The Other Woman Story aired: Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Dr. Megan Sullivan describes the other woman in her husband's life as supple and blond with limber legs and brown eyes. Her name is Kiva, and she's Dr. Sullivan's husband's seeing eye dog. Dr. Sullivan is also an associate professor of rhetoric at Boston University and you can read her personal essay about 'the other woman' here.
The Other Woman.
Supple and blond with limber legs and brown eyes capable of disarming even me, the jealous wife, Kiva is the quintessential other woman. On a recent Saturday night in Boston my husband tried to articulate what Kiva means to him and why no matter how much he loves me she will always be "his girl" or the other "woman" in our relationship. "She taught me how to be the man I am today," my husband tells me before confiding that not only did he always feel confident when Kiva stood beside him, but also that he was flattered by the attention the two of them received. His confession makes me simultaneously raise one eyebrow and reconsider the term "eye candy." He senses my unease. "Listen," he says, "the first time I went out alone without my cane, Kiva was there guiding me around Boston with the confidence of a personal navigation system and the aplomb of the diva she is. The first time I rode the Boston subway, or "T," alone at night without my white stick, Kiva was indispensable, side-stepping people, luggage and baby strollers." My husband pauses for a moment, not so much for effect, but to assess his feelings. "Kiva gave me my independence and that's why she will always be my girl."
Carl and I met in 2003, so I did not know him when he flew to Michigan to greet Kiva, his first guide dog. I never knew Carl when he found out he was going blind or when he stopped driving and began adjusting to life as a visually impaired man. I was elsewhere in 1998 when he made the decision to ditch the white cane in favor of the beautiful yellow canine who would become his partner in independence. When we finally did meet, I was ignorant of the world one writer has astutely called "the planet of the blind." I was merely uninterested in another universe, the kingdom of dogs. Picture this: a dark restaurant on a balmy summer night. A woman runs into a friend she hasn't seen all summer. She is introduced to the friend's handsome companion and the three thirty-somethings talk. At some point the conversation turns to dogs. Because the restaurant is dark and the woman is taken with the man and because she doesn't see the guide dog lying on the floor next to his chair, the woman speaks of a neighbors' dog as a "yappy mutt." There is an awkward pause, and the handsome man takes the opportunity to point out his guide dog. The woman backpedals. It's not that she dislikes dogs exactly, she clarifies, but rather that she never has the urge to kneel down in front of them or to stroke their ears. The woman refrains from further explanation, considering it unnecessary to parcel out that she has never had the desire to own a pet, to notice its hair bunched up in the corner of her stairway or to shiver with it through the cold, January snow.
Despite the scene above, Carl begins to court me and Kiva is omnipresent, not just guiding him along a street, but urging the two of us along our relationship. On our first date, Kiva lies quiet and patient under the table as our "quick drink" morphs into appetizers, entrees and desserts and her seven o'clock walk is delayed until after ten. At our first kiss, Kiva jumps between us, assuming she too can play Later, I watch out my window as Kiva bounds off the T with purpose and pride and guides Carl toward my apartment. I begin to fall for the dog as well as for the man.
As my relationship with Carl progresses, I pay more attention to his relationship with Kiva. The two have an intuitive gait to be sure. But it is more than that. They trust each other implicitly. As a unit, they move through streets and into stores and restaurants and workplaces. Carl signals "go right," and Kiva does so. Kiva pauses at a curb, sensing a car, and Carl stops. This is serious work they do, but they play well together too . When Kiva is 'off harness,' or not working, Carl throws a ball and she fetches it. She lies down and he scratches her belly. When Kiva has had enough, Carl backs off. They anticipate one another's needs and desires and they know when to leave the other alone.
Just before we got married, Kiva had knee surgery and retired. She still lives with us, but Carl has a new guide dog, a Black Labrador Retriever named Kinley. Retirement was hard at first, for all of us. On his way out the door to work, Carl would pick up the leash and harness and Kiva would run to him. "I'm sorry," I'd hear Carl whisper to Kiva from the other room and I'd wipe the tears from my own eyes. We got through it and Kiva likes her new "brother" Kinley and she loves her new dog walker. Kiva bounces up to greet us at the end of the day and Carl invariably says some form of the following: "How was my girl today? I can't wait to go out for a walk with you." That concern and desire seems a perfect thing for us all to aim for and I'm glad the other woman taught me how to appreciate it."
Copyright 2008 Dr. Megan Sullivan.
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