The Possibility Dogs

by Susannah Charleson

  Her adopted sibling Smokey is said to be a fifty-fifty mix of Pomeranian and Chihuahua. He must have been parented by a big Pomeranian or a big Chihuahua—perhaps a genetic throwback to the days when Poms were bigger. Smokey’s a large boy, eighteen pounds, and he’s a little oblivious, or passive-aggressive, or both. He is just the kind of dog that would body-slam Misty, and he does, now and again. He’s also high-strung and reactive, with large, perceptive eyes. He is smart, smart, smart. Smokey watches, and Smokey listens. He’s aware when humans speak his name, and he also seems to be aware of human intentions toward him when his name isn’t spoken. It’s not uncommon for me to decide that it’s time to clip his nails or reach, with elaborately casual movements, for the shampoo bottle and find that he’s disappeared under the bed and is tucked against the farthest wall.

  In the dogs’ first home, with Erin, Smokey was the favorite. For reasons I was never able to really understand, Misty was the cared-for-but-somehow-dismissed dog of that family. Perhaps it was because Misty brought trouble early—as a puppy, she once ate a bellyful of carpet tacks left carelessly behind by contractors, ate them before her mistress ever saw them underneath the couch, requiring a thirty-five-hundred-dollar surgery that nearly killed Misty. She returned home frail, withdrawn, and very much desiring to sleep on the pillow beside her mistress, and though Erin and Misty were physically close every night, some emotional connection between them was broken, if it had ever been there in the first place. Erin said that while she was fond of Misty, the little Pom was not all that bright. Erin kept her affection at arm’s length. She was seeking another dog, a different dog, the kind of “heart dog” that Misty would never be.

  Erin found that kind of relationship when she brought home puppy Smokey, whose bright eyes, upstanding ears, and instant devotion were an immediate hit. The two clicked where Erin and Misty never had. Erin was honest about it: Smokey became the favored, overindulged dog, and Misty was the watcher from a cushion half a room away. At night, Misty still lay on the pillow she’d always favored on Erin’s bed, but Smokey slept pressed close to his mistress, his chin cupped in the palm of her hand. Misty was marginalized; Smokey got away with outrageous misbehavior.

  And then their joint world fell apart. Erin had been feeling unwell through the summer of 2005, and in early fall symptoms progressed to the point that she began to do some research. The implications of what she found were ugly: colon cancer. She sought medical attention and returned home from the doctor angry with a sense of dismissal, feeling her concerns had been trivialized. “Get off WebMD—and see a therapist,” she’d been told, but when symptoms worsened and she went for a second opinion, a round of tests and exploratory surgery proved her worst fears true. Erin’s colon cancer was not only present, but far advanced. She was told that with chemotherapy, she might have a year. Without it, six months.

  Chemo or no chemo was a decision she’d need to make soon. Erin had dreams those first nights, she said, of being alone on an unlit planet with the white arc of a rock coming toward her. Sometimes she flailed at it and the impact took her down. Sometimes she missed and felt the world fall away. But she always knew it was coming, and she would scream, whatever the outcome, a cry full enough that Smokey washed her face to wake her, and Misty would snuggle tight against her head.

  Erin opted not to get chemo, and in the weeks following she began to get her things in order, as recommended by her follow-up counselors. It is a situation medical professionals must see often, but it was all new to me, a friend and bystander, who could help in only small ways as Erin carried the weight of a certain future before her. She was caring for a fragile mother also in poor health; she had a job, a mortgage, and two dogs whose fates were now in jeopardy.

  The house could be sold. Her mother would live with her sister. But what to do with the dogs? If it weren’t for her crippled back legs, Erin thought, pretty Misty might be adopted quickly. Smokey, she feared, would end up in a pound and euthanized. Erin needed to find safe harbor for both of them, but most especially for Smokey, whose hyperreactivity put strangers off but whose steadfast devotion broke her heart.

  I have bad news that will not end well for me. Will you help me find homes for my dogs? she wrote to me just days after her surgery. I could sense the panic behind every minute lost. I already had a houseful of dogs—my own and a few fosters—and she was two hundred miles away, but I agreed immediately, thinking how hard a thing it would be to face your own death with the added despair of knowing you’d failed to protect beloved animals. We agreed that I would foster her dogs when the time came, get the word out, and thoroughly interview potential adopters, but as Erin’s illness progressed, her question changed from Will you help me find homes for my dogs? to Will you take my dogs? Even though I assured her that I would shelter Smokey and Misty and find homes for them with the same care I would find homes for my own, that was not enough. Erin redirected the energy of her grief into persuading me. She needed to imagine them with a home. She needed to know they’d be in mine. She begged outright.

  I said yes, but she wasn’t completely satisfied. Are you sure? she pressed. Are you sure? I told her my only reservation was how Smokey would adjust, moving from the center of her universe to a noisy household full of other dogs. If I could find the right home for him, might he not be happier if he was someone’s only dog? Erin was uncertain. As her condition worsened, she seemed less sure that I would find the right place for Smokey. She had nightmares of Smokey ending up in a home where he’d be abused. She wanted to die knowing absolutely where he would be.

  I promised her I’d keep him, and I meant it.

  Sometimes my assurances seemed to comfort Erin, and sometimes they did not, and I began to see the role all of this played in her struggle to come to terms with approaching death. She needed a project, and so every visit I made was a chance for Smokey to audition. Though Erin was frail, she’d take Smokey to the groomer before I came. She bought him doggy breath mints. She spent a lot of time selling me on his merits: he was a good dog, the best dog ever, she’d say, cuddling him and shooting an anxious look in my direction when Smokey barked at the mailman, the microwave, Jeopardy!’s jump to commercial.

  Once he barked over a single leaf falling from a tree.

  “A watchdog!” Erin praised.

  “Genius!” I agreed. (Oy.)

  One day as I played with the dogs to amuse her, I threw a tiny stuffed giraffe, and Smokey retrieved it. Erin laughed aloud for the first time since her diagnosis, clapping her hands, making her mother jump, surprising all of us. She held her hand out for the toy.

  “Fetch!” She threw the toy, and back he came with it again. She had never tried fetch with him before. Once might have been a fluke, but twice was brilliance. “Smokey fetches!” She shot me a proud look. “This dog,” she said. “What’s not to love?”

  Smokey’s timing could not have been better. Erin relaxed, certain I would now take her dog, because he fetched. Smokey, in turn, was thrilled with her reaction. He fetched, and fetched, and fetched again, joyful with Erin’s pleasure and my applause. From her pillow at the edge of the room, Misty watched.

  As best she could, Erin tried to seal the deal by teaching Smokey other attractive tricks. Smokey was quickly good at catch; he enjoyed the lie-down-roll-over routine, and he was glad to show off a tail-chasing maneuver Erin called Pong, like the old video game. In Pong, Smokey chased his tail, collided with furniture, bounced off the furniture, and then—still spinning— bounced into something else. “Pong!” Erin would say, and Smokey, self-winding, would dervish-whirl across the room—couch to table, table to rocking chair, rocking chair to, occasionally, Misty, who first skittered when she saw him coming and then later wanted to get in on the action. She began to intercept Smokey, scrambling to where he was like a soccer goalie and shrieking Yaagh! into his ear so loudly it would redirect his course. For a disabled dog, Misty had game.

  If there was anything bright to be found in the last months of her
life, Erin found it with her dogs. Sometimes when she sat weeping in front of the television, Smokey would start up Pong on his own. He had learned she was her happiest playing with him.

  Too soon, my friend answered the phone less often, and, her family said, left her bed more rarely. Hospice caregivers began to come in daily, and one late-autumn day, Erin called, her voice faint and sluggish, to say that I should be prepared to take the dogs sooner rather than later. There were new problems. Her condition had deteriorated, and Smokey, witness to his person’s nightmares, falls, and meds-induced confusion, was growing too protective. He had begun to station himself on the bed and growl—even snap—when caregivers attempted to help Erin, once blocking the door when paramedics were called to assist. Smokey had grown frantic with shared misery. He was anxious and overwrought with impulses to protect her and cheer her. During her worst moments, Erin said, he’d begun to bring her his fetch toy, the only fix he knew. She’d awakened more than once to find he’d put it in her hand. Misty had planted herself on the pillow next to Erin and seemed unwilling to move, scratching Erin’s pillow whenever she had nightmares.

  “This is no good for any of us,” Erin said. “You can take Misty at any time, but Smokey—how can I bear to be without him?”

  One thing was certain: Erin was too weak to make decisions. I spoke to her family. We strategized how to keep Smokey with her as long as possible and how to keep him away from the caregivers when they came.

  That late-autumn day was the last time I ever talked to her. Erin slipped into a coma within a week and died three days after that, Misty on her pillow, and Smokey by her side. The dogs lay beside her for two hours after her death, and then they seemed to recognize it was over. When it was time for Erin to be taken from the house, the family was prepared for trouble from both of them, but Misty crawled into a bathroom and Smokey, subdued and bewildered, let Erin go—all his protective instincts gone. Both dogs alternately hid beneath the bed or wandered aimlessly in silence in the days prior to coming to me. Misty chewed a raw spot on her foot. Smokey’s fetch toy disappeared.

  I believe that, in their dog way, which is no less soulful than ours, many dogs understand death, and I believe that they grieve. I also believe that both Smokey and Misty attempted to give care to Erin in that dark period. Other adults in the house had long been responsible for their feeding, their walks, their vet trips and grooming; their own dog needs were being met. But though they were not formally trained for service and had not learned specific tasks to address Erin’s nightmares, panic attacks, and depression, the two chose to stay close, offering comfort in the only way they knew how. The desire to help her was there. Smokey’s protectiveness and desperate offers to fetch also spoke of an urge to make things right. Misty’s pillow-scratching in response to Erin’s nightmares—was she trying to wake her?—seemed an unanswered reaching-out. It must have been difficult for them, bound in love and a confusion of impulses, sensing their shared world slip away.

  Soon they would enter a new one. Survivors Smokey and Misty would come home to the rodeo of cats and dogs that was my house. It was hardly a peaceful transition. Their confusion was as clear as their great sense of loss. Who were the animals and I to them? What would become of them here? When I think of Erin’s dogs in this interim, I remember most their silent watching, huddled together and apart from us, their rivalries spent.

  5

  ONE THING IS CERTAIN. Dogs that serve the human mind are a lot better known now than they were a decade ago. There have been some good books written; there’s been some media attention. Therapy dogs have shown up center stage in feature stories set in crisis centers and health-care facilities. The emerging use of psych assistance dogs with U.S. soldiers returning from the Middle East has increased public support. The stories are riveting. We’ve seen dogs recall fading seniors to happiness and connect autistic children to the world around them.

  The attention has also rapidly increased demand. Aware now of the dogs’ therapeutic potential, more care facilities are utilizing therapy dogs or placing companion dogs in-house, and more mental health professionals are recommending psychiatric assistance dogs or emotional support dogs to their patients.

  Many service dog organizations have stepped up to meet that need, expanding their services to include psychiatric assistance dogs. (Some also offer trained therapy dogs to family partners who would like to serve the public.) It’s a thoughtful process: for assistance dogs, an organization typically matches the dog to his potential partner after general obedience and service training is completed, and then it trains that dog to meet the handler’s individual needs. Such skilled assistance comes at a price. Raising, training, and providing excellent care for assistance dog candidates is an expensive proposition for the service dog organization. Assistance dogs can cost thousands, and a prospective handler may have to fundraise for years in order to acquire one.

  There are other options. For some, an owner-trained service dog—an animal that has the same legal protections as a program dog from an organization—is a viable option. It’s not a choice that’s right for every would-be handler: a young, untrained dog, however bright and sweet, may be too much for a novice partner with conditions that interfere with successful foundation training. But for others, building the early relationship with the service dog in training (SDIT) and developing a dialogue specific to the handler’s need has real benefit. The Psychiatric Service Dog Society is a staunch supporter of the owner-trained partnership when it’s appropriate, but the group’s literature strongly urges handlers to seek the assistance of a professional in the thoughtful, responsible choice of dog and with the training involved. Feedback from an objective third party is good.

  There are critics of owner-training, of course, those who find it difficult to understand how a mentally ill person can reasonably teach a dog to sit and stay, let alone intervene in his own condition. (One handler told me, “Too many people assume mental illness means your head is always about to explode.”) But such concerns aside, for many this is a form of cognitive behavioral therapy: a handler has to analyze his own psychiatric events, identify symptoms, train the dog for tasks she can do to intercede, and, perhaps most difficult, train himself to pay attention to the dog. The process creates the language between the dog and handler. Challenging, maddening, rewarding—many handlers find they learn as much about themselves during the process as they do about their dogs. Program dogs versus owner-trained dogs is an ongoing debate, with advocates and detractors on both sides. I’m always wary of the notion that there’s only one way to do anything—particularly with dogs—and while I’ve seen many fine examples of program-dog partnerships, I understand the argument for owner-training too.

  But caution to anyone who thinks that the owner-trained option is a cheap and easy way to sidestep the formalities of acquiring a program dog. There is much more to it than the I’ll-feel-better-if-I-have-a-dog-with-me-so-I’ll-just-put-a-vest-on-my-dog-and-go approach. For all its support for owner-training, the Psychiatric Service Dog Society is straightforward: This process is rigorous. An owner-trained dog and his handler should meet the same high standards that a program-trained dog and his handler do. “Higher, even,” Joan Esnayra commented to me on the phone. In a world where invisible disabilities and the dogs that serve them are often suspect, an exemplary owner-trained partnership makes the best case for their existence.

  Handlers tell me the healing power is in the dialogue. For them, psych dog partnerships make a difference other therapies cannot. German shepherd Neo is a good example. Neo serves a veteran who has not truly been able to leave the battlefield. Still caught in a moment of indecision during an attack that cost the lives of civilians and fellow soldiers, Neo’s partner is left with panic attacks and chest pain, a door fixation and the perpetual taste of blood in his mouth. He was pretty wound up right after it happened, he says, but it all came on gangbusters a few years later, when his body began to fail. The idea that he might have to live with caret
akers for the rest of his life made him so depressed he considered suicide. He’s still young. He wants to live independently, but he needs an ally. He has that in Neo, a social, gentle, re-careered police K9. Neo is diligent, and he is stubborn. He’s a dog that can insist when he has to. Sometimes his former soldier just locks up, and Neo is trained to recognize it. In those dark moments, without Neo to nudge him through doorways, his partner could not get from his bedroom to the kitchen, or go to work, or escape a fire.

  Consider one partner—we’ll call her Melissa—the long-term victim of a child predator. She is in her thirties now and has multiple anxiety disorders. Though Melissa knows a few of her triggers and avoids the ones she can, there is no way to predict some attacks. A specific scent, a certain time of day, a particular slant of light—she is in a public building when she suddenly fears she’s being followed. The sensation is terrifying and very real. Melissa takes an elevator up to anywhere, arrives on a floor she doesn’t recognize, turns down a hallway, follows several corridors in a panic, constantly feeling the presence of an oppressor behind her. She finds a bathroom or a closet and hides. As the event evolves, she might creep from the closet with little sense of time and space. She wanders blindly, completely disoriented, with no idea where she is or how she got there. Walls bend and floors curve. She is dizzy. In some severe cases, Melissa may fall to the ground and have difficulty feeling her hands or feet.