Today I realized I felt safe again. 

I can't put full weight on my right leg due to an injury to my knee last week. 

I lost my pain management care 3 months ago, which means I don't have access to valuable medications that help me function & recover each day. 

I don't have a doctor right now, at all. 

I don't know if my care plan will ever return to normal. 

This week I have to prove I'm too severely impaired to be able to fulfill a jury summons. 

Christmas reminds me of Robbie, and him not being here. 
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I've been holding on by a thread for months. 

And yet, sitting on the porch just now, feeling the warm breeze, the sun on my face, the piercing pain in my right kneecap, I feel completely safe. Finally, and again. 

Robbie's job was to keep me safe from the CRPS and how my environment made the CRPS worse. Robbie brought my husband peace of mind to leave me alone, because with Robbie's assistance, I was able to function with the daily normal, and overcome problems as they arose. I fell less, and when I did fall, Robbie got me up and to someplace safe. Last year, on a snowy walk with Robbie, one of my ice grippers fell off my boot. To put it back on, I had to sit in the middle of an snow-covered dirt road, pull it on, and ponder how to get back up, as Robbie was technically retired. He wouldn't have it. He stood by me, then stamped his feet at me and huffed. No response. He side stepped closer, stamped his feet, and huffed again, this time throwing in a glare. I accepted the brace offer. The huffing and stamping stopped, replaced by a tail wag, and we walked home. Robbie knew his job. He was good at his job. His job helped me function with the CRPS, and helped me feel safe. Safe to live with CRPS and truly believe I was gonna be okay. My service dog & I would find a way to make it happen. 

Retiring Robbie shattered that feeling of safety. He was retired for medical reasons that made it unsafe for him to keep working. To keep him safe and prolong his wellbeing, I needed to be less safe for a while. Less safe, less functional, and in worse pain. He was a stubborn helper dog, though, and when he could tell I desperately needed assistance, he often wouldn't take no for an answer. Like on the snow walk. He couldn't help, shouldn't help, but he was there. And if he decided he needed to, he demanded I let him help. 

The last morning I held Robbie in my arms, looking into his tired eyes, knowing it was likely the end, any last fragment of safety I felt was destroyed. As he drifted away, the magnitude of his presence drifted away too. I don't know if anyone really understood what I loss that day. I felt cold, alone, and very much not safe. 

Wisps of feeling safe again have come in moments over the past 6 months. 

When I got disoriented on a field walk, in the days following losing Robbie, and I conversationally said to Austin, "Let's go back to Adam," forgetting momentarily I hadn't trained that yet, but it being ingrained to rely on Robbie, and Austin promptly changed directions and guided me back to Adam with confidence. 

When I fell on a walk, landing in a ditch, while being passed by a too-close Amish cart, and looked up to see Austin standing calmly in front of me. Both of us safely out of the road, him waiting for a brace cue. 

Even before that, the first time I fell with Austin was 5 days into his training, and his automatic response was to lick and nose nudge my face until I responded to him, and then to promptly lay down close beside me, looking outward while my husband checked on me. 

And today. Each step with my right leg feels like it will buckle and I will fall, but I haven't. Austin has learned to tell when I'm limping, and to automatically walk closely beside me whether he has gear on or not. In the house, he's helping with a lightweight harness as we walk carefully from room to room. He's moving with care and gentleness for short training or playtime sessions. When we stop and I don't give a follow up cue, he waits patiently, watching me. If I try to walk without him, he watches more closely, ready to arbitrarily break a command and come assist me when he sees it's needed. He chooses to be on the dog bed closest to me, instead of in his favorite spot. He braced to help me pull on my bibs for going outside, and looked up at me the second I winced from a sudden pain spike in my kneecap, then nudged my face to ask if I was okay. He played Find Toy outside, off leash, for the first time near-perfectly, even with me sitting down. I believe he knew we both needed that to work smoothly. He followed closely to get me to the porch where I sat for playtime. After playtime, we sat outside for a bit, enjoying the warmth. 

Looking out over the landscape, I breathed it all in. That's when it hit me. "I feel safe again." ​

Austin was laying in the grass a few feet from me, serenely surveying his surroundings, his ears focused on me. The way he was laying, he gave off an overwhelming presence of a calm confident, guardian, ready to respond to the call for help. That's how Robbie was. 

I realized, while we have more yet to polish and learn, that all our hard work has delivered. Once more I have a confidence assistance animal, ready to help, skilled enough to figure it out in the moment even if all the pieces aren't there, aware of the need for his assistance, and actively working to keep me safe while I live with CRPS. 

After a time, Austin braced to help me stand up from the porch steps, without gear on (not easy). Going back inside, he chose to walk closely beside me the entire way as I limped, pausing when I paused. He stood very still for me to slide out of my bibs, even when my foot got stuck and I started to panic a bit because being stuck made the bibs pull on my injured knee. He waited as I washed my hands, and paused each time I wasn't right beside him. Only once I was back in bed resting did he curl up on a blanket nearby and relax. ​

Being able to function while disabled by CRPS is huge. Being able to function while disabled by CRPS and dealing with an extra injury affecting my mobility, with only the assistance of a dog, is extra incredible. Working with a service dog to manage my disability on a daily basis is the best and most versatile management tool we have. Austin's assistance is invaluable. 

Today I was able to step back and take in the whole picture beyond all the fires burning lately, to see that Austin has finally reached the point where he knows his job, he knows he's needed, and he is a partner I can trust and rely on. 

Honesty about life with a service dog is my policy, so here goes. 

A few months ago, I asked a family member if she could ask her pastor & congregation for permission for my service dog and my friend's therapy dog to attend church one Sunday, for socialization and an extension of training to be okay with being bored. Neither myself or my friend are religious, but we do what we need to for the purpose of further our dogs' educations, and being only a Therapy Dog, her team was running out of challenging places to train. 

I, a disabled individual, asked for permission to go to a place where I have to be invited in purely because I need a service dog to function, only to listen to a Thanksgiving "thankful" themed sermon where the primary take-home message was, "We should feel blessed and thankful because we're NOT DISABLED."

I really wish I was kidding. Or being dramatic. 

There was no reading between the lines. There was no mistake. There was no metaphor. 

At the start of the service, my family member had me stand up before the congregation, introduce myself, talk about why we were there. I got "we're happy to have you here" multiple times, even by the pastor himself, and "please come back." I had a large service dog beside me. I introduced myself as having a disability. I explained my disability. I thanked them for allowing us to be there.

And then, sitting in a cramped pew, rapidly approaching a 10/10 from the uncomfortable seating, loud music, and hard flooring, I got to listen to their honest, and absolutely ignorant views of people with disabilities.

People to be pitied. People to celebrate when they're happy, because "good for them!" People who aren't as beautiful when you realize they only have one foot. People who can't possibly figure out how to enjoy the company of other people because they themselves are deaf, ergo won't be able to participate. People to judge. People to use as a example for why your life is much better. Because you aren't disabled. Your life is blessed. You can be grateful for your woes and struggles, because Hey, You have two feet. You can see. You can hear.  

Never mind the woman with a severe disability, sitting up front, with a service dog at her feet, who you invited to hear your ignorance spouted as gratitude. 

All around me, I heard murmurs of agreement with the pastor's words. People were nodding, smiling at each point. They were oblivious to their own ignorance.

It took an enormous amount of self-control to say nothing. My friend and I both reached down to interact with our working dogs, for comfort, and grounding. Up until then, it wasn't too bad. In that moment, I felt sick. 

You can't look at people the same way after you've heard a diatribe like that, revealing their beliefs. 

Each time someone approached us after, all I could think was, "Do they feel blessed they aren't me?" How can they believe their God gives people disabilities because he knows they can handle it and because he - according to scripture - favors the weak, and in the same breath, thank God for not giving them that life and allowing them to truly be blessed? 

I'm not sure it was worth it for the dogs. 
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I know I could have done without being made to feel small, worthless, and something to be pitied. 

And that’s how I ended up riding home with a 76lb sack of fur on my lap named Austin, one year ago, on September 15, 2021. (By the way, seriously don’t recommend it, I could barely breathe).
 
The first year is a whirlwind. It’s stressful, intense, lots of ups and downs and back and forth on, “Did we make the right choice”, “nope I can’t do this”, and finally smooths out into, “okay, I’ve got this.” I should know. I've done it twice now. 
 
Dive in with me on an overview of our first year with Austin. 

Exactly one month ago, I lost my best friend and partner for the past 7 years. He left us suddenly, leaving me with echoes of his presence, feeling as if half of me had evaporated over night. Robbie gave me exactly what I needed, when I needed it, and more. Much more than I ever could have expected. Writing this post has taken time to find the right words, time to write without crumbling, time to paint the right picture of Robbie as he was. Time for me to be able to look back and smile. For inspiration, I went back to our training journals that I kept diligently for most of his career. Robbie was fully trained in his primary tasks and obedience work by December 2015, but he and I kept growing as a team, and as teacher and student for many more years. I continued to add on new skills as I learned more about dog training, and grew as a dog trainer, and listened to what Robbie had to teach me along the way. I added new tasks to his repertoire as my needs developed, and I discovered what he was truly capable of. Robbie was helping me learn right up until the week he passed away. I'd gotten new balance equipment, and was testing out different approaches for teaching both Robbie and Austin to use it. Trying out different things with Robbie helped me see the way forward to teaching Austin, and future dogs. One last gift. 

Revisit the highlights of Robbie's life with us, as I share passages from his training journals and my own memories over the years.