Sarah Blake LaRose

Twenty-five years ago, I did something that changed my life. I did not realize at the time how much it would change me; and maybe it changed the people around me. During the last few months, I have realized that it continues to change me even though things are very different now. So it is time to begin a blogging series about my journey as a dog guide user.

The Making of the Cat Lady

When I was young, I had a great fear of dogs. It was never the fault of the dogs. We had a family dog, A Basenji named Cleo. To my knowledge Cleo never committed any great crime. She simply enjoyed giving wet, sloppy kisses and touching me with her cold, wet nose. Unfortunately, I hated cold, wet, slimy things. Cleo and I got off to a rough start.

Mom tried valiantly to introduce her gently. I have an audio tape recording that my mother made when I was about 18 months old. I am in the bath tub, and Mom is trying to make me say a few words. Cleo comes into the bathroom and apparently nuzzles me. Mom whispers, “There’s Cleo.” There is a pause, and Cleo’s tags can be heard followed by a few small splashes. Mom whispers again, “There’s Cleo.”

Mom also tried teaching me to give Cleo instructions. She says that some of my earliest words were, “Get down, Cleo!”
All my mother’s gentle introductions could not make me enjoy Cleo–or any other family dog that we had in the future.

When I was about five years old, we had a young large dog who loved to greet me and lick me exuberantly during my play times out in the back yard. By this time, I had also developed a strong aversion to stinky breath. My parents suggested that I keep biscuits in my pockets and toss a biscuit for her to fetch when I wanted to run to my swing. She would be busy eating while I was running and wouldn’t bother me while I was swinging. When I was finished and wanted to come inside, I tossed another biscuit so she would be busy again, and I ran inside.

The biscuit game was great fun for the dog, but it didn’t accomplish its goal. In fact, it probably encouraged her to pay more attention to me in the long run. After all, I was the one who was giving her the goodies. I became her friend, not the person she was supposed to avoid. And I didn’t want to be her friend. I didn’t want her stinky breath in my face, and I certainly didn’t want her slimy tongue and drippy drool all over me.

Later, we had other family dogs. They were smaller. That meant there was a little less stinky breath and a little less drippy drool. But there was still stinking and dripping.

I tried asking Mom to teach me how to sleep with one of the dogs. I thought that perhaps if the dog would be still and go to sleep, I might learn to think she was soft, and I might start to like her. But she wasn’t very still, and she wasn’t soft in the way I imagined. I wanted her to be soft like a cat.

The devotion of my soul to felus catus was probably inevitable. My family adopted a stray cat when I was four years old, and she had a litter of kittens shortly before my fifth birthday. I spent hours petting them, feeling them purr and observing the ways they played together, coming to understand that they had different personalities. I wanted my own cat.

To my bitter disappointment, mother and kittens all went to the animal shelter when the kittens were weaned. The next animal we got was another dog, a Dachshund named Brownie. At least she was small. There would be only a little stinking–or so I thought. Eventually, she earned herself the nickname Stinkness. Ironically, it was not I who bestowed this nickname upon her. It was my dog-loving sister.

Brownie had a severe case of flea allergies. By the time she neared mid-life, it was difficult to control her allergic outbreaks, especially during the summer. The seriousness of the problem became evident when Brownie was about ten years old.

While on a family vacation, unaccompanied by Brownie, we drove through some open country populated by farm animals. My sister suddenly shouted, “What IS that! It smells like Stinkness!”

When I was nine years old, my dream came true. A neighbor’s cat had kittens; and I was permitted to visit and play with them. Perhaps my parents might have permitted fewer visits if they had known what they were unleashing. I picked a kitten, and from early in my visiting days I could identify her consistently and insisted that she was “my kitty”.

When she was six weeks old, Copy Cat was allowed to come home with me. I carried her proudly across the street, terrified that I would drop her and she would run away.

I was not disappointed with my cat. There was very little stinky breath, no slimy licking, and no drippy drool. Best of all, she had soft fur and made beautiful purring sounds! Copy was my comfort during lonely times, my secret keeper, and the first being to know my reasons for rejoicing. She slept in my arms every night, as I had tried and failed to allow a dog to do. When she died, I wanted another cat–now if not sooner.

Going to the Dogs

I was still in high school when I applied for my first dog guide. Due to several factors that delayed my application process, I did not atttend class until after my first year of college. I was disappointed with the delays. When I decided to immerse myself in the world of dogs, I was prepared to get the show on the road. I didn’t want any delays. Looking back, perhaps I was afraid that I might get cold feet and back out.

I didn’t ask whether my family was surprised; and I didn’t realize for many years how much change came over me and how it affected them.

When I applied, I did not think about stinky breath, slimy tongues, and drippy drool. I thought about the beautiful dog I had touched just once.

The transformative Experience

As part of my process of preparing for college, I met with a counselor from the Texas Commission for the Blind to talk about services the agency offered that might be useful for me. These services included the purchase of special computer technology, payment of individuals to read books for me, etc.

My counselor agreed to come to my home for a meeting. She also mentioned that she would be coming with a driver and would be bringing her dog guide. I was not worried about the dog. I had met other people with dog guides; and the dogs were always well behaved. I thought very little about the dog. My counselor needed her; so she would be there.

When my meeting was over, my counselor asked if I would like to pet the dog. This was different. Other people I had met were very strict about not allowing any petting for any reason.

I decided that it couldn’t hurt. The dog was wearing her harness. I had never seen a harness, and I was very curious. I approached very timidly and ran my hand over the dog’s back, taking note of the straps and handle. But I could not help but notice something else.

Soft, beautiful yellow fur! This dog had been brushed and combed!

And this dog stood absolutely still … and did not lick!

Could I have a dog like that? One that would guide me? One that would allow me to walk faster than I did with a cane? After spending my first year of college walking across campus with a cane that got stuck in every sidewalk crack and every snow drift, I was even more eager to find out what a dog could do.

I thought about these things on the plane that was whizzing over thousands of miles from Texas to New Jersey. And then the plane started to descend. And I thought, “What if I don’t like this? What have I done?” My heart raced, and I felt as if I needed to toss the dog a biscuit and run for my swing all over again. I had never seen an episode of Star Trek at that time in my life. It’s probably a good thing. I would have wished to transport back home immediately.

But I had done this thing. And I would do it. To turn back would make me a quitter; and that was something I was not. It meant the difference between the old me and the new me.

Recommended Books

This Series