Knitting by Blind Faith

One year ago today, I was paired with my new best friend, Joy. Though Joy is not her name, I refer to her this way because joy sums up in one word the blessings she has brought into my life. I can remember as clearly as if it were yesterday the journey that led up to this day: the sudden and very painful loss of my first guide after a brief illness, my reacquaintance with the white cane after nine years of trusting a dog to guide me safely around obstacles and in traffic (a skill, I was pleasantly surprised to learn, that you don’t forget, just like riding a bicycle), the emptiness of not having the pull of the harness against the fingers of my left hand, and my husband’s gentle reminders as I directed him with a series of forwards, lefts, rights, and hopp hopps, without realizing what I was doing, that he was not a dog. (I’m a little embarrassed about that one.) He would laugh and pretend to be distracted by a scent, just to make me laugh, too.

Shortly before I left for training in the Northeast, I discovered that we had a local yarn store and bought lots of yarn to take with me, packed in a suitcase all its own. I knew I would need knitting to calm my nerves, and wanted to start an afghan, which is still in progress. That trip to the LYS was the beginning of many treasured friendships, which Joy was directly responsible for, even though I didn’t know her yet. If I wasn’t going away, I may not have gone in there to buy yarn and would not have met such awesome knitters, whose friendship is central in my life.

I will never forget the day I met Joy. She seemed so young and inexperienced to me. She was happy, excited, strong willed and all over the place, very different from my docile compliant baby. She was confused by the sudden changes in her life. She wanted her trainer, and not me. I felt sorry for her. I’m a pushover, and knew she would be a challenge, because she would need structure, and I tend to give in easily.

Yet, I saw immediately that she was sensitive and eager to please. Although she did not know me, she obeyed my requests, eager to please both me and her trainer. She took the transition in stride and was playful and kind, always wanting to climb in my lap, lick my face, and nibble my nose and hands. She shared her toys with me, and often tried to feed me her bone. (She still does that, actually.)

On our first walk, I was warned that she was keyed up and would probably move pretty fast. She did, but even though she didn’t understand that I was her responsibility at this point, and even though we felt foreign to each other, she still showed a sense of duty and of pride in her education.

The weeks in training flew by. I didn’t have much time to knit (well, not by a knitter’s standards). If I wasn’t working with her, I was grooming her, doing obedience, playing with her (we had lots and lots of playtime), or attending lectures. I think it was a week and a half before I had the brilliant idea of cramming my knitting into my coat pocket to take on those daily trips to town. My instructor started to ask me how “his pants” were doing and when they would be finished.

Before I knew it, it was time to go home.

Last night, the weather was chilly, with clear skies and temperatures in the 50s. It was much like the weather conditions during our very first walk. As we walked in the crisp night air (such a rare treat in Florida, especially this time of year when we are experiencing record breaking cold), the chill invigorated Joy, and she fairly ran down the sidewalk, much as she had that first day on that first walk. “There goes Speedy Gonzalez,” my neighbor said, as we passed him and his dog in a blur. The two of us were one.

With her tail out behind her and her pull on the harness urging me to move faster (apparently, four miles an hour wasn’t fast enough), I reflected on how far we have come. She expertly navigated the narrow wheelchair ramps that I had to teach her a year ago were meant to accommodate both of us, and not just her. (This often meant that she had to walk partly on the curb, so that I could have even footing.) She thrilled at the prospect of passing barking dogs, rather than stopping to check them out. She guided me safely among low-hanging branches and kept a watchful eye on the traffic.

More than my guide, Joy is my best friend. After we came back home and had a good, hearty play, I sat on the patio with my afghan, which I have dubbed Joy’s blanket. My girl now, and always at my side, Joy contentedly chewed on her bone while I knit and enjoyed the smells the fresh night air brought to her nose.

Afghan with diamond panels made up of knits and purls; seed stitch border.

It is a common belief in knitting that if you don’t pick up a project in six months, you may as well give up hope of ever finishing it. Joy’s blanket often goes untouched for months at a time, but I’m glad it’s there. It is my comfort knitting, and holds all my treasured memories of my best friend, and all the people I have met, and friendships renewed, because of her.

As I write this, she lies sleeping by my side on the floor. The minute I rise, she will jump up, eager to fulfill whatever I might request of her. She is on call, 24/7, and she never complains.

To my best friend and loyal companion, here’s to many more years of joy.

I remember how excited I was to meet you and wondering what you would be like. They told me that you were happy.

I remember when it was finally time, and how I waited for an eternity for my name to be called, for my turn to come.

I remember being asked if I was ready to meet you. I said “Yes,” and here you came, bounding into the room and slamming your muzzle, full force, into my lips. “Oh, boy! I’m not ready for this,” I thought.

I remember being struck dumb, but put on your leash (with some coaxing from the instructor), and walked you down the hall to my room.

I remember how you immediately jumped on my bed, and how it took the gentlest tug on the leash to get you to jump down again.

I remember how you smelled everything in the room. “You chew up anything, and we’re going to have a serious talk,” I threatened.

I remember how I called my mom and told her your name.

I remember how you whined and started to head for the door; you were so done with me.

I remember getting you to lie down, and we had the first of our many talks as I stroked your fur and tried to calm you. “You may not know this yet,” I said, “but you and I will be best friends for life.” You were like, “Yeah, whatever. Can I go back to the kennel now?”

I remember our first walk, how strange it felt not to have a cane in my right hand, and to have you pulling against my left hand, dragging me around this unfamiliar path. I remember thinking that this was all wrong, and I would never keep up.

I remember the first time you fell asleep under the computer desk, and I almost didn’t have the heart to wake you so we could go back upstairs. “Sleeping Handsome,” I sang, scratching behind your ear, “time to wake up.”

I remember the first time you fetched my keys. You actually picked up something of MINE, not just the training aids. You were so proud of yourself that you danced around and rolled on your back for your first belly rub. You had such a big smile on your face. That was also the first time I heard you laugh. You seemed to say, “See, I did it! Aren’t you proud of me?”

I remember our first walk when we got home. You peed on the sidewalk, and when we came back by that way, you made sure to take me around it.

I remember how you would always let me win at tugs, and yet, you would pull my dad out of his chair.

I remember the first time we got lost together. I told you to take me home. Although I hadn’t taught you that yet, you knew what I meant. I think this was the moment you started to learn to read my mind. (Either that, or you simply wanted dinner, and you knew where to get it.) We fought over which way to go, but I let you have your way. This was the first time I realized that, when we disagreed, you were generally right, and I was generally wrong.

I remember our first winter, how you were confused by the two-foot snowdrifts that blocked the curbs at the crosswalks, and how you (and I) learned the hard way that I didn’t have as much traction on the ice as you, and you needed to slow down.

I remember that summer job interview, where they told me you weren’t welcome. We left together, disgusted, and you promptly saved me from being hit by a car that ran the stop sign. “We’ll show them who’s not welcome!”

I remember how you wanted to walk around the procession at my college graduation, frustrated at moving so slowly and wondering why, with all this open space, we couldn’t just walk around this big crowd of people and get moving, already.

I remember on your fourth birthday, how my 6-year-old sister made you a birthday banner that she put around your waist. When I came out of the shower, you were standing stock still, and Mom warned me to stay very, very calm because my sister was lying under you like a car mechanic with scissors in her hand. “I forgot to make a hole for his pee-er,” she explained. You came through the whole thing just fine; I was a basket case.

I remember moving 1,100 miles away with you to take my first job, how you always looked after me.

I remember how gentle you were around the cat who was afraid of you, how you walked completely around the room before following me down the hallway in order to avoid walking close to him.

I remember how you befriended Independence as a kitten. You were never angry or jealous, and you took all her antics in stride, even when she pounced on your head while you were walking around the house.

I remember how you wanted to go over and say hi to RAM. We hadn’t seen him in nearly a year, and you were so excited. It was because of your insistance that RAM and I started talking…and dating.

I remember you dressed in a custom fit tux for our wedding, how you escorted me down the aisle, then sat on my train and leaned against my legs through the whole ceremony. Nothing I could do could get you to move. I would nudge you with my high heel, and you would stand up and sit down even closer to the back of my legs! And there was so much tension on the back of the dress that I was afraid it would rip.

I remember how we almost flew home early from our honeymoon because you wouldn’t park on the cruise ship. You had far too much dignity to relieve “inside” in a box.

I remember how you would run laps around the pool when I went swimming, whimpering and pleading with me to get out of the pool, for goodness sake!

I remember how you loved the beach, but you wouldn’t wade in the ocean past where you could stand.

I remember when RAM, you, and I went boating with Grandma and Grandpa L., and you wouldn’t swim in the water.

I remember how you were always the first to greet Grandma and Grandpa B. and Grandma and Grandpa M. when they would come to visit.

I remember when we would come home from the pool and peek in through the patio door to find you lying on the couch, and how you would rush toward the front door as we opened it, all innocence.

I remember how you were the resident host and entertainer at the radio station during the hurricanes.

I remember how you were by my side during the recording of two radio dramas, and how you even had a part in one of them.

In all my memories, I remember how you took care of me, how even when you were sick in those last days, you wanted to be by my side, doing your job.

I remember how you struggled to get into the bus that day, and I had to help you climb the steps. My heart broke as you hung your head in despair.

And I remember how, on the following day, that last day, you climbed up those bus steps all on your own. You were so proud that you looked down at me and wagged your whole body.

I remember the shock of what came next. We thought you were getting better…

I remember that before the vet and RAM took you from the car, you asked for belly rubs, reminiscent of that long ago day when you first fetched my keys: “See, Mom, I did it. Aren’t you proud of me?” “I am so proud of you!” I said through my tears.

I remember that at this exact moment, one year ago……I told you it was okay to go home; I would be okay……and it was over……even though your head still smelled like baby powder and you looked like you were just sleeping……

I remember how it felt when you took a part of me with you, but knowing that you had left me with the gift of remembering.

I think of you with fondness and love. I remember how your head always smelled like baby powder and your feet like popcorn. I remember how nice it was to pet those big, soft ears, and how we often cuddled for our famous talks. I remember how you always wagged your tail in circles when you were really happy, and how you demanded my complete attention for at least ten minutes after I came home on those rare occasions when you weren’t with me. I remember how you wouldn’t chew on your bone unless I held it for you, and how you didn’t really see the point in chasing after balls, only to have them thrown again. I remember how you played so carefully with stuffed toys that, in the rare event they got holes in them, you never lost any of the stuffing.

I remember how hard it was for us to trust in each other, and the loyalty that was our reward for never giving up.

And I remember all that you taught me: that dogs laugh; that nuzzles bring joy and that belly rubs chase away sorrow. You taught me what it means to be free.

Yes, you were the first, and your legacy lives on.

In all my thoughts, in all I do, I remember you.