Vidal and I went to Wichita, Kansas where I was to speak at a conference about blindness. We were met in baggage claim by a blind driver—a first for me—he was legally blind but wore telescopic glasses. I’ll call him “George”. George was very cheerful about his accommodation, adding as he got behind the wheel: “I don’t have a wide field” which he went on to explain meant that sometimes he bumped other cars. “But don’t worry, we’re in Wichita,” he said. Sure enough, pulling out into traffic he bumped a stationary car. “Wichita,” he said, without stopping.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’ve a lifelong terror of automobiles. It stems from my mother’s driving when I was a child. She was a menace behind the wheel and if you’re a blind kid who only sees shapes and colors, well, the dread is magnified. My mother could hit parked cars and moving cars with equal facility. George rolled over a curb or something—I couldn’t tell what it was. “Wichita,” he said. This was the first time I gave Vidal my fullest mental attention. We’d been working together for about a month. He was good in traffic. But now I needed a soul mate.
First I apologized to him: “Vidal if we ever get out of this I swear I’ll make it up to you.” “Dog Almighty, I do believe in a positive existence, I do.” Vidal turned and licked my hand. He seemed to understand.
Confession is a human thing—dogs don’t need it. That’s part of their charm. I understood it in Wichita.
Planet of the Blind 