Article: Living with a guide dog in South Africa


Living with a guide dog in South Africa

by Leanne Hunt




It’s a sunny afternoon in January and I’m walking my guide dog Tango along a paved pathway beside a garden full of scented shrubs.  To my right is an enormous syringa tree which casts an umbrella of cool shade over the lawn.  Doves call from somewhere to my left, while a cameraman runs around in front of me to get us on film.

I am in the process of doing an interview for a television station on the work of the South African Guide-Dog Association.  The interview is taking place at SAGA’s beautifully-landscaped centre in Rivonia.  Having told the interviewer about how I lost my sight and came to own a guide dog, he now wants footage for some cutaways, clips of me walking with Tango and crossing roads, which he will edit in when he returns to the studio.  I am happy to oblige.  The Guide-Dog Association has played a big role in restoring my independence and it’s my way of giving back.  Hopefully, viewers of the television piece will be moved by what they see and want to support the excellent work that is done here.

Walking down the driveway and breathing in the scented summer air, I think back to one of the questions the interviewer posed.  He wanted to know, for the benefit of the viewers, what led to me getting a guide dog and why I had felt I needed one.  It’s a question few people ask and yet one which can yield such important information for the public to hear.  Most people believe you have to be completely blind to use a guide dog, and in fact, this was my understanding before I thought to inquire.  It came as a wonderful surprise, therefore, to be told, “If you can benefit at all from using a guide dog, you are eligible.”

Looking back, I probably could have applied for a dog much earlier than I did.  I struggled throughout my years at university and walked my children around town in their prams without really being able to see the traffic lights.  By the time I was in my late thirties, the deterioration of my eyesight rendered me mostly housebound.  I guess I stalled because I was unwilling to acknowledge the degree of my blindness or to make the massive switch from an apparently able-bodied person to an obviously disabled one.  This has to be one of the hardest things about going blind.  It’s not just about what you can’t see and how you have to adapt your lifestyle privately; it’s about how you appear to the world and how it may affect the way you are treated.  I didn’t want to be spoken down to or regarded as unable to think or act for myself.  My motto was, “Be part of the solution, not the problem,” and so I resisted admitting that I really did need help.

But pride can only stand in the way for so long.  By the time I made the phone-call to the Guide-Dog Association, I was past the point of caring how people would treat me.  As soon as I received the news that I could apply straight away, I did so, and shortly afterwards a trainer came around to my house to assess my needs.  I remember that it was such a relief to me to be doing something constructive about changing my life.  The trainer was friendly and eager to hear how I spent my time; whether I worked in the city, used public transport, interacted with babies, or was a keen runner, for example.  She wanted to know about my other pets and about my family.  What I had anticipated would be a very formal process of application involving medical certificates and proof of income was, in fact, entirely centred on me and what I needed in order to function independently.  That excited me beyond words because, for the first time in years, it looked as if my horizons might actually be set to expand rather than contract.

Within three months, I attended my first class at the centre in Rivonia along with six other students.  Since the object of the training is to fully accustom new guide dog users to a canine companion, it entails living in for the duration.  In those days, that meant spending three weeks at the centre, including weekends.  It was an adventure for me to be away from home for so long, especially in such a safe, blind-friendly environment.  The director at that time was ken Lord, a gregarious man with an amazing respect for visually-impaired people.  He would regale us for hours at the dinner table with stories of past students and the challenges of educating society about the rights of guide-dog users.  His wife Arlene served as the house mother, catering to everyone’s dietary needs among other things.  Between them, they did a lot to normalise my situation, enabling me to reenter the world as an obviously disabled person and to feel empowered at the same time.

Many people wonder how a guide dog learns to be so smart.  Are they born extra clever?  Do they get taught to interpret traffic lights and read signs?  The answer is no.  An enormous amount of time goes into teaching the dog basic skills and then, with the aid of positive reinforcement, adding new skills bit by bit to produce complex patterns.  Most of the dogs are bred at the centre then adopted by temporary owners called “puppy walkers”, who focus on basic house-training, obedience and socialisation.  At the age of one year, they undergo a stringent veterinary examination and an assessment to determine if they are temperamentally suited to guiding a blind person.  Assuming they pass, they are brought back into kennels for six months of intensive, specialised training.

During this time, the dog is part of a group of up to six dogs, all of whom get trained by a single trainer.  Every day of the week is a work day, devoted to learning new skills such as walking on a harness, listening to voice commands, negotiating traffic and using various modes of transport such as car, bus or train.  The dog is also taught to find various objects, such as a chair, or locations, such as the ATM, pedestrian crossing or pharmacy.  It sounds like tough work, and it is, but when you see how enthusiastic the dogs are to work, you have to believe they love it!

Of course, it’s one thing to train a dog but quite another thing to train a human.  Students arrive for their first class knowing nothing about being led by an animal.  The first thing the trainer does is to teach you how to hold a harness and follow it, and he or she leads you around the house and along the driveway to accustom you to the feeling of the metal handle moving this way and that.  There are also lots of commands to learn, as well as foot positions, hand gestures and procedures for what to do in various situations.  For example, when the dog reaches the edge of a kerb, you have to give the instruction to go forward, go left, go right or go back, and each of these instructions require a different set of body movements.

We did two full days of pre-dog training, interspersed with lectures on dog behaviour, equipment and adapting to life with a four-footed companion.  The trainers told us that  the pairing of dogs with owners is done very carefully according to size, pace of walking, temperament and suitability for our individual home setting.  We couldn’t wait for them to introduce our dogs to us, and the day when the big event was to take place seemed to drag.  At last, we were sent to our rooms to await the big moment.  I’ll never forget what sounded like a steam train puffing up the corridor and pausing at my closed door.  It opened, and a wriggling bundle of yellow fur entered.  “This is Dusty,” the trainer said, handing her lead to me.  “Get to know her, sit on the floor and play with her, and let her know that you are her biggest fan.”

The details of the class get blurred after that because I’ve attended another two classes since then.  My second guide dog was another yellow Labrador named Lulu, remarkable for her pretty face and loveable manner.  Tango is my third dog and is a black Labrador, bigger than the other two but silent as a shadow.  It’s fascinating how different each dog is, and one gets to appreciate each for her own unique qualities.  For example, Dusty was content to stick by my side all day long, so much so that we joked she didn’t consider herself a dog at all.  Lulu loved to run in the garden with the other dogs and her biggest trick was to catch the eye of shoppers at the supermarket and lure them towards her with her happy smile.  Tango was taught as a puppy how to sit on her haunches and gaze until someone gave her attention, and she still succeeds in charming people with her solemn, beseeching stare.

Having reached the end of the driveway, I turn around and head back towards the house.  The cameraman is still flitting around, taking wide angle shots and close-ups of my and Tango’s feet.  I thrust back my shoulders and breathe in the warm, scented air.  There are days when I’m out walking with my dog and feel an overwhelming sense of freedom.  Motorists swish past me, cocooned in their cars and cut off from the fluting birdsong.  They crawl in hideous traffic, hooting their frustration at taxi drivers who have stopped to pick up passengers.  I, meanwhile, stride along the pavement, enjoying the sounds and smells of nature as I head towards my destination.  Even in the pouring rain, I am the freer agent.  The strong shoulders of my dog twist this way and that to steer me between obstacles and I feel unstoppable.

There are other days, of course, when reality crashes in and I’m forced to face the fact that South African society has a way to go in catering for guide dog users.  The pavement on my street is badly pitted with holes left behind from contractors who have dug it up to lay pipes or fibre and then never returned to repair the damage.  Sometimes there are vans parked on the kerb, making it impossible for pedestrians to walk on the pavement.  Tango and I are forced, then, to step into the road—not a fun experience when the traffic is heavy and the van is parked on a bend.  Admittedly, these are issues which affect all pedestrians but they are especially dangerous for those without sight.  I’ve been known to use my special-needs situation to demand improvements from those in authority, such as local councillors and municipal department heads.  Sadly, though, little gets done.

The other place we guide dog owners have trouble is in shopping centres and restaurants.  I regularly get stopped by security guards who have been told that dogs aren’t allowed in under any circumstances.  They are clearly trying to do their jobs, but it’s unfortunate that their training doesn’t extend to accommodating people with disabilities.  Our constitution gives guide dog owners the right to enter any public space.  I even carry a card bearing the relevant words from the act, although I generally don’t produce it.  Most store managers know about guide dogs, having seen them featured on television shows and in magazines.  A simple word from them to the security guard is enough to allow me access, but it’s nevertheless annoying to be stopped and made to wait for permission to enter.  I’m envious of guide dog owners in the UK and other dog-friendly countries where awareness about service animals is so much greater.

The one place I don’t expect to be welcomed is hospitals because I understand that people who are sick—and more especially their relatives—would probably feel uncomfortable with a dog in the ward.  A clean guide dog is no more likely to bring germs in than a child who has spent the day at school, but it’s a matter of not adding to their stress.  If I have to visit a hospital to attend a doctor’s appointment or have x-rays taken, I generally ask my driver to accompany me, making it unnecessary to bring Tango.  This spares me the hassle of being stopped at the entrance by the inevitable wary security guard and having to wait while a call is placed to the matron to check whether I can be allowed in.  I’ve done this before on several occasions and always received a pass, but why go to the trouble when I’m already concerned about getting to my appointment on time and possibly feeling unwell or sore to boot?

My attention returns to the present as Tango leads me confidently around the column at the edge of the patio.  At the open door, she pauses.  The television interviewer steps away from the trainer with whom he has been speaking and thanks me for my time.  “Your dog is cool,” he says with a smile.  “Very chilled.”

He is right.  Tango didn’t give the slightest indication that she had even noticed the cameraman hopping around.  “She’s great when she’s on the harness,” I tell him.  “But wait till we get home and she’s no longer working.  She’ll be in the pool like a shot and wrestling with my other dogs like a total hooligan!”

That’s the thing about guide dogs; they’re still playful as puppies, greedy when it comes to mealtimes and lazy when the working day is over.  As clever and well-trained as they are to perform their tasks of guiding, shielding and warning the blind person of possible danger, they still have a natural pack mentality and submit to their human owner when it comes to rules and routine.  This makes for a happy partnership.  I get to benefit from Tango’s devotion to duty while she gets to enjoy an interesting life.  I often think other dogs must envy her special role when all they do is wait behind a gate for their masters to come home each day.

Owning a guide dog has, as mentioned earlier, broadened my horizons enormously.  Not that I take Tango everywhere with me; I haven’t, for example, travelled overseas with her, although I could.  I did fly from Johannesburg to Cape Town with Lulu when the time came for her to retire, as she was being adopted by my daughter’s parents-in-law who live at the beach.  I’ve also been to timeshare resorts with my dog, something I enjoy because it gives me the freedom to go on walks by myself and traverse unfamiliar territory after dark without clinging to whoever happens to be close by.

From week to week, Tango fits into my routine.  She accompanies me to the supermarket, my knitting group, and various appointments.  She travels happily in the car, either in the footwell of the front passenger seat or on the back seat, and is always friendly when anyone asks to pet her.  While people aren’t supposed to interrupt Tango’s work by patting or talking to her, I personally make allowances because it’s not often I’m in so much of a hurry that I can’t pause to chat.  Given that I can’t recognise my friends when I’m out and about, it’s rather nice to stop and exchange a few words.  People love to talk about their own dogs with me, or to share their admiration for the South African Guide-Dog Association.  Many of them even donate to its work.  When I consider that it’s because of people like these that I can receive a sponsored dog, it seems only fair that I should acknowledge their interest.
Besides, it often gives me the opportunity to teach children about guide dogs, which will pay off when those children grow up to become the store managers, restaurant owners, security officers, town planners and civic leaders of the future.  They will grow up to understand that a dog wearing a harness signals a visually impaired person who may need help.  But not necessarily.  They’ll appreciate that the dog gives the user a degree of mobility that would otherwise be impossible, and that having that degree of mobility is something guide dog owners value greatly.  They may even realise that their own mobility is a gift, never to be taken for granted.

It’s later in the day now and Tango is asleep with her chin on my foot.  As I stroke her back, her fur feels cool and glossy to my touch.  She is content, having eaten her evening meal and rid herself of excess energy.  Tonight she will sleep on her custom-covered continental pillow in our bedroom and will probably not stir until dawn.  I wonder if her visit to the Guide Dog centre will produce dreams about her litter mates, her puppy walker or her trainer?  But no, more likely she’ll be dreaming about her dinner.  She’s a Labrador, after all!


This article was first published in “Friend in Harness”, the official magazine of the South African Guide-Dog Association in 2018.

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