The Trouble with Tuck by Theodore Taylor

sightless eyes were aimed in my direction, and there was a glare in them of a strange kind. There was no love in them.
    I jumped back. He hadn't bared his teeth at me since he was a pup. This was another Tuck I was seeing and hearing—maybe a frightening one. I remembered Dr. Tobin saying that the worst bite he'd ever had was from a blind Labrador.
    Go slowly, Helen, Mrs. Chaffey had said, and I told Tuck, “Okay, we'll just take a walk today.”
    I put leashes on both of them, and off we went. Again trying to ignore Daisy, Tuck growled only when she bumped him. But it was evident that he didn't at all like sharing his walk with Lady Daisy.
    On the way home, I stopped at Ledbetter's to pick up a box of small dog biscuits, putting them on our charge account. They were to be rewards for accomplishments.
    Mr. Ishihara wanted to know how the training was pro-gressing, how “they” were doing. I said it hadn't started as yet, but “they” weren't likely to be any problem. It was “he,” bullheaded F. T Golden Boy, who might mess up the whole idea.
    He proved it a few minutes later when he arrived home. Making threatening noises in his throat, he refused to let Daisy enter the house. He stood in the doorway, hair up along the ridge of his neck, his whitish gray eyes staring at her. Was I going to be afraid of my own dog?
    Daisy had been trained to resist attack by remaining completely passive, and she stood quietly with her front paws on the steps, looking away from him as if to say, I will not allow you to upset me.
    As was known around our house, I seldom had yelled at Tuck for anything, but this time I did. Finally, like a lion in the jungle, he retreated unhappily deep into the kitchen, and we went peacefully inside. He was beneath the kitchen table and pouting, following us by sound.
    Day after frustrating day for almost two weeks, I attempted to train Tuck to put his head against Daisy's rump, the first step in teaching him to be guided by her. Day after day I failed. Aside from an occasional sniff, he refused to have anything to do with her. Force certainly did not work. Though he didn't bite her, he growled mightily and exposed those big ferocious teeth. She remained cool and passive and didn't even flinch.
    Day after day, I also saw someone or another watching my failures through the kitchen window. Now, nothing can make you angrier than being spied upon when you are losing. And each night at the dinner table, I was asked how I was doing, and my answer was a tight-lipped “Fine,” though it was evident I wasn't doing fine at all.
    My mother would see me coming in from the backyard after a frustrating session and say, “Keep trying, and don't get angry with him.”
    How could I help but get angry?
    There was a vacant lot about six blocks away, over on Wickenham, and I finally took the dogs there, just to avoid the snooping “told-you-so” eyes in the kitchen window.
    I remember I was holding Daisy's collar in my left hand and Tuck's in my right, positioning myself on Daisy's right flank, to walk them around the lot, which had some gravel scattered here and there. I started them off, andTuck immediately lunged forward, pulling me off balance. I took a header into the rocks.
    When I reached home, Luke asked, “What happened to you?”
    My face was scratched up. I lied about it, saying I'd walked into a tree branch.
    “Hah,” said Luke.
    On Saturday, I was in the backyard again. I snapped a leash on Daisy and then took another leash and attached one end to Daisy, the other end to Tuck. Maybe if she towed him along, he'd get the idea of what it was all about. But when I attempted to lead her away, Tuck promptly backed up and sat down, donkey-style.
    I went over to him and whacked him hard on the back, hurting my hand more than I'd hurt him. Yet I hadn't hit Tuck for years, for anything, and here I was, feeling terrible remorse. Kneeling down, I said, “I'm sorry, Tuck. I didn't mean to do that.”
    My father