Crossing the Brooklyn Bridge with a Guide Dog


(Image of Charlton Heston’s stunt double, in a chariot and driving five white horses. From the Telegraph, UK) 

I was in a good dream all day with Corky: we walked across the Brooklyn Bridge just for the sake of walking. The sky was blue-going-to-green, that oceanic sky, the beckoning one. And we were racing fast along the promenade deck, a remnant of the great ocean liners. Easy to imagine men in swallow tailed coats and women with wide hats approaching. Blindness, all mist for me, and the dear light, fresh and wonderfully unrevealing. For the blind, light is a mystery–a literal one, less a problem of physics and more a matter of interpretation. Its dream light. The light of the Greek underworld. Any moment my grandmother was likely to appear from the green-blue haze amid the glittering rails and she would tell me of her Lutheran heaven. We were having a jogger’s reverie, Corky and I. We passed two slow runners. I wondered what my guide dog’s dream was like. 


Hers would be without sentimentality. Dogs don’t need squishy daydreams, though they have emotions aplenty; though she loves it when I say good dog with the right tones; but reassurance differs from sentiment–the former is true, the latter a brand of falseness. Dogs don’t care about falseness. They don’t give it a second thought. As we crossed the bridge I thought how a dog’s waking dream must be thrilling in its motion–a kind of widescreen cinema–what they used to call Panavision–the whole world is like watching Ben Hur for a dog. The entire day is a series of chariot races. Amazing to think of it. No wonder dogs are so excited to face the day. Every day, a Hollywood Roman movie. 





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