Keir was determined to keep Henry very much under his charge. This was momentous and we couldn’t help but feel a quiet optimism. At the beach, he laughed raucously and showed great delight as Henry played with seaweed and dangled it from his mouth. Frequently, Keir alone had control, and Beth and I commented how natural and comfortable he looked with a dog in tow, running along the shore. At times, his autism was invisible. Keir loved seeing Henry in the water and while his autism re-emerged on the beach, as he lined up shells and pebbles, his determination to interact with Henry never faltered.
Returning homewards, we came to a busy road. The traffic was so bad, as we waited, Keir decided that Henry needed a rest, and pushed down his rear. Henry sat. When Henry sat, Keir copied him and sat with his legs crossed as if they were going to be there for some time! A quick-witted Dale had Henry stand and Keir copied. As we walked swiftly, Keir started pulling in the direction of a familiar sweet shop. This time, though, he was obviously upset and frustrated when Beth refused. As I had done so often with Dale, I tried to use Henry as a diversionary tactic.
“Keir, look, Henry says ‘No!’ He doesn’t want to go to the sweet shop. Henry says ‘No!’”
Beth stuck firmly by her decision, and we found the strategy a boon! There were many curious looks from the public. Henry was looking somewhat different from your average dog. However, these were further de-stressing qualities as people seemed to appreciate that the dog was there for a reason. Some stopped to pat him and acknowledge Keir, too, which let us see at first hand the rightness of the Irish Autism Assistance Dog policy “Please Ask Child to Pat Me.” Autism, so much an “invisible” disability, had become visible in exactly the right way.
Before Henry, I felt I had to ignore stares or justify Dale’s behaviour, which was a major source of distress and an added layer to the challenge of being out. Once again, having Henry present in all his kit seemed to change public perceptions and encouraged some people to engage. Handsome Henry was a magnet.
Back home, Keir was able to hand feed him treats, and help me with his dinner (he did attempt to taste a piece!). Three hours into our experiment, Keir had definitely earned some time out.
Before leaving I produced a sack containing the cuddly pack, which was tied with a green bow and a plain gift tag: “To Keir, with Love from Henry.” He didn’t show much interest, but that didn’t matter. It was for long-term use while we sourced his dog. I tried to catch his attention by revealing the contents, one by one, ending with the toy dog, complete with the same lead and collar as Henry . . . but this time the fob held a picture of Keir, with his beautiful smile.
As we prepared to leave, we agreed that the green lead should go with Henry. His mum and I did have to gently prise the lead from him, which, although he found a little upsetting, he accepted. To divert and soothe him, we prompted him to ensure Henry got back his duck. He did his job with great pride.
We waved off a very happy and accepting little boy. The entire visit was about five hours, and it was very encouraging for Dale and me to witness the effects Henry and our preparations had had on Keir. We were thrilled by the response from the parents and the school. What more could we have asked from that day? That four-legged specialist had opened out all sorts of change and progression in one wee blonde chap that a highly trained human had been unable, or unwilling, to do.
A couple of days later, Beth rang me to say she wanted me to go ahead and source a suitable dog. I was delighted, but now we had to overcome another major obstacle. What breed of dog? Where would it come from, and when?
As the saying goes, you wait for a bus then three arrive at once, and so it was with parents. A family near me had a five-year-old severely autistic, non-verbal son, Jack, and a non-affected ten-year-old daughter.
I sent the Red Stage resources and arranged a Henry visit eight weeks later. Again, the school co-operated and the duck arrived in time. This time Henry’s collar and lead were yellow. I attached a little Bob the Builder figure to the second hook because Jack once named “Bob” on seeing the TV character. Indeed, perhaps the yellow came from the builder’s hat. Jack had no obsessions, but Bob had possibilities!
At first, Jack clung to his mum. It was a glorious day, and once in the garden his sister produced Henry’s duck. Just like Keir, Jack launched into the game. The eye contact, the game . . . he was totally focused on Henry. The yellow lead didn’t seem to hold much appeal until I removed it. Then he grabbed it! Sitting side by side at the table, I encouraged Jack to feed Henry some treats. We managed a useful rhythm of turn taking. So much learning.
In the shade, a smiling Jack sat astride an accepting Henry. I gave him the cuddly pack, and in keeping with the inclusive family spirit of the programme, his sister received a canine-themed book. Jack was mildly curious about the toy, but more interested in the toothbrush and metal food bowl. I found a teaspoon and started to hit the bowl, singing, “Beat the drum . . . beat the drum.” He copied, using the toothbrush. While his mum and I chatted, suddenly we heard a musical echo from the loveliest little voice. Jack was echoing, “Beat the drum . . . beat the drum.”
That night, Jack took his play dog to bed, and when his parents wished him good night, he replied, “Nigh, nigh”, not once, but twice! That was a first. Day by day, Jack’s Bob obsession blossomed, and he and his toy had to be forcibly unclipped for school! When their son offered biscuits to his new “pet”, the first, precious shoots of imaginative play were sprouting.
The family were determined to find a dog for Jack, and had contacts with the gun dog field. Fully trained, mature dogs. Perfect! Whilst pursuing their own dog plans, they gave me a contact for Hugh, another gun dog owner in Ayrshire. He was rehoming a three-year-old fully trained yellow Labrador called Ellie. I phoned, explained what we were trying to achieve, and within a week we went to meet her.
Hugh let me see his impeccable kennels. Unlike the other gun dogs, Ellie had been domesticated and was used to children. The minute we met her, humans and dogs alike, we were welcomed by a tail-wagging, attention-hungry golden friend. I patted her and fussed – what a gentle soul, what a trusting, angelic face. Yet, Hugh needed to move her on; she was far more interested in staying at her keeper’s side than fetching pheasants! As he put it, “Thon dog’s too posh to be a working dog!” Indeed, Ellie needed a family. Her vet would later describe her as a very bright dog who had successfully manoeuvred her career change! And why not!
She walked to heel without a lead, would stop at kerbs on command, not moving an inch until commanded to do so. She seemed to tick all the boxes, but I needed to give Ellie the ultimate test . . . Amy! I asked her to go over, make a noisy fuss, play, touch her tail, and have fun. She sprang into action, and Ellie passed with flying colours. She lay on the ground while Amy rubbed her tummy, hooting with laughter, to the thuds of her tail. I was certain this was the ideal dog for Keir, and called Beth.
The next hurdle was to get Ellie from Ayrshire to Tayside. We broke it down into two stages, for both Ellie’s and Keir’s sakes. I sent a picture of her so Beth could adapt the Yellow resources. It was time to show Keir his dog.
Our wonderful vet Nigel checked Ellie over, and that dog sure settled on the couple of days we shared!
She clung to me as if she was transferring the bond she had had with Hugh. Naturally, she had anxious times, particularly at night, so I let her sleep beside me. Jamie was demoted to the spare room. I never slept a wink. She slept like a baby! There was one final test I needed to perform. I was confident Ellie’s temperament training was superb, but I needed reassurance. Call the in-house guinea pig!
The weather was amazing. I dressed Ellie as she would be for Keir. On went her green collar, his picture in the fob, her harness with the green lead, and Dale took control, as usual, using a black lead. I attached a little Thomas to the second hook, giving her the full experience. Off we set, and I stayed well behind. Her pace was perfect and she accepted her different walking method and attire. I took my cue: “A
my, jump up and down, and scream.”
Both girls did me proud! Ellie looked from Dale to Amy, and it was time to walk on. Our test wasn’t over.
“Amy, now just lie on the ground and don’t move.”
Again Ellie stopped, and stayed, looked at Amy for a clue, as if something was not right, but she knew Dale was in charge. She waited for his command. It was wonderful to see all three together and I knew that I had found Keir his special dog. Exams over. Time for Ellie to meet her master.
We all set off on the long drive. Dale was going to stay with me to help settle Ellie, while Jamie and Amy were off for an afternoon at the park and shops and then a special lunch. That journey was fraught with excitement, tinged with anxiety about my first dog placement. I desperately hoped Ellie could help improve Keir’s quality of life and that she would adjust to her new home and master. Minutes from our destination, Dale cut through my concerns: “Mum, stop the car! We need to get Ellie ready.”
I was so caught up in the moment I’d forgotten. All those years of teaching him not to butt in! Just as well he did! We were only metres away.
Panic over, and suitably attired, I decided that Dale should walk Ellie towards the house. I phoned to let them know we were near. Beth and Keir were waiting at the door. He was glued to his Mum’s side when he saw Dale and Ellie approach, walking like a couple of professionals. He froze, completely overwhelmed.
His response was more than we could have hoped for. Ellie was definitely “his dog”. He needed time, so while he played and relaxed in the garden, I looked over and saw Ellie with Beth, who was kneeling down to greet her. Ellie’s two front paws rested on Beth’s shoulders, her tail wagging furiously like a propeller. She looked ready to take off! Ellie was giving Beth her unconditional love, greeting her new mum, and it was lovely to witness. She would be good for the whole family; after all, there was more than autism in the household.
After we were revived with refreshments and while the sun still shone, we cajoled Keir into taking his dog to the park. Dale took control with the black lead, while Keir took “his” lead, attached to the harness but unhooked to full length. As Dale tried to move them through the garden gate Keir stopped, turned and looked his dog straight in the eye. He gave a clear, perfect command: “Sit.” Dutifully, Ellie obeyed. They reached the park in record time, and the new master smiled approvingly throughout. I felt relieved. Ellie would lead the way to a happier future for him, and most important of all was Keir now had . . . a friend like Ellie.
Now, effectively, Keir had entered the Green Stage of the programme. His parents and school would use Ellie, and his liking for dogs, as an educational motivator and tool. I gave Beth a new Heaven book (appropriately vandalised!) as a resource for the Blue Stage. She would know when the time was right to teach her son about Ellie getting old and the concept of letting her go.
As we waved off Beth, her husband and a very happy little boy holding his special dog, we knew that we had all been on quite a journey. We didn’t know it at the time, but the future held still more, probably another world first. All that was to come.
As we drove home, someone was readying herself to visit the next family.
“Nuala, what colour is the next kid’s autism?”
“Amy, it is your favourite. Red.”
“Good, Nuala, that’s right!”
In the months that followed, Beth kept me up to date with how boy and dog were progressing. The news was wonderful. Keir was walking with Ellie with his lead on her collar, with his parents close by. He was encouraged to groom his dog. He fed her, filled her water bowl, celebrated her Christmases and did so many of the things that Dale had done for Henry. Beth overheard Keir telling Ellie that he loved her, and seeing Ellie after she was spayed, he empathised, “Poor Ellie.” While his autism remained severe, these moments opened up hope. Soon, the family couldn’t imagine life without Ellie.
Helping others helped Dale and I carry on and gave us hope when our lives were at a very low ebb; our futures remained desperately uncertain. Perhaps the only certain thing was that book had made a difference. Continually inspired by Henry, Dale and I visited eight more children to pilot the programme’s transitional stage. All to a lesser or greater degree showed me that my programme worked. We saw a full spectrum of colours – blue, red, green, yellow, orange. One child’s colour was purple and pink (and especially pleasing in stripes!). At last I understood how to use the dog to create the best chance of success for the child, where before we neuro-typicals were getting it wrong!
I received a phone call from a psychologist, seeking advice on dog phobia. The problem was challenging and I was pleased to help, although I had never considered addressing dog phobia for a child with autism, let alone an adult. The psychologist was working with the parent of Matthew, a teenager with severe autism. Matthew’s life was compromised because of his fear of dogs running up to him outside. Together, they were working intensively to desensitise him and give him coping strategies.
We spoke for two hours. I offered ideas and sent programme resources, including a DVD of assistance dogs helping children and other positive images. Matthew was taught basic dog commands so he could have some control. The big cuddly dog helped him address sensory issues and alleviate his worst fears. For nine arduous months, he slowly learned to adjust, coping with all types of situations and all things dog. I remarked to the psychologist that if this worked, then by extension all sorts of other ASD fears could be overcome too. All the same, I never expected this email from Matthew’s mum: “Matthew has overcome his phobia of dogs. We spent less than a year working with PAT (Pets As Therapy){4} dogs with great success. It has made such a huge difference to his life, ability to learn, etc. We now even have a puppy of our own at home, a Westie. Unbelievable and fantastic.”
Absolutely! I was delighted to hear of Matthew’s success, but my reality was that in order to continue my work I would need to find purpose-trained dogs like Ellie and juggle a career, and as for what this escalating happening in my working life might become . . . It was brilliant, and burgeoning.
What was I thinking? Amy was still young. She needed me. Dale needed me. When does a son stop needing his mum? When does she stop needing him? Then there were the dogs, the house, the garden . . . there was Jamie. Somewhere there was Jamie. I didn’t want to think about where he was in all this. Thinking just wasn’t working. Focus. Focus!
I opened my bag. I popped yet another pill. Take two, just in case.
Nuala, Nuala, get a grip. But how, exactly? What was I meant to grip? Something was ready to snap. Yet Dale and I were going to need the strength of every sinew and every bone we had in order to survive the months ahead.
11
Highs and Lows
Struan School and the Gardner family go back a long way. It was, after all, Jim Taylor who first moved things for us, making sure Dale had that all-important diagnosis when he was still tiny. We have been so supported by Scottish Autism and the National Autistic Society that when either of them asks something of us, we are only too happy to do it. In May, the Head of Struan, Janet Stirling, called. She asked if Dale would visit to talk to three senior pupils who were preparing to leave school. Of course, he was pleased to help. A few weeks later we headed there, with Henry in the boot and Dale’s guitar and a framed portrait of Sir Henry sharing the back seat.
On arrival, Dale went off with Janet to meet the pupils. I sat with Jim in the dining area, drinking gallons of coffee, served with very good cake. I updated him on my work. I explained how the working dog world was training dogs for autistic children, how this was growing internationally, and with promising results. I also gave him Henry’s portrait, which he decided to hang on the dining room wall. Anyone familiar with that beautiful school building will know that’s a prime spot, so dear Henry is seen by visitors and pupils alike, every day. Jim was delighted to meet up with Dale again and observe how much he had progressed.
It seemed such a long time since Jim had first m
et the preschool Dale, when he was completely gripped by his autism with those horrifically frustrating tantrums as his sole means of communication. My son had been four on our first trip there. I had been so desperate to help him. And desperate for help. At the time, I really wanted him to attend Struan. He caused havoc, screamed and lay under the dining table, where everyone simply ignored him until he calmed down. That day so long ago, Jamie and I joined eight severely autistic pupils, accompanied by staff, for their morning break. Their ages ranged significantly. One or two had some spoken language, but most were non-verbal. However, all were impeccably behaved and polite. Bizarrely, the snack time resembled a charming Victorian tea party! It progressed at a sedate pace, with a quite decorous atmosphere and very proper etiquette. A plate of prepared fruit was held at eye-level and passed around to encourage eye contact. “Anna, would you like a piece of fruit?”
Anna took a piece, then passed it at the same height. “Stuart, would you like some fruit?”
It was insightful to witness these pupils, who were being taught virtually twenty-four/seven. Every daily activity was an opportunity for communication or social education. I had been aware of this strategy already, but at that time, Dale’s autism was so challenging that alone or even with Jamie I couldn’t begin to approach the resourcefulness and stamina that the team at Struan had. However, that visit changed forever how I worked with Dale. It had given me the key, but it would take Henry to unlock him.
So, twenty-two years later, Jim and I were able to sit, swilling in coffee. Independently, Dale was with pupils whose early childhood had been every bit as hard as his own had been. Struan had given them the chances he had been given, and now it was his time to tell them that adult life was there for the taking.
Before we left, the pupils went to the car to meet Henry. We let him out to exercise. The seniors were fine young men and our visit was a great success.
All Because of Henry Page 13
