Until Tuesday (22 page)

In the end, after all the Toopy talk was stowed and the accessories put away, Tuesday looked good. In fact, he practically glistened, and since he was the better part of me I assume I looked better, too. I know I felt better—more relaxed, more content, more in the moment—and that not only carried over into the rest of my day but was reflected in Tuesday’s mood: his lazy smile and the way he bumped me two times, then rubbed against my shoulder, then licked my neck to return the grooming before settling in for a nap on my cool bathroom floor.

CHAPTER 22

THE LITTLE THINGS

We can do no great things, only small things with great love.

—M
OTHER
T
ERESA

It’s hard for me to quantify what Tuesday does for me.
I mean, what doesn’t he do? Every morning, as soon as I stir, he walks to my bed. The first thing I see when I open my eyes is his snout plopped on the covers; the first thing I hear is the happy huff of his breathing and the sound of his tail whapping against my dresser. Once he’s confident I’m not going back to sleep, he walks to the foot of the bed—his launching spot—jumps halfway to the headboard in one bound, and curls up next to me. I pet him for ten or fifteen minutes, while any lingering anxiety or bad dreams float out the window. There is nothing more calming in the morning than petting a dog.

When I’m ready for the day, Tuesday brings me my shoes. He used to bring my socks, too. He still opens the drawer, but it takes him too long to decide on a pair, not to mention he’s a little heavy on the drool, so I retrieve them myself. I brush him first, even on my good days an important ritual, then give him his food while I brush my own hair and teeth. After he’s eaten, Tuesday does his happy dance, ducking his front half and raising his behind and sort of pounding his head and shoulders into the rug with a scrape and a wiggle, first one side and then the other. Have you seen this in your own dog? It is energetic, goofily joyful, and mesmerizing. I suspect Tuesday is either rubbing off loose hair or scenting his spot, claiming this apartment as his own, but it’s an endorphin rush for both of us. I leave the apartment laughing every morning, and then I laugh again when I drop the leash as we exit the elevator on the ground floor and Tuesday runs to the lobby rug and does his happy dance again. I mean, is there a better way to start a day than that?

He does the ordinary things, of course—he balances me on the stairs, walks me out into the world, and stays alert to all possible dangers, from homeless people in bushes to cracks in the sidewalk. When I’m overwhelmed, he’s there for me to pet. When I want to speak up in class, glancing at Tuesday calms my nerves. When I have a tough therapy session, Tuesday rises from where he waits for me under a side table and stands by my side until the anguish or guilt or sadness subsides. That’s one of the gifts of a service dog; he can be there for me wherever I am, even when no other dogs are allowed. When I start down the rabbit hole of anxiety or agoraphobia, even in a restaurant, Tuesday can nudge me back to the present with his dog-eyed optimism and tongue-wagging charm.

He can do all the other tasks he’s trained for, too: opening doors and cabinets, turning on lights, retrieving medicine, canes, dropped objects, newspapers, and pretty much anything else under ten or twenty pounds. But my physical wounds have begun to heal and I don’t need him for that as much. Often, I just need his courage to push me over the threshold, because with agoraphobia and PTSD the first step is the hardest of all. Twice during those terrible months after my move to Manhattan, I planned desperate trips to my parents’ house in Washington, D.C. My father, especially, had done a complete about-face since the fall of 2007. He had studied PTSD; he had continued to work on himself and our relationship after admitting his mistake. Instead of being my biggest critic, by the fall of 2009, he was my most ardent supporter. I wanted to be with him in my time of trial, but the fear of the crowds and the trains between us made me stop at my door. Tuesday dragged me across, and once I was on the subway to Penn Station, it was relatively easy. Tuesday took over and guided me four hundred miles to home.

It’s not just his understanding of me, although that’s part of it. With a word, Tuesday can guide me to dozens of places. He can be my surrogate or a mirror to my heart. He was like a child at my parents’ house that fall, discombobulated by joy. Papá, I think, was the only person he ever jumped on. He loved to jam his head under Papá’s arm to read the newspaper and to lounge in his comfortable chair. That excitement and comfort were invaluable to me. It reminded me that this was my safe place. That these were the people who loved me and, despite everything, still cared.

It’s that sociability, that eagerness to interact with the world, that I find so valuable. Wherever he is, Tuesday emanates happiness and affection. He wants to be noticed; there is something about him—I think it’s in his eyes and maybe that goofy grin—that invites people to approach him. After class, or even out on campus, pretty girls I don’t recognize say, “Hi, Tuesday” and smile. People wave on the street, or stop to say, “What a beautiful dog.” I still hate going to the VA hospital, but even on my worst days, when I don’t want to look at anyone, Tuesday’s vibrancy and affection pull me through. I see him sitting beside me, looking at me, and I know he wants a hug. So I hug him, and the buzzing lights and grimy walls don’t seem so bad.

On better days, when I don’t feel compelled to sit quietly and leave as quickly as possible, I’ll even nudge him, then motion with my head toward a veteran nearby. Tuesday’s eyes, when he looks in your face, are so innocent and playful that they draw you in. He’s almost impossible to ignore.

“Do you want to pet him?” I ask.

I’m a pretty good judge of affliction; I know when a veteran wants to be left alone or when he’s completely around the bend. (Too common, I’m afraid, far too common.) I can’t remember a single time when the man or woman didn’t want to pet Tuesday. Usually, that leads to a few questions about him and then, “He reminds me of my dog.”

Maybe it’s the dog back in their apartment. Maybe it’s a stray their unit picked up in Da Nang or Tal Afar. Maybe it’s a dog from their childhood. Whatever the link, Tuesday’s a conversation starter, a way back to the human side in a dehumanizing institutional waiting room.

Not often, but a few times, I’ve noticed someone sitting alone on the other side of the room and walked Tuesday over to see them. It’s always a younger veteran, one who reminds me of the soldiers I had the honor of serving with. Maybe they remind me of myself too, not so long ago, sitting under those drab lights, trying to hold it together until I received my next round of meds, feeling like a number, a high one, and not one anybody cared too much about.

“Do you want to say hello to Tuesday?”

I’ll never forget the way one young soldier hesitated, then reached out and rubbed Tuesday on the back of the head without saying a word. Tuesday started to lean toward him, then thought better of it and sat back. The young man petted Tuesday for what seemed like minutes, without ever looking at me. My back was stiff and sore, my weight pressed onto my cane, by the time he took his hand away.

“Thanks,” he said, glancing up. Then he retreated, almost visibly, back into himself. Maybe he was thinking of his combat tour. Maybe he was thinking of a dog he’d known. Maybe he was thinking of a buddy he lost. I don’t know. As we crossed the room, Tuesday and I glanced at each other knowingly, then looked away as we plopped back into our seats. Neither of us said a word.

That’s confidence. That’s trust in your service dog and belief in his value. I think moments like that developed out of Tuesday’s kiss that spring, and that first day at the dog park, and the knowledge that after months of hard work I had earned his respect. It’s funny, because when I say that I think of young Tuesday, the happy puppy at ECAD. Like him, I never realized something was missing in my heart. Then Tuesday assured me, as only a dog can, that he loved me unconditionally and would never leave my side.

It’s the little things, in the end, that create that bond. Removing the rock from his paw the second he limps. Finding him a sheltered place to relieve himself as soon as he drops his haunches. Throwing tennis balls and playing tug-of-war and biting his ears when we wrestle, even though they fill my mouth with hair, because that’s what he likes, the rough dog-play of the pack. It’s the way Tuesday picks up an object as soon as I drop it, then holds it up to me with a gentle look in his eye that says,
Here you go, buddy. I’ve got your back
. As soon as I feel bad, Tuesday is at my side. When I notice he’s uncomfortable, I drop everything and give him Tuesday time.

I remember when Tuesday was attacked by a pit bull in Sunset Park. It was a typical morning; Welly and Mike were with us, and Tuesday was running with Welly like a halfhearted forward blocker for an overexcited Emmitt Smith. I saw the pit bull arrive with a young Puerto Rican guy, but I didn’t think anything of it until the owner released the catch on the leash and his dog sprinted down the hill and dove straight at Tuesday’s throat.

I started running immediately, digging my cane into the ground. There is a difference between play-fighting and aggression, and I’d been around dogs and Tuesday enough to know this wasn’t a friendly greeting. The pit bull was driving up underneath Tuesday’s chest, snarling and maneuvering for a clean bite at his neck, but if the dog thought Tuesday was a soft target, it was badly mistaken. Tuesday may have been well-trained and handsomely groomed, a follower not an alpha, but he was a powerful fighter. He launched into a snarling defensive attack of his own, and the dogs were twisting at each other’s throats and snapping wildly when I threw down my cane and dove into the pile, grabbing the pit bull around the throat.

The dog was still lunging and snapping its jaws when another hand reached in and grabbed it by the collar. The pit bull lashed forward, pulling its owner down, and for a second we were all grappling and pushing until the young man found enough leverage to hold on to his dog. I released my grip around the pit bull’s neck, and as he began yelling, “
Calma! Calma!
” I turned my attention to Tuesday, who slid over and lay in my lap, his chest heaving.

I ran my fingers through the thick hair under his chin, inspecting him for wounds. My bloody left hand left red streaks in his golden fur, but I couldn’t find anything wrong with his neck or throat. I felt his snout and his ears, then his head. Tuesday watched me, his eyebrows drawn down. I could tell he was coming off an adrenaline rush because his body was shaking, but his eyes weren’t concerned. They kept staring softly at me, without turning away, as if to judge his own condition best by reading the reactions on my face.

“I’m sorry, man.
Perdóname.
It’s my wife’s dog.”

I looked back briefly. Blood covered the pit bull’s snout and dripped down the young man’s arm. I turned back to Tuesday, running my hands over his body, flattening his fur and feeling for cuts. Nothing. Either the dog had bitten its owner, or Tuesday had gotten a hard strike on his attacker, because the blood wasn’t ours.

“It’s all right,” I told Tuesday, running my hand over his body, soothing him. “It’s over.”

He lay his head on my leg. He was trembling, but I could tell he felt safe.

“Are you crazy?” a voice said. I looked over my shoulder again. The young man was gone, but Mike was standing in his place. “You don’t jump on a pit bull!”

I wasn’t crazy. I was a soldier. A soldier never lets a fellow warrior down, no matter the situation, no matter the odds. Jumping to Tuesday’s defense was instinctive. In the Army, the smallest unit is a buddy team, two soldiers who look out for and are responsible for one another. Tuesday and I were a buddy team, and there was no way in hell that pit bull was going to harm my buddy.

But if that was the moment that proved my devotion to Tuesday, as I’d like to think, it was the situation with my old friend from ECAD, Sgt. Mary Dague, that proved how indispensible he was to me. In the spring of 2009, about six months after we received our dogs, Puppies Behind Bars accused Mary of not taking good enough care of Remy. She was overweight, they said, and too social for a service dog, so they threatened to take her back.

The news made me sick. And I don’t mean metaphorically. When I heard Mary might lose Remy, I threw up. Her arms had been blown off by an IED less than a year before, and in the six months since ECAD she had been through four painful surgeries and extensive rehabilitation therapy at Brooks Army Medical Center (BAMC) at Fort Sam Houston, Texas. I know that was probably hard on Remy, to see her friend laid up like that, and the dog probably hadn’t gotten the exercise she needed, but it had been harder on Mary. Far, far harder. Remy was her lifeline. I know that from seeing them together for two weeks, and from the loving way Mary bit dog treats from the tape on her stumps and fed them to Remy with her teeth. Losing her service dog, at that stage of her recovery, would have been devastating.

I wasn’t just sick for her, though. The thought of that happening to me, of losing Tuesday, completely emptied me inside. In the summer of 2009, I had received an unexpected opportunity to travel to Cuba to engage in, let’s just say, anti-Castro activities. The trip involved slipping into the country and traveling light, so there was no way to bring Tuesday. I almost didn’t go for that reason, but in the end, I decided to do it. I left Tuesday in Lu Picard’s loving and capable hands and slipped off to fulfill a dream of my youth. The trip nearly killed me, not because of our actions—there was no violence, either planned or accidental—but because it took me from Tuesday. In fact, I suspect the separation, and its psychological toll, contributed to my breakdown that fall.