Trusting Calvin (16 page)

Barbara, stationed at the window, watched the two of them frozen in place at the spot beyond which Calvin would not go. It went on day after day, man bewildered, dog unhappy. This regular replay, she knew, must be taking an awful emotional toll not only on her husband but also on the dog, and she worried that this sudden blast of unpredictability from Calvin might disintegrate into something that could put the lives of both in jeopardy.

Sometimes Barbara walked out the door with Max and Calvin, and if she positioned herself next to her husband, a body's width from the dog, stepping forward when Max did, Calvin would move along the sidewalk as he was supposed to move. Without her—nothing.

Calvin simply couldn't bring himself to take Max out into the world. That the dog was fighting against every fiber of the breeding and training that insisted he move forward with this man was written clearly and miserably across his face, Barbara told Max.

“He's not just being stubborn, Max,” she said. “He hates that he is doing this.”

“I must not be handling him in the right way,” Max concluded. “Obviously, the problem is me.”

Max phoned Jan for advice. She had a great deal. It sometimes happens that when the guide dog and the person leave the comforting oversight of the instructors scurrying about, reassuring them, making sure everything is done exactly as the dog is accustomed to having it done, things can temporarily go a bit bad. The handler must convince the dog to work as he has been trained, must reassure the dog that belief in him is strong, that there are no reservations about his ability to do the job. Some dogs and handlers bond very fast, almost instantly, she reminded him; sometimes it can take months. This lack of a bond is what had to be fixed, she said. Calvin sensed Max's unwillingness to turn himself over, and without that, work stalls.

Jan knew that this burst of obstinacy had rattled Max; it would have had that effect on anyone, even someone without his lack of confidence in dogs. But, she said, he needed to think back to those days at the school, how well he and Calvin had worked with each other, and tap into the belief that Calvin could do the work, let the dog know he believed in him.

“Be patient,” she said. “Give Calvin more time to adjust. It's extremely important to work on building that bond. You must have the bond. It's vital.”

Max paid close attention, recording every suggestion in his mind as Jan emptied her enormous bag of tricks into his ear, and he promptly employed the advice.

It did no good. Calvin began to lose weight.

That's the explanation,
Max thought.
The dog is sick.

“He's healthy and sound,” the vet proclaimed after a thorough exam. “The problem with Calvin is the way you are with him, Max. His behavior is a reflection of your behavior. I can see that just by watching the two of you together. You need to work on yourself, the way you are with him. You obviously have no relationship with him.”

If Max could correct this, the vet predicted, the problems would resolve. Calvin would be happy. Calvin would eat. Calvin would work.

It didn't happen. The dog's sadness seemed to escalate.

As June ground into July, Charlie arrived at the Edelmans' townhouse to observe and to offer suggestions. As soon as he came through the door, Calvin's demeanor changed. His eyes brightened. His posture grew straighter. He radiated excitement. Max could instantly sense the change in energy. Though glad the dog had perked up, he didn't think this sudden change in attitude boded well for their prospects as a team.

The trainer watched the two of them together, and cut quickly to the heart of the matter. Max had not been camouflaging his fear as well as he'd thought. This, plus Max's natural reticence—a cool reserve that sometimes crusted into a frosty veneer that even an irrepressible dog could not penetrate—was confusing Calvin, blocking the bonding process. A dog like this needs to know he is connected to and liked by his partner, Charlie said; a dog like this needs to feel trusted.

There were ways to get past this, Charlie assured him. He offered several observations and many suggestions.

First, Barbara's instant connection to Calvin in the face of Max's emotional distance was interfering with Calvin's ability to develop the connection with the man he was supposed to be helping, Charlie said. He reminded Max of the admonition during his month at school that others in the family should have minimal contact with a service dog until the bond with the partner had grown solid. Because Barbara was inclined toward affection and Max was not, this was especially critical in Max's case. She would have to pull back.

Charlie also reiterated the warnings issued in class: that dogs should not be given people food, a rule that Max also had not followed, especially since he'd been worried about Calvin's weight loss. That, too, must cease. Eating half a turkey sandwich every day was not exactly fostering much interest in eating dog food, he pointed out.

The list went on.

“Be more vigilant about praising him whenever he does anything right,” Charlie said.

Also, it would be extremely important for Max to work much harder to show his regard for Calvin. Play with him more, make time to have some fun together away from the specter of work. Try to infuse that flat, measured speaking manner with some warmth and melodiousness. When petting Calvin, don't be so perfunctory; lean into him and use a lingering touch.

Charlie had never really had to provide step-by-step guidance about how to show affection to a dog. He had never had a client like Max before.

Max was certain he could pull this off, now that he had been guided through scores of specifics that would allow him to present the kinds of things the dog had seen and felt from other people—the warmth, affection, and trust that would regenerate his confidence about his ability to work.

“Charlie knows Calvin. He knows what he's capable of, and he knows me. I believe that what Charlie has told me will help me achieve what I must so we'll be able to work together as we should,” Max said to Barbara.

Yet, by the time Calvin had been with Max for nearly three months, the dog was willing to go only a block or so, sometimes not even that, and the animal's depression seemed even more intense.

The evidence was clear, Max decided one morning. This whole idea of having a dog had been a mistake.

“I can't rely on Calvin,” he said to his son Steve. “I have tried this and tried that, and nothing works. I'm exhausted. Maybe I am not cut out to have a dog.”

That this hoped-for freedom could be refused him—by a dog—was torturous. There was so much he wanted to do. Volunteer work. Explorations of the city. He had received a couple of invitations to speak about the Holocaust as a result of pieces he had written, and the speaking was something he thought he might possibly take to occasionally, on his own terms, sharing only what he was comfortable sharing. A guide dog would have made all that possible.

“I have done as they said, and still, it's not working,” Max said to Barbara in late August. “I think Calvin just doesn't want to work for a man like me.”

He called Charlie Mondello again, this time to propose having the dog reassigned to someone else, someone who could love Calvin enough that he would perform again in the way everyone, Max included, knew he could. It would be best for everyone.

The trainer listened quietly. He had a pretty solid sense of the strength of the man, and a very solid sense of how important a guide dog could be to him. When Max had finished detailing all that was wrong and presenting all the supporting evidence about why the reassignment was imperative, Charlie spoke.

“I will not take that dog back, Max,” he said. “You have not done everything you can to create the bond with him that he requires. You must work harder.”

Another week passed, Max doing everything he could to overcome his reserve, show affection to Calvin, demonstrate to the dog that he was counting on him, that he was prepared to trust him.

The sought-after shift in Calvin finally, slowly, began to trickle forth. The spark that had all but illuminated the dog in New York was not reignited, just a guttering memory of it, but, as August turned into September, Calvin started to work again, guiding Max along the sidewalks, moving as asked. The dog was shoving himself through whatever reservations he had, through his worry and his confusion, and was responding to Max's instructions.

Calvin, Max figured, was finally feeling something approaching what he needed from his partner, was finally moving toward the bond Max was offering. And if their relationship wasn't everything that others in his class were reporting they enjoyed with their dogs, he could live with that if Calvin could.

So they walked, Max inching toward confidence in Calvin's dependability, and Calvin, Max assumed, inching his way toward whatever it was that he needed.

One warm late-September morning, Max and Calvin were making their way along the neighborhood sidewalks with no real purpose other than to enjoy the final days of Indian summer. They stopped at a crosswalk. When Max heard the sounds of stopping traffic that indicated the light had changed, he gave Calvin the command to cross the street. Two steps into the crosswalk, the dog suddenly stopped and jerked backward, hauling Max with him. It took a split second for Max to process the sounds—squealing tires, a car roaring off—that had prompted Calvin to do what he did.

A driver, Max realized, had come up the side street, ignored the light, cut into the crosswalk, and would have hit him had Calvin not been with him, or if Calvin had not been paying attention, or if Calvin had not taken the steps he took.

Staggered by what had happened—and what might have happened—Max crouched and hugged the dog, the first time he had ever offered affection not on a prescribed schedule. As he pulled the dog's chest against his own, felt the silky heat of Calvin's broad muzzle against his ear, he felt some resolve or barricade inside that he'd kept shored up falling away. Strange, this feeling. He didn't quite know what to make of it.

As the man returned to his feet, dusting off his knees, and gave Calvin the forward command again, the dog seemed suddenly jauntier, more confident. Just like that.
Just like what happens when the unappreciated kid in class answers a question no one else could answer,
Max thought. A tidal shift in the time it took a heart to beat forty or fifty times.

It was something to build on. And within days it was as though there had never been a problem between them, man and dog completely confident with each other.

Maybe Calvin had finally had sufficient time to adjust, Max thought, exactly as the trainers had suggested. But that didn't seem to fully explain the difference between how Calvin had been and how he was now.

Was it possible, Max wondered, that Calvin had felt the falling away of his wall? Could the dog have sensed with the crosswalk incident that Max was beginning to believe in him, and this had sent forth the initial strands to knit the elusive bond that Max had understood was necessary but had lacked the skill or emotion to bring into being?

It was, Jan suggested much later, probably a combination of all of these factors. A guide dog has to feel a reciprocation of feeling that, prior to this moment, just hadn't been evident to Calvin, and, in truth, probably hadn't existed. Also, she surmised, it was a clear moment of teamwork that had cemented the man and the dog—Calvin did what he was supposed to do, and Max learned in a split second that he could count on the dog, and he let Calvin know that.

There are pivotal moments in every relationship. And if Max didn't understand everything about what had transpired, he knew something important had happened—for both of them.

The two meshed, and with this dog, Max experienced a new level of freedom. He could set off whenever he wished, no real destination in mind, and walk for as long as he wanted to unfamiliar places with confidence. He could leave the house at dawn if he wished, and he often did, before Barbara even awoke, and stride off the aftereffects of a sleepless night.

They covered miles, month after month, Max and Calvin, reveling in the ever-changing sounds of leaves crunching beneath their feet or of packed snow squeaking and squawking the way it does when the temperature is just right. They visited the barbershop every month, where everyone knew Calvin's name; they went to dental and doctor's appointments and lunch outings and coffee shops.

“He is my guide and Barbara's pet,” Max announced to all they encountered. “He tolerates me and loves Barbara.”

Max had no problem with that, he said, his tone edging so uncharacteristically close to affection that it stunned those who knew him well and recalled how he used to be. “Calvin's heart is big enough for both of us.”

Indeed, the dog quickly sorted through quite a number of ways of being helpful. With the children gone and a diagnosis of emphysema added to the arthritis that sometimes flared to searing levels, Barbara needed a couch buddy when she felt sapped. Calvin gladly took on the job. He became a soft bundle of affection, as close to a lap dog as an eighty-pounder can be, nestling his head comfortingly in her lap as she watched television or read. He would awake from his nap to look into her eyes with an expression verging on adoration, and cock his big blocky head as if to ask whether she required anything else of him, anything at all.