I resisted telling Mom that we had put her walking buddy to sleep. How could I cope with her emotional reaction, which I anticipated would be greater than my own? So, I hatched a plan: Steve had to work late on Thursday night. Mom and I could have dinner together; after dinner I would reveal my secret.
“Okay,” Mom said when I telephoned. “I’ll come over.”
“No, no,” I countered, realizing she would wonder where Honey was as soon as she walked through the door. “Why don’t you cook for us? I’d like to eat at your house.”
Mom agreed. I don’t remember the conversation we had or what we ate because the whole time I was distracted by the secret I was keeping. Finally, it was time to leave, and I still couldn’t tell Mom about Honey. Mom made herself cozy on her sofa. I said good-bye, pulled on my coat and was at the door when I forced myself to turn around.
Sitting stiffly near Mom with my coat on, I blurted: “Mom, we put Honey to sleep on Tuesday.”
“Oh, no!” Mom cried out. “I didn’t get to say good-bye.”
To my surprise, Iwas the onewho started to cry. Through my tears I explained why we had put Honey to sleep. With more honesty and vulnerability than I had ever shown to my mother, I blubbered, “I miss her so much.”
“But you carried on with her so,” she said, referring to our differences concerning Honey’s “parenting.”
“I know, but I loved her. We did so much together.”
Mom scooted closer to me on the couch. “I’m so sorry,” she said, wrapping her arms around me. Then she cradled me while I rested my head on her chest and sobbed.
For the first time in forty-six years I experienced the calm reassurance of a mother’s love. Soaking up my mother’s tenderness, I marveled that it had its root in her relationship with Honey. And, although crying in my mother’s arms didn’t take away my pain, I was deeply comforted. I lost a loving companion that week, but I also gained something rich and beautiful. My mom and I finally made an emotional connection, which has continued to expand— thanks to Honey and her last and greatest gift.
B. J. Reinhard
*Name has been changed to protect privacy.
Puppy Magic
Since I began incorporating animals into my child psychotherapy practice fifteen years ago, my life as a clinician— and as a person—has been turned upside down. Surrounded by my dogs, birds, lizards and fish, I feel like a modern-day Dr. Dolittle. Though in my case, it’s not that I talk to the animals, but that the animals help me in my work communicating with children in need.
Diane,* a dark-haired five-year-old, small for her age, came to me with a problem. Although she was a chatterbox in the house and with her family, no one had ever heard Diane say a word to anyone outside her home environment. Not one word.
For years her parents had simply told themselves that Diane was shy. But after her first week at kindergarten, her teacher called her parents into school for a conference and informed them that Diane needed professional help. Not only was the little girl unwilling to speak, but also she appeared terrified.
Diane’s parents, concerned and upset by this evaluation, tried toworkwith Diane to overcome her selectivemutism. Yet nothing they said or did seemed to make any impression on her. Diane refused to talk—in fact, seemed incapable of speech—when she was outside her family circle.
Diane’s parents contacted me and I agreed to see her. It was a Friday afternoon when Diane and her parents arrived for Diane’s initial session. They were all seated in the waiting room when my six-year-old golden retriever, Puppy, and I walked out to greet them. I noticed right away that Diane sat with her head down, her eyes directed toward the floor in front of her. She made no move to look up or acknowledge our entrance.
Puppy, walking ahead of me, made a beeline for Diane. Because Diane’s head was bowed, Puppy was just three feet from Diane when the girl finally caught sight of her. Startled by the unexpected sight of a large golden dog, the girl’s eyes became huge and then her mouth curved slowly into a smile. Puppy stopped directly in front of Diane and laid her head in the girl’s lap.
I introduced myself and Puppy, but Diane didn’t respond. She gave no indication that she had even heard me. Instead, Diane began to silently pet Puppy’s head, running her hands softly over Puppy’s ears, nose and muzzle. She was still obviously nervous and apprehensive at being at my office, but she was smiling and seemed to be enjoying her interaction with Puppy. I was speaking quietly with Diane’s parents when an idea hit me.
I turned back toward the girl and the dog and spoke Puppy’s name quietly. When Puppy looked up at me, I gave her a hand signal to come toward me and continue back into the inner office. Puppy immediately started walking toward me. As Puppy walked away, I watched Diane’s face fall and her eyes take on a sad and disappointed look. I said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you wanted Puppy to stay with you. All you have to do for her to come back is say, ‘Puppy, come.’”
Diane’s parents stared at me, their expressions skeptical. For a few tense seconds, Diane sat debating what to do, her lower lip quivering. Then, in a soft voice, she called, “Puppy, come; please come, Puppy.”
Her parents’ gaze flew to their daughter and their jaws dropped in surprise. I gave Puppy the signal to go and she whirled around and ran over to Diane who slid off her chair to the floor, and kneeling, hugged Puppy tightly around the neck. We watched, Diane’s parents in tears, as Diane and Puppy snuggled happily together.
I knew that I had to seize the moment and sent Diane’s parents back into the office to wait for me. Sitting on the floor beside Puppy and Diane, I began to talk to Diane. I told her that I knew how hard it was for her to talk to people she didn’t know and how happy we were that she had been brave enough to call Puppy. Hoping to keep the miracle going, I asked her what she liked about Puppy. She hesitated a moment and then answered, “That she is soft. That she is funny.” As we talked, Puppy sat leaning against Diane, the little girl’s fingers laced through Puppy’s fur.
It was time for the session to end; I asked Diane to say good-bye to Puppy. She hugged Puppy again and said, “Good-bye.” Her voice was soft, but it was clear. She had made a remarkable breakthrough and had taken the first step in her journey toward being able to interact with the world outside her home. I was deeply pleased.
When Diane and her parents left, I sat in my office, stroking Puppy’s soft golden head. I knew that without her, the session would have gone completely differently. Puppy had worked her magic again.
Aubrey Fine, Ed.D.
An Angel in the Form of a Service Dog
He has told me a thousand times over that I am his reason for being: by the way he rests against my leg; by the way he thumps his tail at my smallest smile.
Gene Hill
The start of my life in a wheelchair was the end of a very long marriage.
In 1989 I had a serious truck accident, which shattered my lower back. Though I was considered an incomplete paraplegic, as the years passed, my back got progressively worse. At the end of 1999, my doctor ordered me to use a wheelchair at all times. My wife walked out.
Suddenly on my own, I decided to relocate to California where the weather was warmer, there was more to do, and, most important, things there were more handicapped-accessible than in the rural area where I was living. Even so, adjusting to life in a wheelchair, alone in a new place, was no picnic. After six months in California, my doctor felt that a service dog would be an immense help to me and put me in touch with Canine Companions for Independence (CCI). I went through the application process, but when I was finally accepted Iwas told that Iwas looking at nearly a five-year wait. Disappointed but determined to make a life for myself, I continued to struggle through each day, at times becoming so tired that I’d be stranded somewhere until I found enough energy to continue.
So the call from CCI only three and a half years later came as a complete surprise. They’d had a cancellation for a class starting in two weeks—would I be availab
le on such short notice? Without hesitation I said, “Yes!” I felt a rush of emotion. I’d pinned all my hopes on this, and now it was finally happening, almost too fast.
The very next day I headed to the CCI campus as requested, just to be sure they had a possible match for me. This preliminary session was to test my handling skills and to see which of three potential canine partners might “click” with me. I was taken into a dog-filled room, and was surprised when a very fat black-and-white cat, threading his way calmly through the dogs toward my wheelchair, decided my lap was the perfect resting spot.
A trainer brought the first dog, a petite black Lab named Satine, to meet me. We had only a minute to get acquainted before starting basic commands such as “heel” to see how she would respond. Despite the feline riding shotgun on my lap the entire time, Satine responded amazingly well to everything.
Next, a much larger dog, a black Lab-mix called Hawk, took Satine’s place—and the cat left my lap in a rush. But Hawk didn’t give chase. In fact, he ignored everything to focus on me. Although his headstrong personality initially tested my commands, I held to my guns and soon Hawk started working for me—opening doors, picking up dropped items and a long list of other things. I was awestruck by his sheer presence, not to mention his skills and obedience.
The third candidate was a lively golden retriever named Tolarie. She was very pretty and smart, but no matter what I did, she didn’t want to work for me.
When asked which of the three dogs I would choose, I named the more easygoing Satine as first choice, but really, I wanted Hawk. I was totally in love with that dog from the word go!
The next day, CCI called to tell me that I had impressed the trainers with my handling skills with Hawk and that they hoped to place me with him. My heart soared! I thanked themprofusely andmade arrangements to attend the two-week training course at CCI’s campus in Oceanside, California.
I arrived early and spent the first day doing paperwork and meeting the three trainers and five other people in my class. When we entered the classroom, I immediately found Hawk. He came to the door of his crate and licked my fingertips as if to say, “Hi there, I remember you.” I could hear his tail thumping in eager anticipation.
Then came the moment we all were waiting for: working with the dogs. The trainers brought Hawk to me, and we spent the first few minutes in a joyful exchange of greetings.
The next four days were nerve-racking. Pairs wouldn’t be assigned until Friday, after we’d each worked with enough dogs for the trainers to determine the bestmatches. By the second day, though, most of us had already chosen our favorites and felt jealous if “our” dog was working with someone else. On Friday, Hawk was paired with me, but the match still wasn’t permanent. Trainers needed to be satisfied that the dogs had bonded with us, and that we felt comfortable with each other and worked well together. By then, I couldn’t imagine having any other dog but Hawk—especially after what happened the first night we spent together.
Since my accident I’d always had a very hard time sleeping at night. Every time I moved, the pain roused me, and falling back to sleep was next to impossible. For me, three hours was a good night’s sleep. The first night with Hawk, I was supposed to crate him while I slept. But as Hawk and I lay on the bed watching TV together, I dozed off. I woke at five the next morning—and Hawk was still there. He had stretched himself across my body in a way that was comfortable for me but kept me from painful motion. I had slept the whole night through!
I was amazed. With the renewed energy and sharpness that comes with a full night’s sleep, I realized Hawk had done similar things all week that I’d written off as part of his training. He’d bonded with me from the start, and in a remarkably short time, had figured out my abilities and limitations and adjusted to them to make the whole training process easier on me. Every time the pain got unbearable, he had done something silly or sweet to take my mind off the pain and help me get through that day. He had done all this with no instruction—just his innate love for me and his desire to please me and make my life easier.
Hawk and I passed our final test with flying colors. We returned home and started a new and very different life— together.
Now when I go out in public, people no longer avoid me or give me weird stares. When people hear the jingle of Hawk’s collar and see this team on the move, they smile and come over to meet us. Hawk does so many different things for me: he pulls my wheelchair when I’m feeling tired, opens doors and picks up things I might drop. People love to see my beautiful black dog rear up on a counter and hand a cashiermy cash or credit card—what a crowd-pleaser!
Hawk’s “fee” for all this? A simple, “Good boy.” He loves to hear those words because he knows he is doing something that makes me happy.
His other rewards come when we get home. We both enjoy our nightly cuddle on the floor, followed by a favorite tennis-ball game. It still amazes me that Hawk, who can pick up a full bottle of water and not leave a single tooth mark, can pop a tennis ball in no time flat.
I would never have believed that I could feel this way about my life again. Each day I look forward to getting up after a full night’s sleep, grooming Hawk, going out some-
6
DOGS AS
TEACHERS
I think dogs are the most amazing creatures. They give unconditional love. For me they are the role models for being alive.
Gilda Radner
Good Instincts
If your dog doesn’t like someone, you probably shouldn’t either.
Unknown
The wind whistled round the corner of the house, thunder rolled and rain slashed against the windows—not a night to be outside but rather to sit by the fire, thankful for the solid walls and roof overhead. I could imagine Dr. Frankenstein’s creation being abroad on such a night. Iwas alone, my husband away and the nearest neighbor a quarter mile down the road. Alone, that is, except for Lassie, a shaggy, black-and-white border collie, who sat with her head inmy lap, her intelligent, brown eyes gazing up atme as if to say, Don’t worry, we’ll be all right.
Lassie had arrived at our front door four years earlier by her design, not ours. Throughout the eighteen years she was with us, she proved time and time again to be a superb judge of character. We never knew if it was as a result of her sense of smell or sound—or some sixth sense—but, whatever it was, she definitely possessed a talent we humans lacked. On first meeting she would either wag the tip of her tail a couple of times to indicate that the visitor was acceptable, or slightly curl her top lip, which told you to be wary. Always accurate, her gift was never more apparent than on this night.
The doorbell rang. I decided not to answer it. It rang again, more insistently this time. Whoever was there was not going away. Still I hesitated. On the fourth ring, with Lassie by my side, I finally answered the call. My stomach lurched and my mouth went dry, for there, silhouetted by the porch light, stood the monster himself. Not as big as I imagined but equally menacing. A twisted body under a heavy overcoat, one shoulder hunched higher than the other, and his head leaning slightly forward and to one side. Gnarled fingers at the end of a withered arm touched his cap.
“May I use your phone?” The voice came from somewhere back in his throat and, although the request was polite, his tone was rough.
I shrank back as he rummaged in his pocket and produced a piece of paper. Shuffling forward he handed it to me. I refused to take it. Believing he might try and force his way in, I looked at Lassie to see if she was ready to defend the homestead. Surprisingly, she sat by my side, the tip of her tail wagging.
You’re out of your mind, Lassie, I thought. But there was no denying the sign and, based on past experience, I trusted her instincts.
Reluctantly, I beckoned the stranger into the hallway and pointed to the phone. He thanked me as he picked up the instrument. Unashamed, I stood and listened to the conversation. From his comments, I learned his van had broken down and he needed someone to repair it. Lassie always
shadowed anyone she mistrusted until they left the house. Tonight she paid no attention to our visitor. Instead, she trotted back into the living room and curled up by the fire.
Finishing his call, the man hitched up the collar of his overcoat and prepared to leave. As he turned to thank me, his lopsided shoulders seemed to sag and a touch of sympathy crept into my fear.
“Can I offer you a cup of tea?” Thewordswere out before I could stop them.
His eyes lit up. “That would be nice.”
We went through to the kitchen. He sat while I put the kettle on. Bent over on the stool, he looked less menacing, but I still kept a wary eye on him. By the time the tea had brewed, I felt safe enough to draw up another stool. We sat in silence, facing each other across the table, cups of steaming tea in front of us.
“Where are you from?” I finally asked, for the sake of conversation.
“Birmingham,” he answered, then paused. “I’m sorry if I frightened you,” he continued, “but you’ve no need to worry. I know I look strange, but there’s a reason.”
I said nothing, and we continued to sip in silence. I felt he would talk when he was ready, and he did.
“I wasn’t always like this,” he said. I sensed, rather than heard, the catch in his voice. “But some years ago I had polio.”
“Oh,” I said, not knowing what else to say.
“I was laid up for months. When I managed to walk again, I couldn’t get a job. My crippled body put everyone off. Eventually, I was hired as a delivery driver, and as you know from my phone call, my van broke down outside your house.” He smiled his crooked smile. “I really should be getting back so I’m there when the mechanic arrives.”
“Look,” I said. “There’s no need to sit outside in this weather. Why not leave a note in your van telling them where you are?”
He smiled again. “I’ll do that.”
When he returned, we settled by the fire in the living room. “You know,” I said, “if it hadn’t been for Lassie here, I wouldn’t have let you in.”
Chicken Soup for the Dog Lover's Soul Page 18
