Fifty Years of Walking with Friends

By DeAnna Quietwater Noriega

More than half of this eloquent, informative book is devoted to the author’s first guide dog, Tammy, and it soon becomes plain why. As the dog matured from beginning guide to seasoned veteran, the author went from starting college to embarking on her long marriage and her impressive working life.

Each of the author’s nine guide dogs thus far is described in loving detail: what it looked like, what unique personality traits it had, and why it had to retire from guiding. Age, illness, a tragic accident, and more—each required a return for the author to The Seeing Eye®, the country’s oldest guide dog school. The beautiful German Shepherd pictured on the cover of the book with the author is her ninth dog, Enzo.

In prose and poetry, Noriega describes not just her loyal canine companions, but also the family she was born into, her children and grandchildren, details about her years in college as a blind student, and her subsequent work experience. While she accentuates the positive, she does not shy away from letting us know that there have been more than a few negatives in her life, too, including episodes of abuse and discrimination.

Experienced guide dog handlers will find much here that is movingly familiar to them. Those who have never walked beside such a marvelous companion will benefit greatly from learning what the dogs are trained to do, how they need to be cared for, and how observers should and should not interact with them. Touches of humor lighten almost every chapter, and the book ends with three imaginative, amusing skits in which the players are all guide dogs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: DeAnna Quietwater Noriega
• Release date: Jan 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005797119

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Fifty Years of Walking with Friends

DeAnna Quietwater Noriega

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Copyright 2021 by DeAnna Quietwater Noriega

All rights reserved

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re–sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy.

Seeing Eye® and The Seeing Eye® are registered trademarks of The Seeing Eye, located in Morristown, N.J.

Foreword

A guide dog can be more than a mobility aide to a blind person. The fear of the unknown, of injury, of being perceived as a disability instead of a human being, can keep visually impaired individuals from stepping outside their door into full participation in the wider world. With Tammy beside me, I met life head–on and carved out a place in it for myself. I overcame fears that would otherwise have crippled my ability to function and fully participate in all that awaited beyond the threshold of my door.

In this age of skyrocketing costs, some have asked the question, why spend all that money to train a guide dog when a cane costs a thousandth of the price? I hope to answer that difficult query through telling you about Tammy and the gift of sight she gave me through her loving amber eyes.

I dedicate this book to Daniel Boeke, who trained the first of my Seeing Eye® dogs. To my husband, children, and friends, both human and canine, who loved and taught me so much about how to live, love, and flourish. But most of all, to my mother, who taught me to love books and the skills I would need to live an independent life despite blindness.

Mama’s Hands

by DeAnna Quietwater Noriega

Mama’s hands are long, slender, and graceful.

The veins stand out on their backs, and their joints are growing a little stiff.

They show the signs of the years and the hard tasks they have performed.

As my world began to grow gray and hazy,

Mama’s hand was strong and slim, grasping mine.

When I was sick,

Her hand was cool against my brow.

Mama’s hands knit me bright sweaters to keep me warm.

Mama’s hands were clever, making our home a pleasant place.

Mama’s hands moved quickly, rolling tortillas,

Sewing on buttons,

Stretching taffy.

Mama’s hands were gentle,

Smoothing back my hair,

Tapping my nose when she said look at me.

Though delicate and slender, they were strong enough to conquer any task.

Though they now show the passage of the years,

Mama’s hands are beautiful

Because they are not the pampered hands of the idle

But the working tools of a loving heart.

Introduction

Nationally, it was a time of upheaval and social change, a time of growing alienation between the young and the greater society that had produced them. Sexual mores were undergoing change with the advent of the birth control pill. Mind–altering drugs were touted as the means to greater self–awareness. It was an era when many were taking dead–end roads and wrong turns. How was one young woman going to choose wisely in a land of opportunity, where her people were on the outside looking in?

This book begins with one Native American girl and one dog: how they went out into a not always friendly world together. The story of two young spirits, joined by love and mutual understanding, is the beginning of a life journey lasting more than 50 years.

The tale moves from how their devotion to one another made them stronger than either would have been alone. Tammy was a mischievous 15–month–old Black Labrador/German Shepherd cross–bred dog with boundless energy, a love of life, and a desire to please. DeAnna was a slight, shy, half Apache and quarter Chippewa girl who looked as if she should have been in junior high school instead of about to enter college. She stood teetering on the threshold of adulthood, eager to move forward, yet uncertain of the right path to follow.

As she fought to keep her footing among the shifting tides of change, a friend walked beside her. These two were brought together, a woman–child and a half–puppy, half–professional working dog, to form the synergy that is a guide dog team. I can tell you their story, and the stories of the eight successor dogs who followed Tammy, because I was that young girl, and the dog that walked by my side, through the maelstrom that was college life in the late 1960s, was my first Seeing Eye dog.

Who Am I?

My uncle described us as assimilated traditionalists. Men in our family went into construction or the military. These were acceptable choices for warriors. Those who worked in construction usually left their families during the months when the building trades had work. They returned home in winter. Military families went with their men when possible and returned to the reservation when they weren’t allowed to accompany to posts in war zones.

My father was a Master Sergeant in the Army and a full– blooded Apache. My mother was born on the Isabella Reservation in Mount Pleasant, Michigan. She is Chippewa. My grandfather was a 6’8" full–blooded Chippewa who left the reservation to find work. He and my grandmother lost two of their eight children to malnutrition and disease as toddlers. My mother was their first surviving child. My grandmother was a tiny, chain–smoking whirlwind of a person who was abandoned on a doorstep shortly after birth. I was the firstborn grandchild and the eldest of five. My mother married my father at age 15 and followed him to California, where I was born when she was 17.

When I was four, I was living in Louisiana and had an African American babysitter. I asked her why her skin was such a pretty dark color. She said that God had made her with chocolate and that White people were made with vanilla. I asked what flavor I was, and she said a ginger snap.

When I was in the first grade, living in San Antonio, Texas, my teacher went around the room using last names to illustrate immigration. When she came to me, she said, Your ancestors probably came from Mexico.

I shook my head and replied, No, I don’t think so. I think we were always here. I then explained my mixed heritage.

My classmates asked if my parents wore paint and feathers. In all innocence I answered, Only on Sundays. My mother wore a hat to church with feathers on it. She used makeup then, too.

When we were away from the reservation, people assumed my mother was Hispanic and tried to speak Spanish to her. My Apache grandparents spoke Spanish. I learned a little as a preschooler. I was lighter skinned than my brothers, favoring my maternal grandmother. I often confused people who weren’t familiar with my Apache face. I have been mistaken for someone from the Philippines or asked if I were Caribbean, Samoan, or Eurasian. Until the flower children began viewing all things Native American as mystical, it wasn’t popular to be thought an Indian. People living near reservations held negative opinions of us, believing we were all alcoholics, came from broken families, and obstinately held to beliefs that were little better than ignorant superstitions. Children were placed in schools where they were forbidden to speak their native languages. They were shipped far from home and forced to conform to mainstream religious and cultural beliefs. If we wanted to learn more of our heritage, we had to make an effort to seek out elders who would teach us.

This has led to a gradual decline in the numbers of Native people who remember who they are. Some things I have learned about my cultural differences by watching the adults in the family are:

Babies and young children are people, too. They should receive the love and attention of the whole family. Native American babies aren’t left to cry but move from loving lap to lap. Small children are encouraged to master tasks to add to the well–being of the family because all hands can make contributions.

Elders are to be respected and listened to. They have survived many things and can offer much wisdom.

If you have something and another doesn’t, then share. Gifting your little extra will come back to you someday when you may need it.

You are as the Great Mystery has made you. Value the gift of life, and make the world a better place for having been born into it.

Don’t fear death. It is only another change, like birth into the world. Just because we don’t know what to expect doesn’t mean it won’t be good.

We aren’t superior to our brothers and sisters who walk on four legs or swim in the streams or fly. All living things are equally the children of the Maker. That is why we owe them respect if we take their lives in order to live.

These are the gifts I carry in my heart as I walk the world, and they define who I am, as much as my dark hair and high cheekbones or the fact that I became totally blind at age eight.

Part I

Loving Amber Eyes

Deanna and Tammy

DeAnna and Tammy

Chapter 1

We Meet

In July of 1968, I found myself in a quiet library room cum lounge at The Seeing Eye, Inc. I sat straight–backed in the large armchair to the right of the piano as I waited. My long dark hair was drawn around me like a protective cloak, reaching almost to the hem of my pink mini dress. I attempted to take deep, even breaths and keep my hands folded quietly in my lap as I listened to the measured tread of the man, accompanied by the click of claws coming from the hall past the nurse’s office. Tammy was here. I mentally reviewed what I had been told. She is 15 months old, a Black Labrador, weighs 70 pounds, and is 24 inches at the shoulder. Her eyes are amber. She was donated to the program by a hunting dog raiser. They entered the room where I anxiously waited, and I heard the rhythmic thump of the dog’s tail against the man’s legs.

His quiet voice commanded, Sit, down, rest. Then he came toward me alone and handed me a slimy piece of calf liver. In those days, the dogs were still being fed a mixture of raw horsemeat and dry kibble. Once a team left the school, the dogs were switched to a blend of canned and dry dog food.

Call her to you and give her the treat, he instructed. I held out my hand with the grisly offering on my palm and called to her. She bounded across the room, and the tail that had stopped wagging while she was in the down, stay position began to beat against the side of my chair. An eager tongue licked my hand and wrist, ignoring the proffered liver, while a curious, cold nose nuzzled my knees and explored my hands and arms.

After several more attempts to get Tammy to accept the tidbit, Mr. Boeke, my instructor, took it, and she deigned to eat it from his hand. He explained that this particular dog was strongly attached to him, and he was going to refuse eye contact with her and refuse to speak to her from now on, so that she would transfer her love to me. He instructed that I should mix her food with my bare hands to transfer my scent to it. His gentle voice went on to say that dogs like this one were slow to give their loyalty, but when they did, they were more deeply bound to their handlers than ones who seemed to love everyone. He handed me the leash to clip to her collar and said to take her to my room. Since I didn’t have a roommate, I should allow her to explore off leash.

Tammy doesn’t have the same experience of living in a home that our other dogs have had through our 4–H puppy– raiser program, he told me. She came directly from the kennel at one year and went straight into training as a guide. So let her do as she likes and get acquainted. Don’t give her any commands. Just pet and play with her, and I’ll come back to take her out to relieve her around 4:30.

Rising from my seat, I flipped back my hair. I moved toward the door to the girls’ wing of the dormitory with the leash in my left hand. Tammy pranced at my side, thumping me vigorously with the heavy otter tail that was to be a part of my life for the foreseeable future.

When we arrived at my door, the first one on the right, I led her inside and closed it. I unclipped the leash, and then the tornado hit. A large black dog raced around the room as rapidly as her paws could carry her on the slippery tiled floors. She darted into the adjoining bathroom. I heard her scramble into the tub and jump out again. She paused to sample the cool water in the porcelain toilet bowl. I dashed in to drop the lid. She jumped on me and grabbed my hand in her mouth, giving it a quick chew, and was off again. I got up from the floor where her exuberance had landed me. My tumble was softened a bit by the heap of towels that had somehow been pulled down from the towel bar.

I heard the clatter as objects fell from my dresser. Hurrying out to see where the whirlwind had gone, I was startled to be licked in the face as a Labrador flew past my shoulder from the top of the chest of drawers. As I scrambled to retrieve my brush, comb, and toiletries from the floor, I could hear the dog leap onto one bed and then the other, followed by play growls and thumps. I scrambled to my feet and tried to figure out what she was doing now. A bouncing Lab hurtled off the bed, dragging pillow and spread with her.

Remembering Mr. Boeke’s admonition not to give her commands, I called Tammy’s name, hoping to catch hold of her and try to calm this storm with a few gentle pats and soft words. No such luck. The whirlwind knocked me to the floor again and chewed my arm from wrist to shoulder, while pounding the side of the bed and dresser with a madly beating tail. She raced around the room once more. This continued for the next hour and a half. Each time I called her name, she leapt up to knock me down and chew my hands, wrists, and arms until I was soaked with dog saliva, winded, and bruised. Tammy then raced off for another attack on towels, pillows, and bedspreads.

Finally, I heard the longed–for quiet knock on the door, signaling that my instructor was back. I struggled to my feet and snatched the leash from the doorknob. I clipped the leash to the panting black dynamo that had followed me to see who was there. I noted that Tammy had not barked at the sound of the knock.

I’ve come for your dog, said the quiet voice. All I had energy to reply was a heartfelt, Thank God! As he moved away, with Tammy walking sedately beside him, he chuckled and responded, I’ll bring her back in about 10 minutes. Just then, I wasn’t sure he would find me waiting to receive her.

I slumped to the foot of my bed and wondered what I had gotten myself into this time. I had always had pets. When I was about six, I had coaxed a yearling buck to venture out from the forest edge to eat carrots from my hand. At nine, I got an adult male squirrel to accept treats from me before racing back up his tree to share them with his family. If it had fur or feathers and could be coaxed to trust me with patience and food, I tamed it.

Before leaving to attend this class at The Seeing Eye, Inc., of Morristown, New Jersey, I had spent the last few months of my senior year in high school finding good homes for all my rescued animal dependents. Among my menagerie were two parakeets, a canary, a mynah bird, goldfish, two ducks, a blind rabbit, and four small dogs. Mom had nicknamed these four my circus because I had trained them to do a number of tricks. It was always easier to find new homes for dogs if they could at least shake hands, come when called, and obey some simple commands. My foursome vied for attention trying to out–perform each other.

It seemed a logical decision to apply for training with a guide dog in the summer between high school and my freshman year of college. My stepfather, an ex–trucker now working in construction, viewed it as a necessity for my safety. Mom was afraid of large dogs. As a teenager, she had been badly bitten by a German Shepherd. However, she was willing to accept the idea that without her and my brothers to look out for me, a guide dog might be a good idea. I would soon leave home to live in a college dorm. I would have to find my way around campus without anyone to help me orient myself to the unfamiliar environment. My three younger brothers and baby sister figured that at least they would get rid of their bossy older sister for a month. Then I would be out of their hair come fall.

Although my high school had hired a woman to serve as a resource room teacher, she wasn’t qualified to teach the use of the long white cane. I had employed the barge and bang method of getting around at school. I could walk with friends without holding on to them by keeping track of their location by sound. I learned new routes quickly and just went. Of course, a moment’s inattention could land me in a flower bed or slam me into an open locker door. I had a nice collection of bruises. I thought that getting where I needed to go was worth being various shades of purple, yellow, and green. A good sense of direction and an ability to use my entire body to give me information made it possible for me to operate in my neighborhood, large high school, and anywhere else I went a lot. I seldom had to cross a street alone or venture into new, unexplored places. Close high school friends would scatter to accommodate me.

My loving, quarrelsome family would not be there to show me how to find each new class at college. I would go out into a much larger, more dangerous world. I thought it would be easier with a friend along, one trained to help me deal with all the new challenges awaiting me. Hence my decision to go to Morristown.

As I began restoring my room to rights, I wondered if my decision would work out. Tammy was thin at 70 pounds, but she was a lot more dog to control than my four rescued waifs: a Chihuahua, a Poodle, a