I sat in the sun on the wharf for a long time. I blinked in the mild, clear weather of San Francisco. I imagined a dog’s words would be far subtler than our own. Corky would talk of companionable whispers. Dogs hear words of friendship without the messy interpolation of human longing. Corky would tell me if she could about the morning her puppy raiser Reba pointed out the rabbits under the yew bushes and said, “Corky, the rabbits!” And her joy was forever affixed to Reba’s joy—words of affirmation and communion. Lingo and joy. For guide dogs they’re together in every syllable like the hydrogen bonds in DNA. “Look, Corky,” I said. “Sea Lions!”
Planet of the Blind 