Zip

Half blinded by the glare on my windshield, I was waiting for the light at 75^th and Prospect to turn green.  On the sidewalk stood an old man, short and a little stooped with three days of stubble on his chin.  He was holding the arm and looking into the face of a tall, stoutly built man.  The big man stared full face into the piercing morning sun and in his left hand clutched the harness of a resting, but watchful, yellow Lab.  I imagine this tall man was blind and out on a training walk – a walk where the Lab was teaching him how to trust his trustworthy dog.  The older fellow kept touching his arm to transmit a sense of security as, step by step, he pushes back the boundaries of his life without sight.

My grand-dog, Zip, is a yellow Lab whose name came from the brown streak down his snout that makes it look like his face was zippered together.  He’s just two years old but has become fast friends with my grandsons, loves to run with their dad and closely trails the only female in the house, their mom.    Above all else, Zip has taken the role of confidant, part time pony, pillow and protector for Mason who is our ten-year-old grandson with autism.  Mason’s obstacles with being verbal have never seemed to inhibit his communication with Zip. 

I like to believe that the old fellow on the arm of the sightless man was describing the sunrise and urging the man to feel the warmth on his face.  Sensing the weather is as important to his independence as feeling the gentle tugs on his Lab’s harness.  The blind man tugs to tell the dog he wants to go and the dog tugs back – yes or no, how or which way to go.  The dog tugs to show a curb ahead or simply sits down when the safest and best thing to do is to wait.  No words, just tugs.

Mason bounces or giggles and looks in my eye.  He might grab my hand and lead me to the pantry.  There are times when he shrieks or grunts or says something that I am certain is “no.”  I smile.  I get it.  Other times when I haven’t understood what he is telling me, I let him know I am trying. I give him a hug or a tug in a new direction.  He knows when I mean the safest and best thing to do is to wait.  When I ask quietly, “what do you want?” he might attempt a word or tug on my hand.  Or he might just mess with me by giggling while I guess.  I often wish Zip could show me how he knows.

When I think about the sightless man navigating a thoroughfare like Prospect, unable to see cars skating south at forty miles per hour, I wonder what he is thinking.  How could he know about risks from drivers texting, steering while eating, or combing hair and applying makeup?   If he veers even a little or stumbles on a heaving chunk of sidewalk he could die.  Yet, somehow he knows through his toes and the vibes rising through his fingers on the harness, that, yes he is a blind man, but the world can be known through sounds and smells and touches.  I wonder how great it would be to know where I am by the touch of my toes, the scent of the air or the lead of a trustworthy soul.

Among my four grandsons, only four of them are special.  Each is unique.  Each is all boy.  They’ve all been to urgent care for boyhood things and all have performed with their classes in school programs.  One of them was an all-star on his baseball team.  Another won the top award for the movie he made.  The youngest wrote and performed an inspiring poem.  One of them was voted most courageous by his class. 

If I could take the arm of the blind man, I wonder if I would talk and tell or listen and learn.  I wonder if I could feel the message through his Lab’s lead or if I could sense the morning through the rising warmth of the dawning sun.  I expect that he wants to learn how to live in a sighted world but learning shouldn’t require abandoning the gifts that accompany sightlessness.

Mason is autistic.  Mason has autism.  We have tried and will continue to work at teaching him the things that will help him engage the world.  But as we enter April, the month given to awareness and acceptance of autism, we will try to listen and learn.  Mason is unique and all boy.  He is big and strong and knows what he wants.  He does things his way, the way that feels right.  Sometimes he follows Zip’s lead because Zip understands, Zip accepts.  A Lab like Zip might be the teacher who shows us the tugs to help Mason push back the boundaries of autism and of our ignorance. 

--td