[Dailydrool] Pet therapy work

[Elizabeth]

Reading about Dexter’s pet therapy work has brought back some good memories from our late Elsinore Basset’s pet therapy career at a hospice. She loved loved loved her job. When I’d bring out her go-to-work collar, leash, and visiting bag, she’d recognize them and run in happy circles all the way to car, barking at me to hurry up, hurry up. I wish I had a job I felt as joyful about. 

During one visit, we saw a group of women standing in a tense huddle outside a parent’s room. Their closed-off body language said it all—crossed arms, tight shoulders, lowered heads, solidly planted feet, no eye contact among them, tight expressions. One of them looked up as we approached, and I asked if they’d like to pat Elsinore. They nodded and opened up their huddle to admit her. 

Elsinore barged in and took charge of the situation (she was antake-charge kind of gal), working her way from one woman to the next while I made pleasant chitchat about Elsinore and their own dogs. Elsinore sat on feet, nudged for pats, made soulful eye contact, and I watched as the women all visibly, miraculously physically relaxed. By the time we left them, they were looking at and even smiling at each other, and their posture had softened and opened up.

Then there was the time an unsupervised toddler (kind of an oxymoron, there) suddenly charged over to where Elsinore was sitting and planted a big, wet, smacky kiss on her nose. The child had been over there somewhere with her preoccupied parents, but toddlers can move surprisingly, unexpectedly quickly, and this one did. Elsinore looked thoroughly taken aback, which was how I was feeling, too. She looked up at me as if to say, “Can you believe what that kid just did?” and I had to tell her I sure couldn’t. 

The toddler immediately seemed to realize her impulsivity had been a mistake, if only for the experience of having the feel of a cold, wet dog nose on her mouth. She wiped it off with a sincere “yuck!” and I hoped she’d remember how unpleasant that dog kiss was so she wouldn’t do it to a dog who might instinctively nip her in response. I cannot describe just how relieved I was that Elsinore had been able to control that instinct, because a nip, no matter how well earned, would have resulted in forced permanent retirement from the work she loved doing. The experience reminded me that there is a very good reason certified pet therapy dogs go through such extensive training and regular testing. Having the right temperament means everything. 

Finally there was the time Elsinore indicated she really, really wanted to go into a particular hospice resident’s room. She *never* wanted to do that. Her speciality was hallway consultations with family and staff only. She did not enjoy interacting with the actual residents in their rooms, and I never forced it on her. Bassets can smell so much that we humans miss, and my guess is that the odor of approaching death upset her. But this time, she insisted she visit inside this room. I melted inside, thinking how wonderful it was that Elsinore could sense there was someone in there who needed her ministrations so badly that she just couldn’t not go in. 

The resident was asleep, but his family welcomed Elsinore. But Elsinore completely ignored the family, made a beeline for the bed, and tried to belly crawl under it. Apparently the family cat had been to visit earlier that day, and its humans had forgotten to pick up the water and food dishes they had left under the bed for it. Elsinore's marvelous, professional-grade basset nose had smelled the cat food from all the way out in the hallway. Fortunately, the family had a good sense of humor. Elsinore was allowed a couple pieces of cat kibble, the rest of the distraction was removed, and she was able to provide the family with a satisfying visit. But so much for my highly sensitive, emotionally intuitive pet therapy dog. At least during that visit.

Elizabeth 
linktolindsey at gmail.com