Grandma helped me rewrite my speech and practiced it with me. She realized she had been coddling me even as an adult because she loved me so much.
She said, “Bud, we do coddle you. Maybe Will Stevens was right, but that doesn’t mean we’re going to stop.” I liked him, but he was a hard man, I thought. I nodded.
Soon after, we were called to my vocational rehabilitation counselor, Alan Bradberry. He wanted to stop my payments for Lions World. Grandpa let him know in no uncertain terms that if he did, grandma and grandpa would take out a mortgage on the house, pay for my education themselves, and then sue Vocational Rehabilitation of Howard County.
That made Alan realize my grandparents were serious about me following my dream. He backed down. I returned to Lions World two days after Thanksgiving.
About a month earlier, when asked where they wanted me placed, my family said Cincinnati. “Bud, it’s the closest place for you. We can get to it, since your job isn’t available in Indianapolis,” they explained.
Meanwhile, I had been accepted during the interview. I showed up dressed in a crisp suit, tie tied in a double Windsor, and black slacks. All three service center managers were impressed. I, along with all my classmates, got accepted—nobody was left out.
Will smiled after the interviews. He said, “Well, you all got in. This is where I stop being your instructor, and now we just get to be friends.” He walked over to me and said, “Jeremy, you’ve done well, but don’t get a big head. Remember, if I see you acting crazy, I’m still gonna tell you to cowboy the fuck up.”
I told him, “Sir, honestly, you had to when you were my instructor. As a friend, I’ll say I hate that phrase. It sucks, it’s nasty, and I’d rather just get on with our lives. Not that I don’t like you — I do — but I hate that phrase. And sir, if you say that to me, I may give you a hard look, because as you said, you’re not my instructor anymore. Besides, you have your next class of IRS hopefuls to get ready for, don’t you?”
“I like you, but I hate some of your methods,” I added. He nodded. “I understand,” he said. “I appreciate you being honest with me. That’s not a phrase you want to hear anymore.”
I then said, “I will learn what I need outside of here from life. Life is an excellent teacher — yes, it’s the school of hard knocks — but I am stubborn, and eventually, I will get it through my skull.”
We had one week where we could relax — no classes, nothing we needed to do. They put me back in the independent living apartment, and when classes started, Janette, our instructor, was as sweet as a Georgia peach. She was from the Atlanta service center, and she and I got along well. She called me “Mr. Jeremy,” and to break the ice the night before we left for the Christmas holiday, she took us out to eat at a seafood place. We ate like kings and queens.
The next day, Grandpa picked me up, and we headed home. I left my clothes there and just went home without anything. We flew home on Southwest Airlines, arriving later that night. I got sick and had to spend Christmas Day in bed, missing out on being around the family and even having to eat in bed — which sucked. Later that day, though, I felt well enough to come downstairs and open presents.
When grandma saw the conditions of the independent living apartment, she was appalled, to say the least. “Honey,” she said, “why did you let them put you in here?” I said, “They made me; I didn’t let them.”
Grandma saw the couch. “Oh hell no!” she said. I told her how my counselor, Beth, had said, “We’re not moving that couch.” Grandma shot back, “The hell they’re not!” I told her about Beth threatening to kick me out of the program if I went over her. Grandma exclaimed, “Oh hell no. Honey, this place is a pigsty! Your room looks good, you did good, it’s just… oh honey, I am so sorry.”
I even said, “Grandma, I have done my best to keep this place clean, but you know me.” She nodded, “Honey, I know. She brought her scouring powder as before and scoured every surface, making sure the entire apartment was spotless.”
Grandpa, at grandma's behest, brought his film camera, because she was so glad her grandson was in the independent living apartment. But that pride quickly turned to anger. “Ron, take a picture of that nasty couch. I’m going to talk to the head of the organization about this.”
Grandpa replied, “You should, this is ridiculous.” Grandma added, “Bud, I see you’re in a different bedroom this time.” I explained what had happened my first night. Grandma, and Will still had you stay here. “Oh honey…” The disappointment in her voice over how this school was treating me was palpable.
I moved the couch back, and Grandma called Remona.
Grandma said, “If he moves it aside, we will abide by that.”
Remona responded, “You’d better. I am unhappy with my grandson’s surroundings; this is uncalled for.”
She called Jeannie Bates, a German woman in charge of the IRS program. “Jeannie, I need you to bring John Stetwhiler to my office. He’s in Bruce’s class.”
Bruce—the so-called Leaderof the IRS teachers, whom students called “Bruce Almighty”—had a reputation. If he didn’t like you or thought you weren’t taking the program seriously, he would kick you out of his class without a second thought. He liked to act like he ruled the IRS area, but some teachers didn’t follow him, proving his so-called power was mostly for show.
Jeannie went into Bruce’s classroom. “I need to take John with me to Remona.”
Bruce, unfazed, replied, “He can’t leave—he’s taking his test.”
Jeannie’s voice sharpened. “Well, then, do you want to be caught up in a guide dog abuse scandal?”
Bruce gulped. “John, buddy, why don’t you go with Miss Bates here? If you survive Remona, you can continue your test later.”
John nodded silently.
“Bruce, I take it that’s why Lucy isn’t with you today?” Jeannie asked.
John shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“John, this is serious business,” Jeannie said. “If people minded their own business, you wouldn’t be in this situation.”
When John entered Remona’s office, she laid into him with the fury of an F5 tornado, her words like fire.
“You beat your poor dog!” she shouted.
John tried again. “She’s my dog! I can do with her whatever I please!”
“No, you cannot!” Remona yelled. “That is not your dog—not really. Technically, she belongs to the guide dog school until she’s five. She’s still a baby. Now I’m going to fill out the paperwork to kick you out!”
I said low and slow, my voice steady but cold, “You know what you deserve, John. Every ounce of pain you caused Lucy—you’d feel it if I weren’t a Christian. Otherwise, that immersion heater wouldn’t just be an appliance. In my mind, sir—and I use that term lightly—that’s exactly what you deserve.”
John gulped as I hefted the weighted immersion heater in my hand. I flicked the element on for a second—just long enough for the metal to glow—then switched it off before Remona came back into the room.
“You’re not worth me going to prison for assault and battery,” I said, voice low. “But I still think you should feel every ounce of pain you caused that dog.”
Remona returned, slammed a folder on her desk, and said, “Here’s your discharge paperwork. You have one hour to pack your things and leave campus.” Then she called the pilot dog folks and reported John. After a tense conversation she hung up and told us what they said: they would place him on the national “no guide dog” list—a permanent ban for anyone refused a guide dog for life. It might take up to two months for them to retrieve Lucy. “Do you have someone who can care for her?” they asked.
Remona looked at me. “Jeremy will. He’s been taking care of her with Fredric since housing pulled her from John.” The pilot dog rep accepted that and Remona turned to me. “Jeremy, you’re in charge of Lucy for the next four to eight weeks.”
I nodded. “Understood.”
I took Lucy to class the next day and handed a note to Will. He read it, eyes widening. “Oh man… John beat up Lucy? Jeremy, you really did cowboy up and do the right thing.”
For the next six weeks, Lucy was treated like the queen of guide dogs. We fed her things she probably shouldn’t have—kielbasa, jerky, hot dogs when I took her back to my independent living apartment. Fredric helped. Ray, a trainer, came six weeks later to pick Lucy up.
When Ray arrived, I asked for a minute to say goodbye. He said sharply, “You should’ve said goodbye before I got here,” and reached for the leash. He jerked it hard.
“Don’t handle her like that,” I snapped. “That’s how her former handler did it.” Ray’s face tightened; for a second his eyes went green.
Then I lost it. “If you jerk her like that again, I don’t care if I go to jail—I’ll punch you in the stomach. You show me you don’t care about her; you’re inconvenienced by coming to pick her up. You’ve ruined my faith in pilotDog. I won’t come back if I need them.”
Ray’s eyes widened, his face turning pale.
I glared at him. “If you jerk her hard like that again, I don’t care if I go to jail—I’ll punch you in the stomach. You’re acting like she’s an inconvenience. You’ve ruined me on Pilot Dog. If I ever need a guide dog, I won’t be coming to you.”
The reason I bring up what I called Lucy-Gate is because it showed exactly who Remona was: she took no crap from nobody. She ran that school with an iron fist — strict, unforgiving, but fair. LionsWorld had to abide by moral values: if a man was found in a woman’s dorm room (or vice versa), both got kicked out. No hanky-panky on campus — if you wanted that, you went off campus.
We shared a bathroom between two bedrooms, and the neighbor on the other side didn’t have a roommate. What went on in that room wasn’t just rule-breaking — it was plain disturbing. There was a lot of sexual impropriety happening, even in public places. The woman involved liked to put people in humiliating roles — she would make her boyfriend crawl on all fours, strap a guide-dog harness on him, and make him act like a dog. I later learned that some of that behavior falls under BDSM and fetish subcultures, but whatever the label, it was abusive and degrading when it was forced or done to humiliate.
She’d also make him watch while she hooked up with other guys — stuff that was cruel, not consensual intimacy. It was the kind of poisonous activity that made the dorm feel unsafe and out of control.
Lucy-Gate mattered because when the housing staff and Remona stepped in, they weren’t playing. That incident proved Remona would enforce the rules — hard — and she would protect people who were being hurt. That’s the side of her I remember: tough, messy, but ultimately on the side of right when things went sideways.
This girl tried to seduce me and I said, in the name of Jesus, get the hell away from me, you spawn of Jezebel. My friend Frederic was like, “Whoa, dude!” I said, “Nah. What they do in there is unnatural. You didn’t see her and him last week, did you?” He said, “No.” I said, “That dude let her attach a guide dog harness and leash to him and paraded him around like he was his guide dog.” He said, “Uh-uh!” Ron, our other friend, said, “You’re right to rebuke her, Jeremy.” This girl had what I would now call Boa Hancock syndrome—she thought she could do no wrong—but I, like Luffy in that arc, was not having it.
Like a lot of people who think they’ll never get caught, the night before I returned to the independent living apartments, the couple got caught—and they were kicked out. His mom was ashamed of him, and her family disowned her for getting involved in such depravity.
It was nice having some quiet. I heard Frederic say that the next night, finally enjoying peace without hearing them “doing the nasty.”
I sat in class, and since Remona’s office was right under our IRS classroom, we could hear everything. She was shouting, “Get out! Pack your belongings and leave! This is a place of education, not sex! If that’s what you want, go to a hotel. And yes, I know about your little display with him wearing a guide dog harness borrowed from Imir Refuah while Imir’s dog was in the hospital!”
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