Working With the Visually Impaired in Tavistock


by Hector Hartley (with a little help from Stephen Hartley)


Hello town dwellers, its been a while since I last enlightened you on my life with the visually impaired; this time I plead to your collective conscience - it is potentially one year away from being retired but I believe I’m not getting as old as my clumsy side-kick. Start the campaign to ‘save Hector’.


Standards of public transport are not always suitable for a dog of my calibre; no carpet to lay on, empty coke bottles rolling around the floor and little space for a real satisfactory leg stretch. However the time he tried to flag down a dustbin cart rather than the 86, shocked me as much as the poor


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driver - who must have thought his wagon was on fire from all the gesticulation as he drove towards us! This didn’t get a mention when he rang guide dogs association about me refusing to get on the bus one morning. Mind, it was such a laugh, I made a habit of it for a


while. He tried to figure out if it was a driver I didn’t like, or a bus, or someone on the bus. Each time I’d get offered a biscuit to coax me on - but like they say all good things come to an end - so I stopped before the troops were sent out with those cold water-pistols. It’s been a sporty season in England and some have been fortunate enough to witness Great British athleticism in action. One wet Sunday lunchtime in Leeds, he scored the most amazing backward shot on goal – if only there had been a ball! The locals were privy to a graceful leg in the air finished by a less-graceful thud, as his back connected with the concrete below. I’m supposed to stop at the edge of a road, why can’t he; and why do I always get the blame? I don’t consider myself particular about food in my maturing years; sausages, banana, cucumber, apple core or fish and chips, all taste just as yummy swallowed whole! Our regular visits to the chippy have resulted in a little extra supper for me. I’m not saying that portion sizes are getting smaller, but my share is! So it begs the question, where does the extra food go? Not meaning to point the paw of blame but lets just say the tug on my lead when I stray off to savour the delights of the rear end of passing dogs, is becoming firmer. One day a year the town centre becomes awash with potential guide dog donations from those who attend Goose Fair. It’s the most joyous occasion for me; I have received gifts of candy floss, toffee apple-cores; not too sure about the hot dogs - must be a cultural thing. The streets are shoulder-to-shoulder with potential food supplies; the closer they get, the more they drop! He hates it! Says he’s getting too old and ventures no further than meagre scraps that have been kicked beyond the crowds. Personally I think food relishes


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