Joy Unleashed

by Jean Baur

  “I don’t see any progress, do you?” I asked Cathy.

  “No, and if he gets near Brandon, it will all be over.”

  On the way home, we talked about Bella’s head-shy issues. Debby had told me to desensitize her, but I wasn’t sure how that was going to work. Bella was four years old, she had a safe and happy home, but still didn’t want her head touched. That seemed to me to just be who she was.

  Cathy reassured me that Bella’s sweetness would win out. That she would be great with people even if they couldn’t touch her head. I hoped she was right.

  “How am I going to get Brandon to politely meet and greet male dogs?” she asked me. “You know how he is when we’re out on walks.”

  I did. Brandon was like the chief. He had to be in the lead and was perfectly happy as long as Bella and Lela followed him. But when a male dog tried to walk past us on the street—even the other side of the street—he pulled on the leash and snarled. Not a CGC dog. More of an I’d-like-to-rip-your-head-off dog. Cathy hung on for dear life, she shouted at him, but like Bella, he was off in his own world and ignored her.

  At home, Bob and I used treats to get Bella a tiny bit less uncomfortable about having her head touched. When she curled up next to us on the couch, she was fine, you could touch her anywhere. But if we stood and reached for her, she ducked. To expose her to more unfamiliar situations, I started bringing her into pet stores so that she’d have to pass other dogs in the aisles and would hopefully learn to trust me in new and strange environments. When she did a really good job, I let her pick out a bag of treats.

  On our walks in the neighborhood, I used the leave it command when we passed other dogs and kept her on a short leash. That seemed to help, but I wasn’t sure she’d be able to pass the test. It seemed to depend on the dogs she would have to interact with.

  We finished the class in late spring, and Bob and I left Bella and Henry with our pet sitter while we took a vacation in Utah, hiking in Zion National Park and then volunteering at Best Friends Animal Sanctuary in Kanab, Utah. It was amazing. We walked dogs, cleaned pens, hauled water, played with puppies, helped out with the feral rabbits, and loved seeing the care the animals received. It was a beautiful and special place. We even attended a pet memorial service and a young woman stood up to talk about how much she loved her pet rat.

  “He was so special,” she said, tears running down her face. “I loved him so much.”

  I couldn’t look at Bob because if I did, we’d both laugh, and we didn’t want to be disrespectful. And I got it, I did, the loss of a pet rips you open.

  When we got home, it was time to schedule the test. I called Debby and got a date in late June. In the few weeks leading up to the test, Bella and I practiced all the time.

  Finally, we were in the waiting room of the facility, chatting with the receptionist who wanted to know all about Best Friends. Just as I was telling her about our volunteer work there, a woman and her dog came out of the training room and into the lobby, and the dog lunged at Bella. Bella’s hair rose straight up and she growled, but did not counter-attack. Debby was behind the woman.

  “Did you see that?” she yelled at me. “Bella is clearly unfit for testing.”

  “Excuse me?” I said, sure that I had misheard her.

  “I can’t test a dog who shows aggressive behavior.”

  “But the other dog came at her. She didn’t bite him, just sent him a message to back off. She was protecting herself.”

  I looked up at the receptionist, hoping for an ally. She turned her head away and said nothing.

  “You have some hard work to do,” Debby informed me, “as this dog clearly has issues. And just so you know, they aren’t things you’ll be able to fix quickly. You’ve got months of work before you can even think about passing the CGC.”

  Somehow I got out of the building without either crying or shouting at her. As Bella sniffed around in the grass, I replayed what had just happened. She wasn’t going to test Bella? She thought we wouldn’t pass the test anytime soon? I couldn’t believe it! I knew I didn’t like her when I saw how she treated the boxer, but I didn’t expect her to turn on us. I couldn’t understand why she was so vindictive, why she took pleasure in putting us down.

  As I forced myself to take deep, slow breaths, I admitted that Bella wasn’t an easy dog, but I also knew, deep in my heart, that she was a good dog and that she would be a wonderful therapy dog. I had to find a way to pass the test. I had to get past Debby and whatever issues she had that had made her so sure we couldn’t get certified.

  I called Cathy when we got home. She couldn’t believe it and reassured me that we would make it. But this was a huge glitch in our plans, as we wanted to get the dogs certified together. Brandon had passed the test while we were in Utah and was on his way to the next step of the certification process.

  “She’ll make it, Jean,” Cathy told me, and I knew she was right. I also knew that I wouldn’t be using Debby. I brooded about this for a few days, putting myself in a frenzy as I kept replaying what happened and thinking of really awful things that I wished I had said to Debby. But I finally came up with an idea: find another evaluator. Within ten minutes on the Internet, I had a list and called the two closest ones. Within an hour, Bella’s test was scheduled for July, and the neat thing was that the test would be at the ASPCA facility where we had adopted our first dog, Angus. There was hope.

  Bob, Bella, and I got to the ASPCA early and walked around the grounds. I was a wreck. Bob found a bench and read a book while Bella and I followed the evaluator, Pat, into the training room. She was soft spoken and kind. She liked Bella. Bella let her pet her on the head. I was holding my breath, trying to keep my expectations in line. She had us walk around the room. When I greeted her and shook her hand, Bella stood quietly by my side. I put her in a sit/stay position and crossed the room. Bella stayed.

  “Nice,” said Pat. “She’s well trained.”

  I nodded, afraid to open my mouth, afraid I would blow it by telling her how much this meant to me.

  Then I had to leave Bella with her and go outside for three full minutes. I handed Pat the leash, told Bella she was a good girl, and walked out the door. I saw the look in her eyes, the questions: What are you doing? Why are you leaving me? Will you come back? I counted seconds, I hummed, I leaned toward the door wondering if Bella would bark or whine. If she did, it was over. If she pulled or acted upset, she would be disqualified. Finally, I heard Pat say, “Come back in.”

  I looked at Bella and she wagged her tail. Her eyes shimmered.

  “She missed you, but was fine.”

  I exhaled. For the last part of the test, another evaluator was supposed to bring his dog into the room to see how Bella would react. But Pat got a call on her cell phone that he couldn’t make it, so she suggested we walk up the hill to the ASPCA kennels and walk past the outdoor runs. “That will give us a sense of her reaction,” she said.

  We passed Bob on his bench and Bella wanted to run to him. “This way,” I told her, giving Bob a quick nod to let him know she was doing well.

  As we approached the first run, I saw a beautiful collie run toward us. Bella hesitated, but didn’t bark or snarl. It was like the ghost of Angus appearing to help us.

  “Let her sniff him through the fence,” said Pat, and I did. Bella was interested and, with the fence between them, she was not afraid. The collie wagged his tail and I silently thanked him. Further down the line, other dogs barked in their outdoor runs, and I wondered if Bella would have to meet them all.

  “That’s fine,” Pat said. “She did a good job. You’ll get the paperwork in the mail in a few weeks.”

  “She passed?”

  “Yes. She did a great job. You’ve got a special dog here.”

  I wanted to throw my arms around her neck. I wanted to tell Pat what a relief this was. Instead, I simply said, “Thank you so much.” I shook her hand. Bella waited politely by my side.

  “Oh, what a good girl!” I
told her as Pat went back to her car.

  I gave her lots of praise and a handful of treats. “You did it,” I whispered into her ear. “You did it.”

  When I straightened up, Bob didn’t have to ask. He saw my face and Bella’s tail wagging, and he knew.

  Chapter 16

  BONDING

  July–August 2012

  Stonington, Connecticut

  There was something about showing up every week at an institution that changed things. After about three or four months, we were no longer visitors or outsiders and had become part of the fabric of the rehab facility. The administrators, nurses, and staff trusted us. The residents expected us, and knew exactly what to do when Shelby and Bella came into the room. And while the dogs were willing to visit with anyone, like us, they had their favorites.

  Their favorite room was Alice and Jackie’s. Jackie had bags of dog treats in her bedside table, and Alice’s daughter, Nancy, a woman about our age, trumped that with organic peanut butter and molasses treats. When we got anywhere near their room, both dogs pulled. Bella was so excited, she jumped up on Jackie’s bed while Jackie grinned from ear to ear and said, “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. I know what you want!”

  Shelby wanted to jump up on the bed too, and a few times did, almost hurling Jackie off the other side. Deb and I laughed, while Nancy clapped her hands and her mother either slept through the whole thing or looked off into space.

  Jackie was always elegantly dressed and upbeat, so at first I didn’t understand why she was here. She reminded me of women in New York City—somehow intrinsically sophisticated—a pin matching her earrings, a silk scarf thrown casually around her neck. But then, in the middle of a visit, her words would become garbled and she’d say, “What’s this thing here?” fingering Bella’s harness, or, looking at Shelby, she’d start off on a thought but lose her way before it was over.

  One day I asked her, “Are you all right?”

  “No! No I’m not.” And she hit herself in the head, adding, “It’s not right in here. Not good. Not what I want.”

  I didn’t know what to say so I stood there looking at her.

  “Confused,” she added.

  “You feel confused?” asked Deb as the dogs waited to see if more treats would be offered.

  Jackie nodded, and a sadness and tiredness overtook her face.

  I put my hand on her shoulder and told her that we loved visiting her. She laid back on her bed, rested her head on her pillow, and looked out the window. We spent some time with Nancy, and I tried to talk with her mother, Alice, who didn’t have any interest in the dogs but was very proud of her manicure.

  “Your nails are beautiful,” I told her, and she smiled. “I wish mine looked like that.”

  Alice said, “Of course you do,” and we both laughed.

  “We’ll see you next week,” said Deb, as we got our reluctant dogs to leave the room. It wasn’t just the treats: Bella and Shelby both enjoyed having a fuss made over them and related to Jackie and Nancy because, like people, they knew when they were deeply admired. They recognized love.

  Deb and I debriefed quickly in the hallway. “Can’t beat that,” she said.

  “I know. But Jackie’s having a tough time.”

  “It’s hard to watch, isn’t it?” asked Deb.

  I nodded, thinking that she didn’t need language to enjoy the dogs, but it must’ve been terrifying.

  “I’d rather go quickly. Get hit by a truck.”

  “Would you stop it?” said Deb. “You’ve got to stick around so we can be roommates here.”

  “Now you’re scaring me. I won’t know who you are.”

  We continued down the hallway, Deb in the lead with her wonderful, warm invitation: “Would you like to see the dogs?” Even if the person couldn’t talk, if we saw one glimmer of interest in their eyes, we were there.

  We never woke people who were sleeping. We never disturbed the nurses or aides at their work. We didn’t enter a room if the door was closed or the curtain pulled around the bed. And we quickly learned that a few of the residents disliked dogs. At the end of one hallway, near the nurses’ station, there were almost always one or two residents in their wheelchairs. A nurse warned us that a new patient, Maxine, would probably yell at us if we got near her. She didn’t just hate dogs, she hated everything, and was bent over in her wheelchair, muttering curses. She was so frail that I thought a strong wind would have pulverized her.

  Deb took the warning as a dare. It was like someone saying, “Just try bringing your dog over here—there’s no way you’re going to get through to this person.”

  “Hi, Maxine,” said Deb from a careful distance, Shelby at her side. Maxine snapped her head around and glared at Deb.

  “I’m Deb and this is my dog, Shelby. We come here every week. Would you like to pet her?”

  A string of garbled swear words erupted from her mouth, but Deb didn’t back away.

  “She’s really soft.”

  Deb got Shelby a little closer and I noticed the nurses were watching too. Maxine had quite a reputation. She was weak but could still do some damage with her sharp nails.

  Maxine’s fingers twitched. “You could give her a treat,” added Deb.

  And miraculously her hand opened and Deb put a small treat on her palm. Shelby was on it in a flash, her wide soft tongue washing Maxine’s hand.

  “Oh!” she said, and then bent down closer to Shelby and said something I couldn’t hear.

  We waited and when she spoke again we heard her saying, “There you go, sweetheart.”

  The nurses’ mouths were open, and Deb slowly stood and told Maxine that we looked forward to seeing her next week. Maxine slumped back down in her wheelchair, the space around her once again closed in. Bella and I watched, but didn’t go near her.

  As we went around the corner into another wing, I told Deb, “That was amazing!”

  “I know,” she said, smiling. “My girl can do just about anything.” And she could.

  This made me think of love as a multiplier. Deb loved Shelby so much, and they were deeply connected in so many ways, that love could break through even the bitterness that surrounded Maxine. It was a force to be reckoned with.

  I was still too new in this work to see the ways it was changing me, and given my almost twenty years as a career coach, and having written two books in the field, I still expected in that first summer after having lost my job, that I would be able to replace it with something similar. I researched local outplacement firms, sent out résumés, networked to seek out the decision makers, attended job search groups, offered to speak on career topics, and ultimately drove myself a bit nuts. I couldn’t let go of the feeling that only this kind of work would give me a sense of purpose and belonging. I couldn’t admit, but still believed, that I was owed a job as a career coach.

  Two things shocked me out of this belief: First, I finally got an offer from one of my former company’s competitors. They offered me three days of work a week—half of it in Rhode Island and the other half in Connecticut. Both locations were about an hour drive from my home. When I got the offer, the woman who would have been my boss said, “I’m really embarrassed about the money,” and then quoted me a daily fee that was what I had earned in the 1970s. I asked her if she could come up a bit, and she promised to get back to me in a few days. As I thought about it—doing the long drive, having a client load again, adjusting to all the rules and regulations that go with the outplacement industry—I realized money wasn’t the problem. The job was. I didn’t want to go back. I couldn’t go back.

  I called her the next day, thanked her for the offer, and declined. She understood and told me to stay in touch if I changed my mind. It’s always hard to say no, to walk away, but I knew I had done the right thing. The second thing that took a bit longer but still helped me say goodbye to this phase of my life, was getting rehired by my former company. The work was awful, as I went with other career counselors to companies that were letting st
aff go, and after each employee was notified, he or she had the option to meet with one of us to go over their outplacement program. We were there to help them see that all was not lost. It rarely worked, as most people were too angry, too hurt, or too shocked to hear a word we said. Therapists were there, too, to pick up the pieces.

  This tenuous connection to my former company helped me remember that I was not alone in struggling to get over job loss, and that in many ways I had outgrown this work in the outplacement industry. But I held on to this job this first summer in our new home because it gave me a link to my past life.

  Chapter 17

  THE THERAPY DOG CERTIFICATION TEST

  Fall 2011

  Yardley, Pennsylvania

  We were lucky that in Pennsylvania where we lived there was a wonderful therapy dog organization called Bright and Beautiful Therapy Dogs, Inc. They made the process simple and had been certifying therapy dogs since 1992. On their website, Cathy and I found a self-test that included the basics of what would be expected on the real test. As I read down the list, only one item concerned me: “What happens when your dog sees another dog?” And the multiple choice answers:

  A. He exhibits mild curiosity and wags his tail.

  B. He growls, snarls, and drags you down the street.

  Oh, boy, did we have a challenge. Bella was for sure a “B” dog, unless she met a dog she knew and liked; then she squealed, flipped onto her back, and writhed in total ecstasy like an electric eel. The bad news was that she was basically fearful, and this turned into aggression toward dogs she didn’t know. She was especially afraid of large dogs, and dogs of any size who were assertive and in her face. But the good news was I knew she genuinely liked people, and with Bob and me now the grandparents of three young children, I also knew she was good with kids. And of course, she’d had a lot of training from our two years in agility, so she paid attention to me and wanted to please. I hoped that the strong relationship between us would pull us through. I prayed the good outweighed the bad.