Blue, the Big Yella Fella
My dog, Blue, came into my life because I have posttraumatic stress disorder. For me, the condition is a result of three significant conflicts as a Marine and 20 years of humanitarian work in Somalia, Rwanda, Darfur, Haiti, Iraq, and Afghanistan.
A soul-crushing illness, PTSD drags victims into nightmarish voids of shame, fear, and chaos. Initially, the clash between my ego and reality made me hesitant to want a trained companion. Walking around with a large animal wearing a vest announcing “Service Dog” felt like public admission of an illness I wanted to hide. But the Southeastern Guide Dogs motto hit home: “Serving those who cannot see and those who have seen too much.” Managing PTSD involves learning to accept the past.
“Those who have seen too much” fit.
When asked during the interview process what kind of dog I preferred, I answered, “Imagine standing in the exercise area for dogs. In the distance, one dog is romping with his friends. You’ve been concerned about placing him. He’s huge! He’ll fill up a house, apartment, or truck. That’s my dog!”
Then, on my first evening at the Southeastern Guide Dogs campus, our trainer told me, “Since the beginning of this school in 1984, your dog is the largest Lab ever born in this facility. You’ll meet him tomorrow.”
The next day, a 90-pound yellow Labrador retriever with ears the size of dinner plates closed the 25 feet separating us in a flash. I dropped to the floor, and my face was met by a wet tongue moving in sync with an everwagging tail. My worries vanished. I fell in love with the “big yella fella.”
Blue was trained for 23 months prior and knew his job. Over the next 12 days, the training focused on understanding his abilities and temperament, and bonding. We were together 24/7. When I move, he moved. If he couldn’t follow, he strove to maintain line of sight. If a closed door separated us, he lay outside until I appeared.
On the fifth night of training, I had a nightmare. They were becoming more frequent and severe. While still in the nightmare, I felt a sudden pressure across my chest. I shot up in bed, gasping for air and trying to orient myself. Blue had placed his legs
across my torso to gently restrain me and attempted to lick me awake. He laid his head on my chest, and I began to match his breathing. I could feel his warmth and kindness replacing the dark memories that invaded my sleep.
The cues Blue learned over his two years of training are impressive. He inconspicuously blocks people from entering my personal space. He guides me through crowds and watches my back if I stop for conversation. All are examples of learned skills, but he has natural abilities that cannot be taught.
Blue intercedes before I realize I am falling into depression, anxiety, or anger. His manner is never aggressive or intrusive. He usually comes to me, wagging his tail. If he thinks I’m pushing too hard at the gym, he moves as close as he can to the weights or machine and licks my leg. During a stressful phone call or conversation, he’ll lay his head on my lap. On the now-rare occasion when I express anger, he stares at me with a face that says “I don’t know what to do, but I love you,” which immediately stops the emotion from escalating.
My life is not perfect. I still have bad times, but it’s different. The journey is now a quiet acceptance of the illness and its source, without the anger, fear, or resentment. And that’s because my path is now guided by something intangible seen only when I look into Blue’s eyes.
—Robert Macpherson
Charlotte, North Carolina