by Jean Baur
“Look at you!” I said, as she bent to pat Bella.
“I’m done with chemo,” she said, beaming.
“Congratulations. I’m so glad to hear it.”
I realized I had never seen her standing before, only seated in a recliner, attached to an IV.
“I’ll miss Bella,” she said, “but I’m glad to be out of here.”
We chatted for a few more minutes, and as I turned to take Bella into the infusion room, she had one more thing to say: “Keep up the visits. You have no idea what they mean when you’re fighting cancer.”
I gave her a hug and Bella got an extra treat just for being who she was.
Chapter 21
WE GO TO SCHOOL
Winter 2013
Stonington, Connecticut
We had done several bite-prevention programs at preschools and kindergartens, but we’d never been part of an ongoing program at a school. A regular. I got the word out to my dog network that I was looking for an elementary school where Bella and I could volunteer. I loved the hospital and rehab facility, but I sensed Bella’s gifts were particularly suited to children, and it would make a good contrast with people who were sick, old, or dying.
Despite numerous follow-up calls, I couldn’t get into a school in my local community, but did connect with a woman, Carol, in another part of Connecticut who founded the pet therapy program in an elementary school about seven years ago. She was a pro. After we’d spoken on the phone a few times, she asked me to send her Bella’s paperwork, which I did. Then we scheduled a visit for right after the holidays so I could shadow her as she made her rounds with her dog, Max. Bella was not invited to this first meeting.
On a cold January morning, I went into the school, signed in at the front desk, and received my visitor’s badge. Carol came down the hall with Max, and I was struck by how comfortable he looked, as if he were taking a stroll outside. He greeted me with a typical slobbery lab kiss and Carol told me a little bit about the children we were going to see and the protocol. She then took me to the school psychologist’s office and introduced me.
“Jean and her dog, Bella, will be joining us here every Tuesday. Bella hasn’t worked in a school before, but she’s good with children.”
The psychologist asked me what made Bella a good therapy dog, and I told her she’s sensitive and attentive. She reads people well. And she radiates happiness, like most dogs. She thanked me for joining them, and then Carol and I walked down the hall for Max’s first appointment. Carol used to be an elementary school teacher and had just retired at the end of the previous school year. She was thrilled to have more time to invest in the program she started, and having been a teacher herself, she was diplomatic and understood their schedules.
She knocked softly on a classroom door, opened it a few feet, and asked the teacher if Mark was ready for his visit. The teacher nodded and reminded Mark, a cute second grade boy, to select a book to read to Max. Carol introduced me to Mark, but he had eyes for only Max, his right hand stroking the length of his back as we walked slowly down the hall.
We got into the Safe Room, a place for students to read, have quiet time, or meet one-on-one with their teachers. Carol told me never to close the door; we must be visible to others at all times. This was the world we lived in. Mark sat down on a thick gym mat on the floor and Max flopped down beside him. Carol sat on the other side of Max and asked Mark what he was going to read to Max. He held up a book about snakes.
“Good topic,” said Carol. “I think Max will like that.”
Max was fast asleep but it didn’t matter; Mark pressed up against him. Reading a book to a dog was safe, fun, and free of judgment. Carol listened but didn’t correct Mark when he mispronounced words. When the story was done, Carol asked Mark if he’d like to walk Max down the hallway. She clipped a second leash onto his collar and Mark proudly led Max down the hall to the front of the school. Other children saw him, some passing in the hallway, others from their classrooms. This was status, a top prize, not remedial reading. Being with the dog was the best. In the front lobby, Carol let go of the leash and gave Mark a tennis ball to throw gently for Max.
We walked Mark back to his classroom, and Carol told his teacher that he did a wonderful job reading the snake book. The other children wanted to pet Max, but Carol told them not now. Max was working.
Carol and I arranged to meet right outside the school the following week. I would have Bella with me, and we wanted the dogs to meet on neutral territory. I told Carol Bella was often afraid of large dogs and may not be friendly, and I thanked her for letting me see what Max did. “It’s really inspiring,” I told her, and meant it. On the forty-minute drive home, I thought about the children I saw and how a dog made them feel relaxed about reading. Accepted. Fine just as they were. These were children whom the teachers and school psychologist had identified as at risk. We didn’t ask why, we didn’t know the details, we just showed up with a dog and became friends. I liked this not-being-in-charge thing. I liked that dogs had a different way of being smart and still knew what to do. And I really liked the fact that we were not making judgments or handing out grades and that we had no authority. It was liberating.
As the youngest of three children, I was always behind and rushing to catch up, something I couldn’t do no matter how hard I tried. I’d scream “Wait for me!” and my brother and sister would run so fast until I could no longer see them. And I’d stand there, gasping for breath, hating them for leaving me alone. School was like this, too, as being A-students seemed effortless to them, while I struggled to master subtraction and spelling. My second-grade teacher yelled at me for using my fingers, but I couldn’t make sense of numbers in my head. So I believed I wasn’t smart, and it wasn’t until college that I finally had the confidence to know otherwise. Wouldn’t it have been wonderful, when I was a child, to have had a dog as one of my teachers? To have had that companion, a creature who provided reassurance and acceptance, and who could have helped me figure out that although I was the youngest, I was smart in my own way, and would find a way to learn on my own terms when I was ready.
When Bella met Max, her hair shot up and she backed away. Max was big, but Carol had trained dogs for years and suggested we take a walk around the school parking lot. Bella relaxed, and by the time we walked into the school, she had snuck up behind Max to sniff him.
Now we were a pack of two women and two dogs. We took up a lot of space in the school hallway. I signed in, and as a class passed us on their way to the school library, the children squealed with delight. Their teacher kept them in line. We were to meet the three children I would start working with the following week. Carol wanted to make sure they would be okay with Bella.
As we opened each classroom door, the dogs were like magnets. They were beacons calling the children to them. Only the children we would be working with were allowed to get out of their seats and meet Bella. Bella was jazzed up. She liked it here. I think she liked the energy, the attention, maybe just the excitement of being in a school. This was her first time here and she acted as if she owned it. It was her domain. Maybe she liked small creatures because they didn’t tower over her, or maybe these were the puppies she never had.
Carol made the introductions and told the children we would be back next week to meet with them. I could hardly wait. All three children were in first grade: Courtney, Justin, and Ely. Carol had written down their classroom numbers for me and when I was scheduled to see them. The following week, I saw Courtney first. She had long brown hair and sparkling eyes. Her teacher reminded her to pick out a few books to read to Bella and she did. Once we were out in the hallway, I told her I was glad to meet her. She only looked at Bella, clearly taken with her.
We sat down on the mats in the Safe Room, the door open, with Bella between us.
“What would you like to read first?”
She held up a book about a fawn.
“Sounds good. Bella and I will listen.”
As she read
about the fawn who had to stay still while her mother was gone, I noticed Courtney’s left hand resting on the back of Bella’s neck, her fingers under her fur. I silently rooted for the fawn, rooted for Courtney while she read.
“That was great!” I said when she finished the book. “Want to read one more and then you can play with Bella?”
She nodded.
The second book was about two small dogs who were afraid of a fox.
“Make sure you’re listening,” I told Bella, whose eyes were closed.
When she was done, I gave Courtney a tennis ball and asked her to hide it.
“Let’s see how long it takes Bella to find it,” I said.
Courtney put the ball behind a desk and when she told me it was okay, I let Bella go.
“Wow—three seconds.”
We did this several times and then I attached a second leash to Bella’s collar and Courtney helped walk Bella back to her classroom. Before we got back in, I told her I would see her next week. She smiled and skipped into her class. She reminded me of my daughter when she was this age—my first baby who was now in her late thirties.
Justin couldn’t really read but made up words that were close to those on the page. Since I was not the teacher, I didn’t correct him. He was obsessed with frogs, so we looked at the pictures, we talked about catching tadpoles, I found out all the places he’d been where there were frogs.
Ely had a worksheet to complete. He wrote his name in huge block letters and had to fill in the blanks in a story about turtles. I told him I was afraid of snapping turtles. He looked at me as if I had spoken a foreign language and went back to erasing most of what he’d written. Soon there would be a large hole in the paper. I saw how hard this was for him.
“Let’s do one together,” I suggested.
He nodded.
We got one sentence completed about turtle eggs, and then it was play time. I didn’t want him to see his time with Bella as work. He asked if he could walk her down the long school hallway to the front door.
“Good idea. Let’s do it.”
He strutted as other kids passed him in the hallway.
“This is Bella,” he said. “She’s visiting me.”
As I drove home, I thought about how different this experience had been. Bella was patient and relaxed. She seemed to do better here than in the rehab facility or hospital. Maybe it was a relief for her to be with people who weren’t old or sick. Maybe some maternal instinct had kicked in. What was really neat was that, over time, we got to know these children well and they loved being with Bella. She didn’t care what they did or how well they could spell. She just wanted to be with them, and they with her. It was a mutual admiration. It was simple. A dog and kids. A dog who helped them learn just by being there. I have always believed we need friends of different ages and species, and that these relationships ground us in joy. Tuesday was now my favorite day of the week, as I got to spend it with three first graders who couldn’t wait to see Bella and me.
Chapter 22
FAVORITES CAN STILL BITE
Winter–Spring 2013
Stonington, Connecticut
I was finally not only a volunteer. For the past few months I’d been teaching my Boomers Back to Work! class, and I was loving it. I got to help older workers let go of their stereotypes about age. It was interactive, upbeat, and I loved seeing how hope was a huge motivator.
It wasn’t easy, as some of the people in my class had been out of work a long time. On one occasion, when asked about goals for the class, a woman said, “I need a car.” Another apologized to me for not attending the second part of the class as he had just been diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. And although the economy had been slowly recovering from the recession of 2008, there didn’t seem to be too many signs of hiring in this part of Connecticut. Like my volunteer work, I was faced with problems I couldn’t solve. But, unlike my volunteer work, I received a check in the mail after each class and it made me feel wonderful.
My teaching schedule was flexible so I rarely missed going to The Starfish Home or the Gales Ferry Elementary School. I liked this balance. There was always enough work, but never too much. I had time for friends, time to take long walks with Bob and Bella, time for our grandchildren. As Bob and I came up on our first anniversary of living in Connecticut, I realized I had created a diverse and satisfying lifestyle and fostered new friendships. Deb and I had grown close, Kat and I partnered well in our work in the hospital, and I was getting to know the staff as well as the residents at The Starfish Home.
The Resident Care Coordinator, Jan, had a small office catty-cornered from the nurse’s station. She wore a white nursing uniform. Bella and Shelby knew she had a stash of dog treats in her desk drawer and quickly developed a routine. Whenever we walked past the nurse’s station, they dragged us to her office, and Bella (and once in a while, Shelby) put her paws up on Jan’s desk. They were both excited—they knew what was coming.
“Well, here you are!” said Jan, looking at the two dogs. “So nice of you to visit.”
The tails wagged like crazy.
“Here you go, girls,” said Jan, feeding Bella a treat and being careful of her fingers, as Shelby’s enthusiasm made it difficult for her to know the difference between fingers and treats.
I took a photo with my cell phone and brought a printed copy to Jan the following week. Jan had been there twenty-eight years, and from our brief chats with her, Deb and I got the feeling that she loved the patients, loved making a difference at what for many was the end of their lives. Her own father died there.
I wanted to ask her about Beverly but couldn’t ask any direct questions. So instead I said, “Beverly seems to really enjoy our visits.”
“That’s good. She’s been here a while.”
“Oh?” I responded, fighting the urge to ask how long.
“In and out. Her husband took care of her until he died, then she had to be here permanently.”
But does she have children and do they visit? I wanted to say.
From the way she treated her dolls, I was certain she was a mother, but it was odd to know so little, to know only what Beverly could tell me without words, on some days hiding under a pile of blankets, and other times grinning as I sang to her babies. I had worked as a corporate trainer and had lectured about body language, about the power of posture, gesture, voice, and facial expressions. But now, for the first time, it was all I had. It was like being in a foreign land with no guide book.
Deb and I thanked Jan for the treats and worked our way down the side hallway to Michael, who had a feeding tube and resented being there. It seemed to me that he was suffering more than many of the others because he was in pain and he was much younger and more aware. He was stuck there, but his medical condition required twenty-four hour nursing care.
He had two stashes in his room: dog treats on a shelf for Bella and Shelby (and the other dogs who visited), and chocolate bars in a cabinet beside his bed. So we got the box of dog treats and placed one in his left hand, being careful to say clear of his catheter and feeding tube.
“I like the dogs,” he said, as they took the treats from his hand.
Then, because he had trained us well, we asked him if he wanted a piece of chocolate and we unwrapped a mini-bar for him. For that split second, while the dogs were chewing and the chocolate was dissolving in his mouth, everyone was happy. Then the tirade began: we heard what this nurse did wrong, how he couldn’t get any help, and about why they stopped the hospice worker who used to come in and give him a massage every week. Now that he wasn’t dying, he had to endure living.
We couldn’t solve any of his problems, but we listened. We nodded. We sympathized. The dogs wondered if more treats would be offered and shifted their weight from leg to leg like people waiting for a train. We told him we would see him next week and we always said we enjoyed talking with him, but we knew we barely made a dent. He watched us leave the room and then turned his head back to the w
indow where he could see cars going by, where he could see people leading the kind of busy lives he would never have.
When we ran into Bonnie, one of the RNs who was steering the drug cart down the hall, we were very careful not to sound critical of the staff. We simply relayed Michael’s complaints and said, “He doesn’t understand,” and she replied, “I know.” We thanked her and moved on to the hallway that led to the dining room.
Deb and I had developed our own shorthand language. It went something like this: “Nope,” “Not today,” “Sleeping,” “Allergic,” “Amputee (very afraid the dogs would bump into her),” “Maybe?” and “Yes.” The amazing thing was that we almost never disagreed or read the residents differently. For the first four or five months, I was the follower, but now that I was comfortable here and had confidence in Bella’s abilities, we worked as a team.
It was impossible even for the dogs not to have favorites, so as we headed down the hallway, Bella and Shelby passed by rooms where the patients were always asleep or very agitated, and headed for Alice and Jackie’s, the jackpot of all treats. Alice was ninety-four, elegantly dressed. Three days a week, her daughter, Nancy, was there with her. Jackie, as always, looked like someone who ran a company; slim, matching outfits, tasteful jewelry, a short, stylish haircut. Alice’s eyebrows shot up as we entered the room, and Nancy grinned ear to ear and announced “The doggies are here!” Deb and I loved her. Bella decided to get a head start and jumped onto Jackie’s bed.
“Oh,” said Jackie. “She—she wants to see me.”
“Yes, she does,” I replied, keeping my hand on Bella’s leash so she didn’t overpower Jackie.
Shelby came up to the bed as if to say, “Hey, don’t forget I’m here too.”
Nancy waited for Jackie to give both dogs treats, and then she brought her stash out of her large handbag. Alice got a bit lost in the excitement, but since she had a toy cat on her lap, I asked her about the cat.