Some 30 years
ago, when I taught 8th grade at a Lasallian boarding school in
California, the Brother in charge of the school somehow ended up with three
German Shepherd puppies. In his eagerness to find someone to take them, he
asked me to take care of one. And so it was that a piece of my education began.
Over the subsequent months, “Bart” ate and you-know-what with great frequency,
tugged at the leash as if it were all part of the game, grew excited at the
least provocation, and generally made me more patient and tolerant of faults.
Lesson One.
As he
became older and better behaved, Bart grew to eagerly watch me during training
periods in order to carry out the commands, generally tagged along whenever he
could, liked to awaken me at 3 AM by fervently staring at me in the dark, 4
inches away, became part of the 8th grade classroom routine where he
spent most of the day, and generally contributed to the well-settled atmosphere
of our learning environment. At the end of the year, the class insisted that he
sit for his yearbook photo, which he did and which was included. Late one
evening on my rounds, I discovered him in a school hallway, where a 5th
grade student was seated on the floor in a dark alcove, having temporarily
escaped from the dormitory, petting him and saying things like, “Nobody
understands me. Only you understand me, don’t you?” Bart just looked at him and
licked his hand. Lesson Two.
When it was
time to play and exercise, Bart knew it through my body language and the
thousand little signals known only to those with limited vocal skills. Once out
in the field, it was a time of great fun and running around, chasing here and
there through the tall mustard grass, until exhausted he lay down content with
even being tired, tongue lolling and bright eyes shining, happy to be alive.
Lesson Three.
Several
years later, when not so patient anymore with kids pulling his tail or sitting
on his back, the new Brother in charge suggested that I find another home for
him. After some searching around, I stopped by Guide Dogs for Independent Living, walked him into the vet center,
and convinced the founder, who happened to be there, to take him as a breeder
(great pedigree, well trained, impervious to loud noise, etc.). She sat on the
floor, grabbed his nose with her hand, put her nose up to his, and silently
stared into Bart’s eyes for a full sixty seconds. Then she said: “Okay.” I took
the leash off and he obediently walked to the back, ready for his next
adventure. Lesson Four.
A good
number of years later still, when curiosity led to wonder led to inquiry, I
found out the address of the rural family where he was boarded, now long
retired. I drove out there, but the family wasn’t home. From around the side of
the house came an old, partially blind German Shepherd who didn’t react much,
until he did the smelling thing and heard my quiet voice say his name. Then his
old tail began to wag and the head-shoving began. I sat on the ground and spent
a good 20 minutes reliving old times, mostly in silence and some mumbling on
both our parts. Finally I returned to the car, Bart walking to the familiar rear
door as if to come along. One of the toughest things I’ve ever done. Imagine
that. The last image is of an old dog in the rear-view mirror, standing in the
middle of an empty country road, both of us going back to where life has
brought us. Lesson Five.
Do I regret
any of it? Not a bit. Would I change any of it? Very little. Are there
parallels with the life of a teacher, or any life for that matter, and the
nature of learning? You bet.
