It may well be impossible to underestimate the reach of a therapy dog.
Joseph Mackereth
I have been around dogs all my life. Mama tells me that the first thing I ever demanded for myself was a puppy, unless of course you want to count cookies because evidently I was born asking for cookies. My first puppy arrived when I was just three, a fat, wiggly beagle for a fat, wiggly toddler. He was named Choc and I thought he was the best dog who ever lived. I am pretty sure I was right in that assessment because he was a great playmate for me and enthusiastically played any role I imagined for him, for as long as I cared to play.
So through observation and play, I have learned a lot from the dogs in my life. You can trust a dog not to steer you wrong. Drink lots of water. Play whenever you get a chance. Be loyal to those who love you. You don’t need to bite if a simple growl will make your point. Take walks. If something isn’t right for you, kick dirt over it and walk away. Take naps. Go outside every day. Enjoy your food.
All good life lessons, but there is one truly powerful, even miraculous, thing I’ve learned by watching dogs. It’s what my friend Cammie refers to as the “power of the paw.”
Dogs, through their unconditional love and complete lack of criticism, can reach people no one else can.
Cammie’s dog, Memphis, is a therapy dog working in the Rockingham County school system. My dog Biscuit is a certified therapy dog with the Alliance of Therapy Dogs. In fact, I am now the tester/observer for the Alliance of Therapy Dogs in the Harrisonburg, Virginia area, which means I have seen dozens of therapy dogs do their thing. It is always nothing short of amazing.
Children will open up to a dog in ways that they would never consider doing with an adult. A small girl, bawling and refusing to get off the bus at school, stops crying and exits the bus so she can pet the therapy dog who then walks her to her classroom. Special-needs children in the midst of a meltdown pull themselves together so they won’t scare the therapy dog. Children who struggle to read will practice in front of a therapy dog, because dogs just appreciate their attention and don’t care how many times they stumble over a word.
Just this year, a non-verbal student, a 7-year-old boy, walked up to Biscuit and started talking to her. I had no idea he was non-verbal, but the look on his teacher’s face said it all. The teacher even videotaped his conversation because she said his mother would not believe it. He opened up to Biscuit, who sat there and patiently listened to all his opinions, which it turned out were many.
Year after year of doing therapy visits, Biscuit is still always ready to go. If I touch her therapy backpack, she starts to vibrate. When we take the exit towards the school, she howls with glee. If I pull into the parking lot at the nursing home, I cannot get her car door open fast enough to satisfy her. She has friends she adores at every location that we simply must visit. Yes, dogs do have favorites. Certain rooms cannot be skipped, because Biscuit insists on seeing her people.
When we visit people with dementia, they light up. At some point in their life they loved a dog, and it is a touchstone for them. Years seem to melt away while they are petting Biscuit. They often call her by a long-gone dog’s name, cooing encouragement and love to her while rubbing her ears, though one gentleman did admonish her for missing the rabbit on their morning hunt.
Though 99 percent of the time, therapy work is affirming and fun, there is one sadness you will experience. You will make friends with delightful people. You will look forward to visiting them. Then one day, you will round the corner to head into their room and instead of hearing them say, “Biscuit! There’s my girl,” you’ll come upon an empty room. They’re gone, all evidence that they lived removed. No granny square throw folded on the footboard. No small jar of dog treats. No family photos. No sign of life. It’s heartbreaking. I mean, grief is a small price to pay for friendship and the knowledge that you did some good but the surprise still stings.
The maternal side of my family is riddled with Alzheimer’s disease so I consider visiting dementia patients with Biscuit as my personal pay-it-forward dues. One day, if I end up in a dementia care facility, I will want nothing more than for someone to bring me a dog to pet and coo over. If they bring me a dog and cookies I will have come full circle to one of the happiest times in my life, playing dress up with a patient beagle pup who’s wearing a baby bonnet while I eat pecan cookies. I will be home.
The story above appears in our March/April 2020 issue. For more subscribe today or log in to the digital edition with your active digital subscription. Thank you for your support!