

When in doubt of what to talk about to a disabled person, stick to the weather.

Image of a chair with a light bulb above in a dimly lit room.  interrogation