My guide dog, Mylo, confidently strode across the street, only to abruptly halt. “Mylo, forward,” I gently urged, my left hand holding the smooth leather of his harness. “Forward,” I repeated, feeling a slight shift as he turned his head back towards me, as if questioning an invisible barrier only he could sense. Cars whizzed by on our left, creating miniature tremors in the asphalt, while behind us lay the road we had just traversed. Making a quick decision, I redirected him. “Mylo, right.” He responded instantly, turning and proceeding down the sidewalk, guiding us around whatever unseen obstacle had blocked our path.
People often assume Guide Dogs are the leaders, the navigators for blind individuals. I confess, there was a time when I, too, held this belief. As my high school graduation approached, the prospect of navigating college as a Deafblind student filled me with anxiety. Perhaps a guide dog, I thought, could be my solution, a furry chauffeur to ferry me across campus, providing the confidence I felt I lacked.
“You want to depend on a dog for confidence?” a friend, also blind, challenged me via instant messenger.
“It sounds different when you phrase it like that,” I typed back, reconsidering.
“If a blind person lacks confidence, both person and dog will end up lost,” he wisely pointed out. “Don’t seek confidence from a dog. Build your own.”
Heeding his words, I opted out of guide dog school and instead dedicated my pre-college summer to honing my blindness skills at the Louisiana Center for the Blind. There, I immersed myself in learning non-visual techniques – mastering busy street crossings with a white cane, baking a perfect banana cream pie, and even confidently operating power tools.
College years arrived, and I navigated campus with a newfound sense of assurance. My confidence wasn’t derived from a cane, but from the orientation and mobility skills I had painstakingly acquired. The thought of relying on a four-legged guide for something I had already built within myself seemed almost incongruous.
Yet, despite my independence, a void remained. My heart yearned for a companion, a travel partner whose senses, though different from mine, could share in the exploration of the world.
Maxine, a Seeing Eye dog, entered my life during my final year at Lewis & Clark College and remained by my side throughout my three years at Harvard Law. Traveling with her was a revelation. We navigated obstacles with an effortless grace that my cane alone couldn’t match – it was akin to upgrading from a bicycle to a sleek, silent Tesla.
I learned to interpret Maxine’s subtle body language, and together, we moved as a six-legged team. Her keen eyes and ears opened up dimensions of my surroundings that had previously been inaccessible. Having a German Shepherd by my side even offered an unexpected shield against the unwelcome sexual harassment I had sometimes encountered. For nine wonderful years, she was my steadfast partner.
In 2018, cancer claimed Maxine’s life. The grief was profound, a pain that still lingers. Yet, amidst the sorrow, I knew unequivocally that I could not, would not, revert to a life solely with a cane. I was without my partner of nearly a decade, but my direction remained clear.
The school that had trained Maxine thoughtfully matched me with another dog. That summer, I spent three weeks at their New Jersey campus with Mylo. Our initial training sessions were marked by clumsy missteps – stumbling over curbs and bumping into chairs. But with each new challenge, through gentle guidance and generous praise, our teamwork blossomed.
Now, we truly wander as one. In the year we’ve been together, Mylo and I have explored twelve states and four countries. One morning, during a trip to Park City, Utah, for a friend’s wedding, I awoke to find Mylo playfully bounding onto my hotel bed, eager to start the day. After some affectionate ear scratches and a tug-of-war with his favorite toy whale, we set out from our room.
Mylo confidently led the way to the elevators. Reading the Braille markings, I pressed the button for the lobby level. The doors opened, and I directed Mylo across the lobby towards the front doors. “Right,” I instructed. He turned down a hallway. “Right again,” and he turned into a room that felt strangely empty. “Oops, not this one. Mylo, left.” I gestured for him to backtrack to the hallway. “Right,” and he turned into the adjacent room.
The delightful aroma of freshly brewed coffee and breakfast wafted from the far wall. “There it is! Forward!” I exclaimed, finally reaching my well-deserved breakfast. As I placed my order, another wedding guest approached us.
“Haben, hi! It’s Michael. Who brought you here?” he asked, assuming I needed assistance.
I subtly gave credit to Mylo; constantly explaining the nuances of ableism can be exhausting. But I hold the conviction that one day, the world will fully recognize that a Deafblind person confidently charts her own course through life’s unknowns. For now, I know this truth – and so does Mylo. He takes his cues from me.
