Blind or Not
by Mariel Austin
A cool, gentle breeze made its way through the park, only enough to stir the soft pink petals of the last blossoms on the otherwise barren plum trees. The woodchips that covered the ground, still moist from the rain the day before, dried in the warm sun. They sank into the dirt as Danielle and I walked across the park to find a picnic table.
When Danielle sat down, she unzipped her bag, fished for my Frisbee, and threw it out towards the fence. I ran to catch up with it and jumped into the air when I reached my target, but I barely caught it as I staggered into the woodchips. I used to be more skilled with such activities. I would run eagerly after the Frisbee, never letting it out of my sight and then leap into the air to sink my teeth into it. Not once would I ever let the buoyant Frisbee even float the ground. But that was decades ago—my kind of decades, that is. A decade for me is little more than a year for Danielle. We’re both in our forties and she’s still thin and spirited while I’m already becoming decrepit from glaucoma and arthritis.
I let go of the Frisbee into Danielle’s hand as I watched two dogs chase after a tennis ball. They skidded into each other, sending woodchips flying in all directions.
“Abner!” I snapped my attention back to Danielle, “Caught you slacking off.” Once more, she threw the Frisbee into the air and, once more, I let it escape from my mouth and plummeted to the ground.
I had been thinking that maybe it wasn’t only age that dampened my mood. I had felt off since the murder of Horace Jefferson that took place not far from the park. I remember a few mornings before this visit to the park when Danielle had received a call from the station: “Danielle, we’ve got a homicide case,” said the tinny voice through the phone, which belonged to Micah, Danielle’s colleague. “Guy named Horace Jefferson was found on Sequoia Avenue this morning. Severe trauma to the neck, must’ve been a dog attack. We’re trying to find evidence, shreds of his clothing…Looks like he actually died several hours ago.”
I was used to hearing such news in the house, since Danielle receives calls like this from time to time. But I was particularly distressed this time that such evil could occur near such a peaceful, sacred place, with its plum blossoms and woodchips. What loyal, sensible dog would commit such a violent act? For a while, I was consumed in my own misery, especially when Danielle and I had walked by the very crime scene not too long before this outing. It was like walking through blood, dead flowers, and rotting wood—not to mention some suspicious, saccharine odor the police called “heroine.” Everything was just dead and the malicious stench of murder enveloped the entire neighborhood.
I shook my head from side to side, forcing myself to think of other things. I returned the Frisbee to Danielle and showed my loss of interest by reclining next to her feet. I was sick to my stomach from the recent events that pervaded my mind and would much rather have rested my head against the leg of the picnic table.
“Aw, come on,” Danielle cooed. “You’re already getting tired?” She reached down and rubbed my head with her fingers until my collar jingled. “Well, rest up because we’re going to go see Micah for lunch after this.” She reached inside her bag and pulled out her book, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night.
It bothers me when she invades my personal space when I’m feeling like this. I was in no mood then for soft voices and pats on the head. But, as human and animal, we cannot ever guarantee that one will always communicate on the same level as the other. Even though Danielle and I have our misunderstandings, we will always be faithful companions.
As Danielle read, I began to wonder if the other dogs in the park seemed to be disturbed by Horace’s death as much as I was. Most of them seemed to enjoy themselves, as if they weren’t even aware of the situation. The two dogs running into each other after a tennis ball, dogs covered in mud, grappling each other, dogs mingling, sniffing everyone’s behinds. Only two dogs other than myself remained dormant, staying by their owners probably because they were antisocial or tired.
After twenty minutes, Danielle looked at her watch and decided it was time to go. She closed her book, zipped up her bag, and got up. After she opened the gate and closed it behind us, she took notice of her untied shoe. When Danielle knelt down to retie it, I heard footsteps approach from behind me. I turned around in surprise. The black tennis shoes that made the footsteps were enormous and smelled of soot. I looked up and saw they belonged to an unusually tall man who wore a peeling leather jacket.
“Nice dog,” he grinned as he bent down to pet me. His hand stunk of that suspicious, stigmatic drug that Danielle sometimes has to deal with—marijuana. It came closer and closer! My head sank as low as it could and I backed away so as not to be contaminated by the stench. Danielle, help me! I tucked my tail between my legs and let lose a nervous bark.
“Abner,” she said dryly as she reached down and rubbed my neck, comforting me. I sighed with relief when I felt her hand instead of that man’s on my fur. It’s moments like these when I do want her human touch. “He gets nervous with new people,” she laughed.
Damn right I do, I sneered, Especially ones who stink of drugs.
“Oh, sorry,” said the man casually. “But he is a nice dog. What is he, a Labrador retriever? He looks like he has some terrier in him…”
“He’s a Ridgeback,” said Danielle.
“Oh, I see,” the man paused. “By the way, I’m Jamie.” He held his contaminated hand out for Danielle to shake. Now it was my turn to defend her. Before she could extend her hand to greet Jamie, I stood in between the two, tail erect, glaring into the man’s eyes. I growled lowly and my muscles tensed until the hair on my back stood on end.
“Ss! Abner!” Danielle jerked violently on my collar. Soon my guard-dog façade was interrupted and I squealed from pain like a scared puppy. “I’m sorry, he’s usually quite calm,” she waved her hand and smiled with embarrassment.
Come on, Danielle! Can’t you see I’m trying to protect you? I was considerably more embarrassed than she was.
With one hand, she restrained me and with her other, she introduced herself. “Danielle.”
“Maybe you should put him on a leash,” Jamie suggested, looking uneasily at me.
“Oh, no, he’s never like this,” said Danielle, still embarrassed.
Jamie paused. “Well, have a good one,” he said as he walked off.
I wanted to bark, “Good riddance!” but I knew Danielle would have punished me again for that. My neck was still smarting where my collar pinched it. Instead, I looked up to Danielle, as if to say, “Good work, comrade.”
“What a strange person,” Danielle said to herself and me. And with that, we walked downtown to see Micah for lunch.
As we approached the café, Micah became visible through a large window dotted with posters and fliers. He was sitting at a table in the front corner. When he looked up and saw us, he waved his hand. I wagged my tail in appreciation and excitement, and could hardly wait to dive my nose between his legs—until Danielle halted at the sign in
the corner of the window that read, “NO DOGS ALLOWED.”
“Oh, should we eat somewhere else?” asked Micah through the open door. “There are other places that allow dogs.”
“Oh, not that’s fine,” said Danielle. “You’ve already made a reservation.” She took my handy leash out of her bag, found a parking meter, and tied me to the leg.
I lay down on the hard but damp concrete, watching all the pairs of feet pass me by—big and small, left and right, fast and slow, sneakers, running shoes, high heels; some feet, especially those of children, stopped in front of me every now and then so their owners could reach down to pet my head. Mostly though, people just walked by without even taking notice. When you’re low, almost nobody notices you.
Suddenly, two pairs of paws came into view. I lifted my head and saw a pair of feet was following them closely. As they approached, they smelled somewhat like that saccharine substance people fought and killed for: heroine. My heart beat faster as they came my way. I cringed so as not to let them touch me. I watched them and sighed with relief as they turned to approach the bus stop. An old blind woman and her seeing-eye dog made their way to a nearby bus stop.
I always thought seeing-eye dogs were condescending know-it-alls who made outrageous claims such as being able to read traffic signals. I think just about as highly of guide dogs as I do police dogs, of which Danielle has the gall to come home, wreaking of their scent every other week. Then again, both dogs are a vital and helpful service to the people, blind or not, which is very noble.
“Excuse me,” the blind woman spoke to a group of college students conversing and sitting at the bus stop, “Can one of you tell me when the number forty gets here?”
“Oh, yes, I’ll let you know,” said a boy wearing a polo shirt.
“Thank you, dear,” the woman smiled.
As I lay on the ground, I saw through the poster-dotted window that Danielle was telling Micah about our curious encounter with Jamie. Their waitress happened to be pouring them coffee.
“Jamie? Jamie Mattheson?” she interjected at the mention of the peeling leather jacket, “Oh, yeah, he comes here about every other day…”
My heart jumped and I sat up. But then I sighed with relief and lay back down when I remembered he traveled away from downtown when he left us. I certainly didn’t want to relive our introduction.
“He hasn’t been here lately,” said the waitress. “Poor man is probably preoccupied with the death of Horace Jefferson.”
“Horace Jefferson?” asked Micah,
“Yeah,” the waitress sighed sadly, “Apparently they were neighbors.”
The waitress lowered her voice, “I’d hate to speak ill of the dead, but you gotta admit Horace had a knack for being slow with his payments. Whenever he’d come in here, he’d always use his credit card so hang on to a few dollars and then he’d complain about how much debt he’s in…”
At first I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I hadn’t imagined an innocent victim like Horace to be in debt. I stared intently at them through the window, as if to find more answers, but the waitress had disappeared and the conversation had moved on to something else. Defeated, I lay my head down and succumbed to watching the feet again.
The old woman shifted in the bench at the bus stop. She was short and round, almost spherical. Her thick coat added even more bulk to her. On one arm she carried a large messenger bag, which also smelled like her feet. Her dark glasses sat crooked and bared the weight of a lopsided, rumpled hat. Her guide dog looked over in my direction and then glared once he saw me. I didn’t realize I had been staring at the two. Immediately I glanced away and pretended to entertain myself with the feet. German Shepherds have the tendency to make other dogs feel embarrassed and rude like that.
“The forty is here,” the boy in the polo shirt said.
I watched as the bus pulled up and kindly lowered itself for the old woman and her guide dog. The driver courteously acknowledged its harness and admitted the two onto the bus.
What an unkempt pair! Another haughty seeing-eye dog and his owner, who happened to smell so rancid that I cringe from it. I had had enough of these horrid odors of drugs ruining my day. Miserably, I sank to the ground and, sure enough, preoccupied myself yet again watching the feet go by. I was in too sour of a mood to actually enjoy them.
I felt a hand on my head. I jumped and darted my head around only to see Danielle’s smiling face as she knelt down to untie me from the parking meter. Micah’s cell phone rang, a jaunty steel drum Reggae. It was a call from the station.
“Micah, this is Bernstein,” announced Micah’s co-worker on the other end of the receiver. “We’ve got some leads, one of whom is an old woman named Agatha Stevens. I’ve got people telling me she was the last person Horace was seen with. Trouble is she’s blind, seeing-eye dog and everything, so it doesn’t make sense….”
Oh, no, this can’t be the same person, I thought. Who’d want to have anything to do with either of them? Then another thought came to mind: Horace was always in debt, according to the café waitress. Bernstein told Micah that Horace was last seen with a blind woman who owned a seeing-eye dog. What other old blind woman in town owns a seeing-eye dog? I listened intently to the phone conversation for any filed records on drug abuse, but to no avail. My head hurt from eavesdropping on private conversations and from the overwhelming scents that invaded my nose. Danielle and Micah split off and Danielle took me home to a warm, soft blanket by the sun-soaked window.
The next day, Danielle planned to have Micah over at the house for dinner. The three of us took an afternoon stroll and then headed out to the grocery store. Once we got there, Danielle followed up with her usual routine and tied me to a bike rack outside.
Danielle and Micah disappeared inside the store just as my favorite couple, Agatha and her seeing-eye dog from the other day, came around the corner. Oh, great, I thought. They stopped in front of a cart selling apples outside the door.
“Hello, ma’am,” said the vendor, “May I assist you?”
“Oh, no that’s fine,” said Agatha.
The help she needs is some serious therapy, I thought.
“You sure?” asked the vendor as politely as he could.
“I think I can manage,” said Agatha a little more firmly.
The vendor shrugged awkwardly and occupied himself with his expenses.
I sat there, poised and attent. Her guide dog turned and glared at me, but this time I didn’t care if I was staring at them. Agatha awkwardly fumbled with the bag, as if she were waiting for the vendor to say or do something. Then, when the vendor sat down at the side of the table to count his taxes, Agatha stopped shifting and picked an apple from the cart. At first, I was impressed with the fact that a blind person could designate an object to easily, so readily—until she started shifting it in her hand and put it back when she noticed a blemish on it. She then picked out another apple, just as confidently, to examine it. It passed the test, and, eyes on the vendor, Agatha rolled the apple into her bag.
A cold sweat ran down my back. How could she? Her dog obviously wasn’t even a guide dog. The stench of heroine, blood, dead flowers and rotting wood on her shoes penetrated my nose and suffocated me more than ever.
“STOP! THEIF!” I barked. Agatha snapped her head towards me and lifted her arms in surprise. Her guide dog jumped a little. The vendor glimpsed in my direction at the sound of my bark, then resumed to his counting and tallying. Her dog also looked away, aloof. Agatha then lowered her hands and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw I was tied to the bike rack. But I kept barking.
“THE COPS WILL FIND YOU! BOTH OF YOU!”
She became uneasy again and looked from left to right for safety. Her dog renounced his smart-ass, traffic signal-reading façade and growled at me.
“Help, help!” she cried in all directions, “Get this mongrel away from me!” she pretended to fumble around for something to hold onto. The vendor, stupefied, also looked back and forth for help. Her dog barked at me and posed for the attack. I didn’t care that he wasn’t restrained.
My incessant barking was receiving no one’s attention. I thought of breaking loose from my leash to lunge at her, no matter how horrible she smelled. What was important was exposing this old crone so the world will know what a sick, lying, thieving monster she was. All that opium crying to see the sun…Come on, you worn, tired bones! I didn’t even care for my arthritis, not while I had business to take care of. With as much rigor as I could muster, I flexed and twisted my neck to a degree I haven’t done in years, and wrenched free of my collar. I lunged forward higher than my knees had ever carried me and sunk my teeth into her bag.
Danielle and Micah dutifully rushed out the door, shopping basket in hand, after flashing their badges to impeding bystanders. I shook the bag with all the strength I had left in my raw, swollen neck, sending little Zip-Lock bags filled with the wreaking drug in all directions. Among the bags were the single stolen apple and pieces of cloth, caked with dry blood.
Danielle shrieked in disgust, “Abne—!“
I observed the contents of the bag, just as shocked as Danielle and Micah were. I was able to make out the type of cloth that was stained with blood. It was that of which belonged to a t-shirt, the shreds of clothing that Micah was looking for. No money, though, Horace was so far in debt he couldn’t pay her for heroine, so she had to steal.
“Mrs. Stevens, you are under arrest for the murder of Horace Jefferson and for the possession and trafficking of heroine,” said Micah as she turned around to handcuff her.
The vendor came out from behind his cart and saw the apple on the ground, having barely tumbled out of her bag. “And theft, too,” he said, pointing at it.
Agatha’s mouth hung open and she nearly fainted. “Wh— what about your dog?! He’s the one who tried to attack me! Don’t you think of restraining him?” Agatha pointed at me in accusation.
“I’m afraid it’s your dog, ma’am,” said Danielle, “that we’re after.”
Agatha remained speechless and in shock. Her guide dog’s menacing glare melted away and he tucked his tail between his legs. Agatha did manage to utter, “But he’s just a dog! He’s my dog, what are you going to do with him?”
Restrain him, that’s what you want.
“You have the right to remain silent,” said Micah, taking out his notebook to cite her.
I watched as Danielle and Micah called for a police car and sent Agatha away. At this point, my overuse of my worn bones began to take its toll. I staggered to the ground, trying in vain to keep myself upright. Finally, I collapsed on the cold asphalt, my headache was gone after taking the tremendous weight taken off of my shoulders, but I could barely stand because of it. I longed for home, for my blanket by the window, right where the sun hit. I still shudder whenever I remember that dogs can be of service to the people, blind or not.