Bringing Security and Confidence Into a Silent World

The telephone rings, but neither Paul Ogden nor his wife, Anne, hears it. Chelsea does. She barks insistently until one of them notices her and answers.

Her ears are like radar. They must be, for she is a signal dog, one of about 600 placed with the deaf, physically disabled or socially non-functional by Santa Rosa-based Canine Companions for Independence.

The story of Anne, Paul and Chelsea began in 1985 when, devastated by the death of Lox, a pet dog they had trained to help them, the couple turned to CCI.

Their years together are chronicled in Paul’s book, “Chelsea: The Story of a Signal Dog.” It is both a Valentine to their 9-year-old Belgian sheep dog and an expression of Paul’s thoughts about living in a hearing world.

Paul, 42, who was born deaf, has been professor of deaf education at Cal State Fresno since 1979. Anne, 41, a registered nurse, lost 80% of her hearing as an infant, probably as a result of chicken pox. With two hearing aids, she has 60% of normal hearing, which, combined with her skill at lip-reading, enables her to get by.

Through 14 years of marriage, the Ogdens have been a team, functioning in a hearing society. Technology, including a telephone with lights that blink when it’s ringing, helped. But Chelsea gives their lives an added dimension. She is their companion and their protector and, Paul says, she has given him a sense of confidence he never had before.

Chelsea goes almost everywhere with Paul. Fittingly, his recent book tour opened in Washington, D.C., at Gallaudet, a college for the deaf. Chelsea flew there, coach class, as always. When Paul travels, she sleeps in his hotel room. If a smoke alarm goes off, she will hear it. In the classroom, she lies on the floor near the lectern.

There are a few occasions when she cannot go along--such as Paul’s annual stint playing Santa for deaf children. Having Chelsea with him would be a giveaway. So, Paul says, “we had to get her a baby-sitter.” (Left alone, Paul explains, “she becomes very nervous, panicky. If the phone rings, who does she respond to?”)

Unfazed diners don’t put down their chopsticks as Chelsea leads Paul into the Saigon Palace, an elegant restaurant in a mall here. Within seconds, she has disappeared under the table, hidden by the tablecloth.

There is no plaintive whimpering for a handout. “She has been trained not to beg,” Paul explains.

Is she flawless? Not quite. The Ogdens have not been able to stop her from stealing butter from the table. She also jumps on the bed. And she has limited tolerance for Kohala, a Siamese cat the Ogdens are keeping for a year for Paul’s brother: “She’ll chase the cat out of the room if she thinks the cat takes up too much of my time.”

On her first Halloween, trick-or-treaters kept Chelsea running back and forth to alert the Ogdens to the ringing of the doorbell. Paul recalls: “At first she was really curious and enthusiastic. After the first two or three, she wouldn’t bark, but she would get me to the door. After the fourth or fifth time, she left the job to Anne and me” and lay down in a corner.

Paul figures she was probably wondering why these silly people didn’t just leave the door open.

The Ogdens and Chelsea met at “boot camp,” a two-week orientation program for dogs and their future masters.

Paul had gone to CCI knowing what he wanted. “My dream was a 200-pound German shepherd,” a macho dog, “something to make me feel secure.”

That was before he met Chelsea, who was a big--52 pounds, 27 inches high at the shoulders--but gentle 2-year-old. This dog seemed as easygoing as Paul.

A signal dog can have only one master, and that was to be Paul, because his is the greater need. To ensure bonding, Anne was not permitted to pet Chelsea for a month.

Over two weeks, the Ogdens learned the 86 commands that Chelsea had mastered during 14 months at CCI, as well as accompanying hand signals for the deaf.

They learned “Let’s go,” (time for a walk), “Go to bed,” “Wait!,” “No,” “Come here” and “Get dressed,” a signal to Chelsea that it’s time to have her collar or backpack put on.

At home in Fresno, the new family soon learned some tricks that hadn’t been part of Chelsea’s undergraduate work.

Paul demonstrates how he removes Chelsea’s choke collar, places it in her mouth and sends her off to find Anne in another part of the house. If she cannot, she will return with collar in mouth. If she returns with collar on, he explains, “It means that Anne is coming soon.” If Paul urgently needs Anne, Chelsea delivers his written note.

Once, when he was reading a story about a World War II concentration camp, he began crying. Chelsea had never seen Paul cry. “She kept bumping me. . . . she put her paws on my leg until she knew I was OK.”

If Anne and Paul have an argument, Chelsea plays peacemaker. “She will get us and tell us she has to go outside, hoping to cool us off. She does not like the sound and the feeling of tension between us.”

Because signal dogs (sometimes called hearing dogs) are uncommon, strangers occasionally mistake them for seeing-eye dogs.

Paul recalls being “rescued” during a Sunday stroll in Berkeley by a good Samaritan who grabbed his arm, halted traffic and helped him across the street.

Chelsea began barking furiously.

“I had dark glasses on,” Paul says. He pondered whether to tell her the truth or “let her think she did something wonderful.” He opted for the latter.

People are suspicious when they see someone bring a dog into places where they normally are barred. The Ogdens carry permits identifying Chelsea as a licensed canine companion.

Once, a friend accompanying the Ogdens asked a restaurant’s staff, “Would you refuse to serve a $10,000 dog?” (That is CCI’s estimated cost, covered by donations, for training one signal dog.)

Chelsea’s backpack is both her badge and a convenient place to stash her water bowl and traveling gear.

The backpack, with its CCI logo, helps strangers to understand her role. Chelsea is an icebreaker. People who are uncomfortable and embarrassed around a deaf person will start talking about their dogs.

Paul sees himself and Chelsea as a small part of “the process of educating the public” to the needs, as well as the abilities, of the deaf.

Paul--who has a doctorate, has written two books and teaches 12 hours a week, using an interpreter to introduce students to American sign language--is not one to wallow in self-pity. If offered a pill that would give him hearing, he would probably refuse it. “I’ve always been deaf. I think the racket would drive me crazy.”

To him, deafness is an “inconvenience,” and Chelsea is the solution.

These days, Chelsea is a bit white in the whiskers. Paul joked that he could shave her, to make her look younger. Anne protested that the white is a sign of wisdom and said she would retaliate by pulling out Paul’s gray hairs.

CCI, which was founded in 1975, has a “retirement farm” for dogs no longer able to work, but the Ogdens will keep Chelsea, “to thank her for all the years of service.” They hope she’ll be able to work until she’s 11 or 12.

For now, Chelsea shows no signs of slowing down. “Maybe,” Anne suggests, “we’ve slowed down.”