Retiring Roja

Eight years ago, today, Roja and I graduated as a guide dog team from Guide Dogs for the Blind’s San Rafael campus. And now I am planning her retirement party for sometime in October. I hope the celebration feels playful, filled with squeaky toys and frisbees she was not allowed to have as a working dog. Perhaps we’ll sip some wine and have some cheese while cooing over sentimental photos of Roja in her younger years. She deserves at least that much.

I envision The Beatles “It’s been a hard day’s night, and I’ve been working like a dog” playing through the speakers as guests carry cucumbers and carrots to offer her, which she will accept in one full mouthful with wagging tail.

I’m hoping planning these light-hearted details will take the edge off the ache I’m feeling as our working relationship comes to a close. No doubt, she will enjoy her transition from guide to pet immensely. She turned 10 in June, and most guide dogs retire around age 9, though I had been hoping she would follow in the steps of the 14-year-old working German Shepherd I’d heard about in Canada. No such luck, eh?!?

“She’ll let you know when she’s ready to retire,” experienced handlers have advised.

Hints of her desire for the golden years have sprinkled their way into our lives over the past year or so. From her slowed pace to the way she plunks herself down in the the grass mid-walk to balking every two steps on harness, her less-than-subtle body language communicates she is eyeing that 401(k). Fortunately for the both of us, her pension consists of kibble and cucumbers.

While I am thrilled for her, I am sad for me. I am sad for our little duo.

The eight specific years we were a team marked so many milestones in my life. Multiple moves, multiple states, multiple stages of life. Most of those years were pre-pandemic, which in itself makes it feel like a different lifetime.

I so vividly remember my little girls running toward Roja and I to greet us at O’Hare airport the day after graduation, our youngest unable to pronounce her R’s, yelling “Wo-ha, Wo-ha!”, as they smothered her with hugs.

My youngest was only 5 when “Woha” came home with us and now she’s taking Algebra and wearing makeup. My oldest was 9 and her small frame was pulled down by Roja’s exuberant strength the first time she tried to walk her on leash and now she’s applying to colleges.

In many ways, Roja’s entrance into my life symbolized key steps in the acceptance process of coping with continued vision loss. She was instrumental in easing me back into the work force. She also helped increase my use of mobility aides, as I’m now more apt to grab my white cane when heading out the door than I was eight years ago.

It’s such a unique bond with another living being that I have difficulty even comparing it to anything else I’ve ever experienced. In some ways, our bond continues. The way she greets me by pressing her entire furry being into my legs for a long hug when I enter our house is the subject of much envy in our family. This connection, however, has more depth than nuzzled greetings.

To refer to her as a mere symbol or, even more crudely, a “mobility tool” feels inadequate. She is a loving presence. A beautiful being. Often, when I’m doing a guided meditation and am asked to picture someone I feel unconditional love from, I picture Roja, with that adoring stare, those wise lab eyes gazing calmly, expectantly. Yes, I know, she is mostly eye-begging for a treat. Roja’s GDB trainer would probably say that I’m personifying human feeling onto her actions and expressions, but I swear, I can feel her loving looks, and they’re not just for kibble.

Like all parts of life, change is inevitable, and we grieve even the good alchemy. I can feel this specific sadness in my body. It runs from the center of my throat down the front of my chest, and through my abdomen. It is a very specific grief, and yet it is almost generalized in its flavor, like the passage of time or the aging of a body. You come to expect it, and yet when it is upon you, you’re just not quite ready.

People ask me whether I’m getting another guide dog, and while I have filled out the application and completed my initial phone interview, I am procrastinating gathering the needed documents. Other handlers tell me your first guide dog is the hardest to get over. I know she’s not gone, and yet there’s a part of our relationship that’s ending, and it feels hard. While there are so many places she took me, and I am so grateful for the milestones we met together, there is a felt absence at the places she once guided me.

At an in-person work event last week, co-workers asked about her and I felt surprised by how much I missed having her there. As those with guides can relate, there are certain aspects that can be more stressful, such as locating a relieving area or worrying she’ll embarrass me by begging for food.

But there are many perks I missed. Like having an excuse to go outside mid-day. I, of course, missed her leading me around, though large crowds and confusing indoor spaces were never her strong suit. But honestly, I mostly just missed her calming presence laying at my feet under the table as we sat during the long day of presentations. Fortunately, working from home most of the time will still allow for those moments for the time being.

As we step into this new phase, I find solace knowing that working from home will still allow for those cherished moments of her company. While it’s a significant change, it’s also the start of a new chapter for us both – one that promises quieter days and a retirement filled with frisbees and cucumbers.