Guide dog schools tell a story—its a good one—that blind people become complete when they’re paired with guide dogs. This is a charity narrative, one that appeals to the public and is an incitement to donors. The trouble is its only conditionally true. A dog enriches a blind person’s life in many ways but it doesn’t guarantee independence, freedom, or opportunity. Only the blind man can do that. Only the blind woman. I like to think of a guide dog as a kind of concert master—she tunes the orchestra and to extend the metaphor, the orchestra is the world. When the world is tuned, spiritual disorders are diminished; curiosities are enhanced.
One day in the Finnish city of Tampere I walked around with guide dog Vidal having no plan. The real republic rests in having no plan. One may argue this is why there are so few philosophers. But we were plunging headlong into vers la boue—the dirty poetry of life. We stopped at a flower seller’s stall. I bought a rose and put it on Vidal’s harness. We sat on a bench and listened to traffic and laughing children on their ways to school and we felt just fine. Was it always in me to feel just fine? It was always in me. Vidal was my concert master. My optimist. The world is going to sound just fine.
I think this is what a guide dog is. And you, the blind person were always complete. Now you have the symphony to work with.
Planet of the Blind 