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The War: Jon and "Montana"

By Jon Stayer, THSD Graduate

We were young, so very young when the war started, in the prime of life, with dreams and hopes. This is the story of a War with Multiple Sclerosis, told from my viewpoint. It may not be like your story but in some way I think it will not be so different. I was naive, but now I am a sophisticated toughened veteran. The language is my own and with a brain entrapped in a broken body, I at times become windy. I can and have read pages about this disease, but in order to live my story, I must write it.

We are a mass of dissimilar humanity, dissimilar in every aspect, every race, every language, every religion. We are a collection from many different places. Some have lost faith, not in ourselves, but in the war. We didn't volunteer. We were drafted, and in the United States we number about 260,000.

In this battle with Multiple Sclerosis, loved ones were held at arms' length while I moved on. My life, those whom I loved, and aspirations were lost. Some of those who knew me could not adjust to the battle and left the field. Some could not measure up to the conflict.

The first attack came suddenly, from no where, out of the blue like a raiding party. I sensed the power behind it as my vision blurred. It was only a scout; it turned and pulled back. My vision returned to normal. The fear I experienced faded as life went on. In the next year there were two more probing attacks, but each time the enemy withdrew.

Then came the slashing attacks and the ever-shorter periods of withdrawal. I thought, "Body not much good but mind works well." Then I became very low on faith. Was I going violently and completely insane? I entertained the idea of ending the fight, of giving up. With each new attack, I pulled back and attempted to regroup. Each time I feared that the enemy would get really angry and form a line of attack that wouldn't be brushed off. I have taken this seriously each and every time.

Always measuring, I became obsessed with comparisons. The true measure was only made as I compared myself to other members of our club. I joined support groups, stayed with some and withdrew from others and at the last withdrew from all. Forced by that damn compulsion to compare myself against others, I could no longer gaze at the likely possibilities I might suffer from the enemy's wrath.

This morning I sat out by the garden listening to the rain, watching the first light come. It was warm and wet. My mother would have called it a sower's rain. The air was clean and spoke to me with its smell of a coming season change, foretelling yet another change in the enemy's tactics while I continue to go another day.

A New Ally

This animal entered my life, not with the softness of a pet, not a dog to be cute, to play charming games or to entertain friends or family with parlor tricks. Montana arrived with the force of an earthquake, the power of 10 on the Richter Scale. Sixty-five pounds of Siberian Husky is not a lap dog, but he can teach an individual skills he never knew he possessed.

I found out quickly that I knew very little about life with a "Working Dog." I started learning, sometimes faster than a speeding bullet, but that was very rare in our learning curve. It was more like learning with jerks and stops. Montana began to teach this poor dense biped.

From the very start, he taught me that sometimes just sitting very still and watching was a thing I had to refine. Early on I had heard the specialized trainers use the term bonding. What a simple word, but I am still learning that I really knew nothing about bonding.

Bonding is a simple word. We all have formed bonds with family, friends, coworkers, pets, and lovers, and in my case a disease. Yes, I have bonded to multiple sclerosis, my hitchhiker. Now I am finding myself bonding to a "Working Dog" while trying to make adjustments for my hitchhiker and family. "It is that it is." Somehow I think those five words have the essence of what Montana is teaching me about bonding.

Can I do this? Perhaps! However, it is not easy. The bar keeps getting higher. It was at the Training Facility that THSD Trainers Lori Stevens and Susan Ramsbottom started shaping my ideas about a "Working Dog". In the early days, before Montana moved in, I made several visits to the training facility. As I think back on those visits, I see now I was being shaped into a new approach to life. These two young women were dealing not so much with a "Working Dog" but with an individual who knew so little about the responsibilities of life with a "Working Dog."

I came home from those trips on a "high." I was filled with pride about what Montana and I did. Gees! Those were great days, when he reacted to my tentative verbal cues of "Sit," "Down," "Place," and "Kennel".

What can a Service Dog do for me?

Well! The obvious answers are too quickly taken for granted. My wife Bonnie and I talked about this last evening at dinner. Montana is really good at picking things up. Returning the cell phone has been a real gift as he has stopped trying to kill it. On a good day, I get it back right into my hands. Public outings have been I think outstanding. Everything is well and we still try to run through the basic drill work. Montana now is closing a door on cue and we are close to closing another really heavy door.

It is the elusive items that really make up a team of man and dog. We have expanded our circle of friends. When we walk, people now stop us to talk. We meet the neighborhood patrol officer at least once a week and stop for a sociable talk. My heath is better as is my spirit. I welcome the daily grooming. We meet new predicaments as they come up and seem to solve 90% of these.

Montana and I are both hardheaded souls and we do butt heads very often, but these are enjoyable. Montana is not a wimp and we do from time to time go toe to toe. But, Golly! We love one another. You know as well as I do that we have bonded. And I am writing once more.