My Journey to A Hearing Dog Was Not What I Expected

When my husband and I married it was also a marriage of cats and dogs. Scott had never been around cats and I'd barely been around dogs so we were the perfect match. I could train him on how cats are mostly untrainable furballs that do whatever they want and he could train me on how to be a dog handler. When we got our first kitten, Scott tried to lay out the rules. None of our cats, he asserted, would be allowed on beds, counters, and various surfaces. Also, he hated litter boxes, so cats would be required to do their business outside. I found all of these requirements amusing and addressed each of them. We don't tell cats where they can and can't go, they decide. If you want to try, it's a losing battle. I used spray bottles and various methods but that didn't correct the behavior, it just made them more fearful of me. I was adamant that our cats would be indoors since all of my childhood cats were killed by coyotes and other predators. Cats are wonderful snugglers, said to boost our moods and health by providing comfort and serotonin to us with their affection, so it will behoove you to have a cat on the bed, I told Scott.

The only dogs growing up I had were more like cats. We briefly had a dog that came from a greyhound rescue. He slept like a cat and didn't bark, he'd spent his life running and had a short lifespan with our family before he passed. I knew nothing about dog handling or training whereas Scott had taken the task very seriously, almost to a competitive level. I didn't realize what a huge deal it was to get a dog and how much my life was about to change. Due to my husband's intense work schedule, he knew his wife would often be home alone. Not only that, when I took my hearing devices out at night time I was completely deaf. 

Scott decided to get me a German Shepherd (GSD) protection dog from a breeder. Not an American Black and Tan Shepherd, I learned but a European Working Line GSD. I thought of the police and military dogs, the Belgian Malinois seen in the movie Max. I tagged along to the breeders we visited in Seattle where we lived and once we decided on one I was to go select the puppy since Scott would be on a business trip.

I truly had no idea what I was doing when it came to puppy selection. There more I looked online the more confused I became. There were rubrics, criteria, and traits to look for. I needed to observe the pup's "ball drive" - its focus and eagerness to complete a task - and make sure I selected a puppy with the right temperament. On a warm June day, I drove south of Seattle to meet the breeder and her litter.

The breeder was named Julie, a rotund brown-haired woman who was very opinionated and I came to learn this was normal for dog breeders - they thought their lineage, breeding styles and selections were superior to others. It was a job not for the faint of heart. They had to manage large dog runs with intricate fencing, drive passenger vans to take litter after litter to the vet for multiple vaccinations, make their dog food with organic proteins and vitamins (bagged food was frowned upon), and manage websites and waitlists. When I arrived at her compound I was told to wait at the first gate where she gave me a spray bottle to disinfect my hands and the bottoms of my shoes. Young pups can be very vulnerable to diseases like parvo which can live undetected on surfaces for years. She was chatty and made it very clear, in addition to the signs posted in her driveway next to the Trump posters, that she didn't have a public restroom. Then, I made it to the second gate where I was allowed to go into a playpen filled with 8 adorable puppies that romped in the grass and napped in the midsummer breeze. This was a robust Czech working line litter, she explained and she was proud of the resume her dogs had. I learned the difference between a pet dog, a cute family dog that serves as a companion versus a working dog, one that has a military or police job, knows a wide variety of commands, or has expertise in cadaver and rescue tracking, herding, and the like. Her dogs had won Schutzhund competitions which demonstrated their obedience, and protection abilities. 

She listed off all of the awards and medals her dogs earned while I was encouraged to mix with the puppies to see which one was a fit. They had the fuzziest fur, giant paws, and floppy ears. The cat person in me made a huge guffaw when I picked up a calmer pup and then went on to another. "You just cat-tossed him," she said. I couldn't believe how accurate she was - I was used to dropping cats that were known for their built-in springs and ability to land perfectly anywhere. Embarrassed, I said, "OK I'll take him, sorry!" I'd never been around a litter of puppies or told how to handle them. The pup  I selected was the one that stayed away from the pack and did his own thing. I also went toward him because he was the most beautiful of the bunch, with tawny paws and chest, and warm hues of caramel. He was called a Sable. "What are you going to name him, she asked?" I replied, "Hank." Well, if you would've just told me that I'd say he's the one!” I agreed he looked like his name and he would be at my side for the next nine years. 

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The plan was to train Hank to be a service dog but he didn't have the right temperament to go anywhere in public, he was more of a protection dog and sometimes showed anxiety which trainers told me meant he needed to be more confident. So we decided to get a second dog and had a service dog trainer help with the selection. We went with another GSD breeder in Oregon, also a Trump supporter, who exuberantly told us about her side business in cannabis, and raised a different type of dog, a longhaired shepherd. These were known to be calm and loving family dogs that competed as show dogs for their distinct markings and beauty. They loved the crowds and also excelled at agility. Because they did so well in public they were optimal for service dogs. When I brought this puppy home, we got to work immediately training him to help me hear. Edgar was proud and confident with striking coffee brown hair that gleaned in the light. He had the whitest teeth, the reddest tongue and looked like he was in a marching band when he walked and ran with pomp and precision. He made friends with any pet or human and completely stole my heart, which was about to be shattered. One day at work my neighbor texted that our dogs had gotten out of the yard and I scrambled home. I saw Hank anxiously pacing the driveway but where was Edgar? After hours of frantic searching, a neighbor told me there was a dog on the side of the road. When was he killed? How could anyone just hit and leave a puppy on the street? He was under a year old, still a puppy. Did he follow me as I left for work? Did I not latch the gate all the way that morning? The weight of guilt took me over and I collapsed in tears, having to pick up my injured puppy who was dead. Did he suffer? At work, I received a sympathy card and everyone shared comments and how hard it was to lose their 12-year-old dog, etc. This wasn't the same, I wanted to reply, this was a brand new puppy that someone left for dead, and I didn't have the chance to say goodbye. One co-worker even had the nerve to tell me that I shouldn't have purchased a dog in the first place, preaching her "Adopt Don't Shop" beliefs. Another coworker replied to her, "Are all four of your children adopted?" 

I couldn't believe how staunch people became in their beliefs around dogs. I was coping with loss and my turmoil was stuck in my throat for months. I'd put nearly five thousand dollars of training into this dog - the average service dog costs about 100K to train - and then I completely messed it up.

Months after Edgar passed something magical started to happen. I would start the tea kettle, then go into the other room and forget about it. Hank would approach me and lick my hand. If I ignored it, he would persist. I realized that he was alerting me. I realized I had my service dog in front of me.  He would bark loudly when the doorbell rang and every time my husband traveled for work, Hank was right at my bedside, cemented in loyalty. I marveled at how his canine instincts could tell I had trouble hearing and that I was deaf at night when I removed my Cochlear Implants. One time my cat was outside the bedroom door, coughing and hacking, and Hank jumped up on my bed, again and again. He made sure I was awake and then led me to the door to the distressed kitty who was developing asthma. When my husband came home late at night from a trip, Hank would howl so loudly to indicate an intruder was entering that I could feel his vocals and I would wake up. His protection then turned to joy when he saw it was Scott and he would then pee in excitement. I pretended to still be asleep so I didn't have to clean it up.

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I've learned so much from having a dog because nine years ago I knew nothing. I've learned the difference between a service, therapy, and emotional support dog and the nebulous laws that govern each. There is no formal certification for a service dog other than getting the proper training and even if you put a vest on that dog there is no paperwork required. You'll see ID cards that are made to look official for vets and even though you're not required to have a vest on your dog, the public is informed. I was asked to leave a Rugby match by the stadium director when I had Edgar with me, even though I have a disability covered under the ADA and I was working with a reputable trainer and following all the best practices because there was a veteran nearby who had an important looking vest and ID card for his therapy dog, which he could've bought on Amazon. When I asked why I had to leave he said, well he has the badge and you don't. This is 100% incorrect and I've researched all the laws around this but until laws are put in place the public will still have an illusion that therapy dogs are the same. 

I've also learned that having a dog in public is a big deal. You need to ensure your dog is calm and not a distraction. We took Edgar to countless environments to test his ability and feigning a service dog for your comfort is reprehensible. I've also come to respect leash laws 100%. Just because you love your dog doesn't mean everyone else does and I never take my dog off leash like the hundreds of others who do on the public use trail by my house. Some people are terrified of dogs and don't want to be approached. Some dog owners don't train their dogs and bring aggressive dogs into the public despite the horror of a dog bite lawsuit. 

I've followed the conversation and trends in service dogs - namely Hearing dogs - for the last ten years and I've seen a new shift. There are now organizations that train full-fledged service dogs to assist a Deaf or HOH person all day, every day, by attending work and school. But for someone like me who works from home and can hear with technology, there are now at-home service dogs that can help with environmental sound alerts. I'm currently trying to get one for my mother who routinely leaves her garbage disposal on and cannot hear if her husband, with a bad back and knees, falls and can't get her attention. 

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In his best-selling book, Your Dog is Your Mirror, Kevin Behan asserts that a dog's behavior is driven by our emotions and they can read us far better than we give them credit for. I love watching Hank, nine years old, cock his head to the side when I say the word 'treat'. I love how he rests his head on my lap and lets out a huge sigh that matches my mood. I love how he can read the conversation happening between me and a stranger and adjust his posture accordingly. As he ages, the possibility of having to say goodbye is unthinkable. He lays here as I write, with his favorite octopus stuffed toy and snores, a sound I can turn on or off if I want, but there will be a day I cannot so I listen to the timed cadence of keyboard keys as I write, with my best friend at my side.