Tales From a Therapy Dog: Family Photo

Rimba, Dulcie, and Shani:
The Three Dog Opera and Theatre Company
(around 2006)

Shani left us in January 2010 after 16 years
of loving and devoted companionship.
The Diva Duet and I miss him so very much.

People often ask me,
"How did you get them to sit still for this?!?"
To which I reply,
"Two words: obedience classes!"
(It also took 10 shots to get 1 good picture of all 3!)

Dulcie and Shani both earned their AKC Canine Good Citizen titles;
Rimba would probably have, too,
if I hadn't gotten tired of driving to dog classes all the time!
Take your dog to obedience classes,
it'll be fun for him and educational for you.

All of these dogs were adopted:
Shani from a private party;
"The Diva Duet" from the Joplin Humane Society.

Please spay or neuter your animals;
there are too many here needing homes already.

Adopt your next pet from the shelter instead of buying--
You'll never regret it;
their love is unconditional AND infinite.

Tales From a Therapy Dog: CockleShell (1)

You could say that Santa brought Dulcie into my life, that Thanksgiving weekend eight years ago. And you wouldn't be far from wrong, but the truth is, I'm still blaming the media.

I already had two lovely dogs at the time: the marvelous Shani, a black and tan cockapoo; and the quiet Rimba, a black accented with white SchnauTick (schnauzer and blue tick hound mix). They were my Black Brace, two adult dogs who'd finished at the top of their obedience class. More than enough well behaved dog for one woman.

Or so I thought.

But I'd always said my next dog was going to be a cocker with its tail undocked, and there she was, in all her curly, golden coated glory, big brown eyes and maundy nose checking me out. Her tail and butt never stopped wagging, but I steeled myself and walked on by. After all, the last thing I needed was another dog, much less a puppy. I was here to play Santa, have pets come get their picture taken with me, perhaps raise some much needed funds for the Humane Society.

The day was slow, not many folks were thinking about having their pet's portrait made for the Christmas season. So when the local TV reporter showed up with a group of kids to do a promo for the event, Santa needed a dog to complete the picture. A child was promptly sent to choose a puppy for Santa. I called after the child, “Bring me that black and white terrier.”, knowing full well that I'd be able to resist that wriggling bundle of bristling fur and razor teeth. Instead, with a child's unerring sense of cute, a happy Dulcie was deposited in my arms, where she promptly tucked her head under my chin and licked my neck.

I was a goner.

So, “Curly Sue”, who had been born prematurely to a cocker mama and an unspecified papa, came home with me that day. Her mama, brother, and she had only been returned to the shelter from their foster home only a few days earlier, so the trauma of living in a world of anxious, barking dogs was minimal. To my delight, I found that Dulcie was already housebroken, and though not interested in learning tricks, had a heart of gold and loved to be with me every minute she could, preferably in my cozy lap.

While papa's pedigree remained unknown, I came to believe that surely he was a Sheltie. Dulcie has the thick, plush coat and coloring of the Sheltie breed. She also had the ability to spring straight up into the air, bouncing high enough to look me directly in the eye. She would complete this aerial feat by wagging her entire body in joy. I began to call her the “Doglin”, since she resembled a dolphin dancing on its tail.

As she grew, it became apparent that she could easily be referred to as “The World's First Miniature Golden Retriever”, though I had to stop telling people that when they insisted on knowing where they could get one for themselves. For awhile after that, if someone asked what kind of dog she was, the standard answer became, “She's a rare breed: a CockleShell.” Recently, I've just been saying, “She's the sweetest cocker mix ever!”

Since the first moment I met Dulcie, sweet and gentle have been the two words that best described her. She's never met anyone she didn't like, although after her first set of shots, poor Dr. Mickey was demoted to a merely tolerated and bothersome necessity. Dr. Mickey always asks that you let him and his staff handle your animal during shots, so that your companion knows you don't have anything to do with that stinging poke in their shoulder. That first time, Dulcie shot across the exam table and up onto my shoulder when Dr. Mickey released her. Burying her head in my neck like a small child, she refused to look at Dr. Mickey. I coaxed her into looking back at him as he extended his hand, holding a delicious puppy treat. She shot him the most baleful look I'd ever witnessed on a puppy, and whipped her head back into the shelter of my neck.

We all had a good laugh at it—that is, all of us but Dulcie. She'll go to the vet, patiently let them poke and prod her, but she doesn't like it. Even after all these years, she still won't willingly go across the room to greet Dr. Mickey, even if I've given him her favorite treat of cooked chicken to entice her.

Her sweet and gentle nature meant that she never met a stranger. She especially loved babies and children from the first. If a baby was crying, she would come to me, then go to the baby, looking at me for assistance. Children could do just anything with her, although I always kept a watchful eye on them as they played together.

I enrolled Dulcie in dog obedience classes at Kloud K9 in Joplin around her first birthday. Everyone always commented that she never stopped wagging her tail; there was a steady thump, thump resounding even through some of the quieter exercises. The instructor nicknamed her “Velcro Butt” because once in a sit/stay, she didn't leave it until told to do so, no matter the distraction. She graduated and earned her Canine Good Citizen title from the AKC, which was all we needed to join a local group who took their dogs to nursing homes in Joplin.

I'd already started looking into therapy dog registration, but was unable to find a program and evaluation that fit my time schedule and budget. While I kept looking for a program, I thought it would be good experience for Dulcie and I to go on some visits with this group. It would be provide Dulcie with some much needed experience with older folks, and many things she'd never encountered before: wheelchairs, meal carts, beeping and shrieking alarms, etc. We were set to start our journey as a therapy team, not knowing how much it would enrich and change both our lives.

Tales From a Therapy Dog: 3/24/2010

Today, I lost someone who'd touched my life with barely saying a word. She did it with her face, a face remarkably unlined for a woman of her age.

When I first met her, she had two black eyes and a bump the size of a hen's egg on her bruised, sunset colored forehead. She was lying listlessly in her bed, until she saw what I had to offer.

“Hi,” I said, “This is Miss Dulcie. Would you like for her to get up on the bed with you? I'll make sure she doesn't step on you.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. So up went 25 pounds of strawberry blond cocker mix to lie beside her. The rec director helped pull a stiff and resistant hand out from a layer of blankets to touch the silken fur spilling out from under Dulcie's work harness.

And there it was; the magic of a face lit by the lamp of pure pleasure. That first visit, the woman couldn't take her bright blue eyes off of Dulcie, though her spasmed limbs often snatched her hands off the satin of Dulcie's coat.

For most of our visits, our new friend was heavily medicated and unable to respond to much talk. But it was understood that Dulcie was always welcome on her bed. So after I settled Dulcie carefully on the bed, tucked as close to the woman's hands as possible, I sat on the floor beside the bed. Gently, I would take a hand and place it on Dulcie, and every time, I saw that miraculous facial transformation from dullness to radiance.

Dulcie spent a blissful fifteen minutes a week, lying on that bed, looking at the woman with the adoring look she had previously conferred only upon me. With grace and delicacy, she would slip her maundy nose under the woman's hand, nudging for a pat. If she didn't get one after a few tries, she would sigh and lay her head on the woman's chest, big brown eyes blinking sleepily in the quiet, warm room.

Sometimes I suspected the woman and Dulcie were sharing a laugh; Dulcie would sit up on her hind legs, slowly collapse backwards onto the woman's abdomen, all the while panting merrily and making chittering noises.

Mostly it was the woman, Dulcie, and me sitting in the relative silence of the room, but staff would drop by and fuss over Dulcie, who continued to be enthralled by the woman. As the weeks passed, and the woman got weaker, touching Dulcie became very difficult. But that luminous look of joy always appeared when she felt the weight of Dulcie come to rest on her bed.

The past few times we came to visit, I found myself reaching to take the woman's hand, not to guide it to Dulcie, but simply to hold it. She had long, strong fingers, and as I held her hand, I felt the lingering power of a determined woman. It gave me courage to face my own life, those fifteen minutes watching my dog and my friend enjoy each other. I found myself seeking and finding joy in circumstances that before I'd only expected to yield pain and sorrow.

A couple of weeks ago, I meant to find the rec director and ask her to call me if our friend died; I sensed the end was near, and I wasn't sure I wanted to be surprised by the news a week after the fact. But she wasn't to be found that day, so Dulcie and I went home.

Last week was spring break, and I was busy taking care of 2 houses full of animals in addition to my own. I'd told the nursing center residents the week before that Dulcie wouldn't be coming to visit because I wouldn't have time to bathe her. I didn't even take time to run by our friend's room and say hello.

The evening before our next visit was fraught with wrought. I was chatting with a friend online, and we were talking about some painful things which brought tears to both of us. But I could not seem to stop crying, and the longer I cried, the more my whole body ached. The night was spent crying, a great sadness filling my heart and causing Dulcie to velcro herself to my back as I lay in bed, tears filling my ears and swelling my eyes. If I slept at all, it was snatched time. I was still crying at 7:30 when my niece called to talk, and got her incoherent auntie instead. She pulled me out of the salt water abyss and sent me on my way.

I took special care to get Dulcie groomed, carried her to the car (mud season!) and she arrived at the nursing home well swathed in my sweater to keep her dry. She always protests at this, but even a clean dog is stinky when wet. We visited our first resident, and as we walked down the hall toward our friend's room, the rec director stepped in front of me. One look at her reddened nose and eyes said everything. Our friend had passed that morning, after two days of struggle.

My first reaction, after the emotional night I'd had, was to sit down right then and there, clutch Dulcie to my side and howl a memorial. But they train you in therapy work to be professional, and so I swallowed my tears, put a smile on my face, and went to visit another resident, the tail scratching woman Dulcie liked so well.

I realize now that part of the outpouring of pain and sorrow the night before was because I had unwittingly tuned into our friend's last hours on earth; that in some way both Dulcie and I were on her mind as she crossed over. It didn't make my loss any easier, but it helped to remind me how we are all so very connected.

It's hard enough to have to go to WalMart when you feel good. When you're hoping you can still put one foot in front of the other, it's pure hell, perhaps one of the inner rings. As I stumbled around getting food and phone cards, I remembered one of the things my chat friend had said the night before: that I must always be ready to see an angel when s/he appeared to comfort me.

My particular angel that day was a gorgeous Hispanic man near my age, neatly dressed in new jeans, a cream and caramel long sleeved plaid shirt, with beautiful white teeth. Most importantly, he looked me directly in the eyes, and generously gave me the smile I so desperately wanted and needed.

Perhaps it was also the woman's way of reminding me to keep looking for the joy, no matter how many times pain tries to bury it out of sight.