My colleague David Frank and I were in the office of Quantum on the 78th floor of the North Tower, where I was a sales manager, when we heard an explosion. I think the building tipped at least 20 feet — David and I actually said goodbye to each other. Then it sprang back the other way.
David was shouting that he could see burning papers and flames outside the window, and that we had to get out now. By 8:50, we were at the stairs. “Forward,” I commanded my guide dog, Roselle. She was very calm, even though the odor of gas — jet fuel — quickly filled the stairwell.
“Hey buddy. Are you OK?” The first of a long line of firefighters stopped to talk to me. “We’re going to send somebody down the stairs with you,” he said.
TEN YEARS LATER: THE POST REMEMBERS 9/11
COMPLETE 9/11 ANNIVERSARY COVERAGE
“You don’t have to do that. I’ve got a guide dog, and we’re good,” I said.
“Nice dog,” he said, giving Roselle a pat, and I could tell she was giving him kisses in return.
I think that was probably the last act of unconditional love that firefighter ever got.
We finally exited after about 40 minutes in the stairs. Soon after, a deep rumble roared up the street, carrying sounds of breaking glass, tearing metal and terrified screams. The street was like a trampoline bouncing.
Both David and I were now blind, and probably Roselle, too, but she saved us by finding a subway station we could use for shelter. She’d done everything she was supposed to do.
Not long after, my family and I relocated to San Francisco. In 2004, Roselle developed an autoimmune disease. I can’t prove her illness was related to 9/11, although I believe it was. I retired her as my guide dog, and she had many good years of lying in the sun, barking at doorbells and playing with our other dogs. She passed away this past June, at age 13.