There is a particular kind of grief nobody warns you about within the guide dog cycle. The grief of having to let go of the one who kept you safe. The one who knew your pace, your mood, your bad days. The one whose whole job was to get you home.
That is what a guide dog is. And that is what I have had to let go of. Twice.
Before the Dogs
Growing up, we didn’t have pets until I was a teenager. Then came Pudgy, a chunky, long-haired cat with more love in her than she knew what to do with. She even made me stay with her when she gave birth. She wouldn’t let me leave the room. I was a teenager holding my breath next to a laboring cat, and honestly, I would not trade that memory.
When my children were born, pets took a back seat. Eventually Bambi entered the picture. A sweet and loving Chihuahua, she lived to be 25. However, I was never as attached to her the same way my husband was.
When I became an empty nester, I needed quiet. I needed space. I needed time to simply focus on myself. The last thing I wanted was the responsibility of another animal.
Then it happened…
Let me give you a little background before I get there.
I was the first of five children, born legally blind. My mother was my greatest advocate before I learned to advocate for myself. You can read about her first big decision about me on my Texas vs Kennedy Page, and you can read about the first time I stood up for myself on my Becoming an Advocate: My First Turning Point Page.. Discover one of the ways my mother taught me courage and independence on my Independent Walk Page. There is so much more to that story. But that is not what today is about.
Since I just make the legally blind limit (20/200) I was able to function, but not always well. As society became busier and automobile traffic volume and speed increased, I decided to get mobility training. After receiving my first white cane, I realized I didn’t like it. While it notified other people, like drivers, that I was visually impaired, I felt vulnerable. For my safety, I used my white cane anyway.
Now, the turning point. On January 20, 2009, while properly using my white cane, I was hit by a car and almost died. You can experience the accident and recovery process in my book, Unlikely Dancer: A Memoir of Adversity and Healing.
The Dog I Did Not Know I Needed
During recovery, my children and grandchildren started pushing me toward getting a guide dog. I was not sure I wanted the responsibility. A dog felt like a lot. But my reasoning was simple: if drivers were ignoring my white cane, maybe they would notice a dog. That assumption proved to be true.
I chose Freedom Guide Dogs because they were the first school to offer Hometown TrainingTM, meaning the trainer comes to you. When John Byfeld first brought Rosie to me, I had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t know how to work a guide dog. I didn’t know what to expect. John was a kind, gentle Englishman who taught me everything I needed. He was patient in a way that mattered.
Rosie was a smooth-coated, blue merle Collie. Beautiful does not begin to cover it.
Rosie was not bred to be a guide dog. She was bred to be a show dog. Because of that, the breeder had her voice box removed before she was ever put on the market. When the show dog sale fell through, Freedom Guide Dogs took her in to see if she had what it took to be a guide dog.
John skipped the usual puppy training timeline and took her straight into his home, doing both stages of training at once. Most dogs need a year to eighteen months of puppy training before guide training even begins. Rosie did it all in one year.
She was just that smart.
From the day we were put together until the day I had to retire her, we were inseparable. She was my heart. We bonded in our weakness. We bonded in our uniqueness. We bonded during the good times, the rough times, and everything in between. She was focused and serious when she was working, not seeking attention or affection. Off duty, she was a loving girl. She was the best introduction I could have had as a new handler.
Retiring Rosie broke something in me. Her health was failing. I wanted another guide dog but couldn’t afford to keep two dogs. I found her a home with a woman who loved collies, and I let her go. It was painful. But God’s timing is never wrong, even when it doesn’t feel that way.
Hello, Penny
Within a few days of giving Rosie away, John came to do my between-dog evaluation. That is standard procedure: checking my skill level, pace, and gait to make sure the next match is the right one. After a few minutes of talking and walking, he mentioned he was training a yellow lab and asked if I would like to try walking with her. He was worried she might be too slow for me.
As it turned out, she was perfect. She had simply been walking slowly to match John’s pace. Penny was a smart, accommodating worker! At 82, John was nearing retirement. His skills were diminishing, so he walked at a slow, cautious pace so Penny could follow. In fact, Penny was John’s next-to-last placement before he retired.
Four months later, I got Penny.
Penny was different from Rosie in the best possible way. While Rosie was all business, Penny was warmth and personality. She loved to cuddle. She lived for belly rubs and ear scratches. Rosie enjoyed the occasional petting and cuddles, but preferred just relaxing by herself. Penny was food-motivated the way most labs are, but never excessively. Rosie enjoyed her meals and occasional treats, but never focused on them. Penny was just a happy, affectionate, playful, solid working girl, while Rosie was more serious all the time.
The bond between a guide dog and their handler is unique and strong. Both my dogs and I were in tune with each other in different ways. Words were not always necessary. We knew when things were great. But we knew when the other was having one of those days. And yes, dogs have those days, too.
More Than a Walking Partner
Penny, as well as Rosie, pushed me into doing more advocacy. I often had to defend our right to travel freely and independently without documentation or advance notice. I’ve had to disagree with bus drivers, airline personnel, and most frequently Uber Drivers. Just the presence of these amazing animals freaks people out. We have rights, and we’re going to keep them, no matter what it costs. A guide dog’s presence still catches people off guard. It still triggers questions, resistance, and sometimes outright refusal.
I repeat. We have rights. And we are going to keep them, no matter what it costs.
Penny reinforced that in me. So did Rosie. These animals did not just help me get from point A to point B safely. They gave me confidence and credibility in spaces that sometimes tried to push me out just because I have a disability. Their presence said something I did not always have the energy to say myself.
The Doughnut That Changed Everything
Penny had to leave us too soon. At age 8, healthy and energetic, I had to give her back to Freedom Guide Dogs.
As a responsible handler, I have always been careful about what my dogs eat. People food is a hard no. There was one exception: when Penny had a stomach issue, the vet prescribed boiled chicken and plain rice to settle her belly. That was the only time I willingly gave her people food. No table scraps. No treats from the counter. No exceptions.
Then my mother came to live with me.
Mom has dementia. You probably already see where this is going.
She started slipping Penny scraps under the table. Pieces of her sandwich. Bites of meat from her plate. I had the conversation with her more times than I can count. She would either forget we had talked or wave me off with “It’s only a little. It won’t hurt her.” I kept Penny in another room. Monitored the situation as much as I could. I’m legally blind, so I’m sure I missed much food sneaking.
Penny started gaining weight. She started searching for food even while in harness, even while working. Her focus was slipping.
When Mom gave Penny a Dunkin Donuts doughnut, I did not know whether to laugh or cry. I knew then it wasn’t going to get any better, only worse. Decisions had to be made.
I thought about asking one of my brothers to take Mom. But one brother works long hours and travels overseas several times a year. The other just retired and is rarely home, but is traveling in his RV. It was on me, and I accepted the responsibility.
In the end, I made the call no handler wants to make. I gave Penny back for her own well-being. The day Eric came to pick up Penny was rough for the family, especially Mom and me.
Freedom Guide Dogs retrained her and placed her with an older woman who had recently lost her own guide dog. Knowing Penny is still out there working, still keeping someone safe, helps. It doesn’t fix it, but it helps. I miss my girl.
The Waiting
It has been several months. I still grieve.
I miss the security. The confidence I had with a dog at my side. I miss the nighttime cuddles, the doggie kisses, even the shedding. I miss my girl.
Our Freedom Guide Dog community has been grieving too. John Byfeld, the man who trained me on Rosie all those years ago, passed away six years after placing Penny with me. Eric, the trainer who picked Penny back up from me only months ago, died suddenly of a massive heart attack. About two months later, his wife Sharon passed away as well. So I am not just mourning my girl. I am mourning alongside a community that lost some of the people who built it.
Mom still asks about getting a new dog. I understand why. She doesn’t always remember what happened to Penny. And some days I don’t have the heart to remind her.
So for now, I wait. I move a little slower, watch a little harder, and trust my white cane again. And I think about Penny out there working for someone new, keeping another woman safe.
That has to be enough. For now, it is.
I will not be able to get a new guide dog until my mother’s situation changes. I know that. I’ve made peace with it… Most days.
If you have ever had to give something up for someone else’s well-being, you know exactly what I mean. You also know that “enough” and “easy” are two very different things.
The Cycle Continues
That’s the cycle nobody tells you about when you get your first guide dog. You don’t just learn to walk with one. You learn to let go of one, wait, and trust that another is coming, even when you can’t see how yet.
Rosie taught me that. Penny taught me again.
And somewhere out there, a puppy is being raised right now who doesn’t know yet that she’s going to be my next yes.
Until then, I have my cane, my faith, and the memory of two good girls who got me home.
That has to be enough. For now, it is.