Finding Harmony

by Sally Hyder

  Harmony’s arrival meant a shift in family dynamics. Previously, I had depended on Andrew and the eldest two children to help me dress in the mornings and put down my footplates. If I’m honest, the task of helping had fallen less to 18-year-old Peter and more to Andrew and Clara, otherwise the au pair. Now I had Harmony and no one needed to bend at my feet to put down the footplates for me or lift my legs up onto them; no one else had to put my socks on and or take them off either. In case you’re wondering, the reason why I have socks endlessly taken on and off is because my feet are incredibly uncomfortable. They feel as if they’ve been stung by bees: it’s a hot-scratchy-freezing-cold-numb feeling and it drives me mad.

  Clara, more than the others, had felt responsible for me in a way I hadn’t chosen for her or anticipated. It’s one of the well-documented side effects of living with a sick parent: in effect, you become the parent of your own parent. At the same time it was part of our very loving relationship. Clara is a hugely compassionate girl who feels a deep sense of injustice (inherited from her parents) at the plight of children who suffer and people’s prejudices.

  One summer we went to a performance of the Scottish Opera’s Cosi Fan Tutte at the Edinburgh Festival Theatre and I went into spasm. This isn’t pleasant for me or anyone watching: my heel looks as if it’s trying to reach the back of my head, my right arm whacks anything within reach (usually Andrew, which the kids find hilarious for obvious reasons) and I grunt. I’d forgotten to take my evening medication: 10 tablets designed to reduce spasm and pain – I have to take them by eight o’clock or all is lost.

  ‘It’s all right, folks,’ announced Clara, extremely loudly. ‘She’s forgotten to take her tablets!’ It made me laugh and the folk around us less uncomfortable.

  Afterwards, Clara pushed me up the hill, her high-heels clacking as she chatted away about the performance: why the musical arrangement wasn’t as dramatic as it should have been, who was to be in the jazz recital at school and why algebra is so cool (apparently, it’s great fun to ration-alise formulae!). Clara loves school.

  On the other hand, Peter’s idea of helping Mum is to start sprinting with the wheelchair, while yelling, ‘I’m running away with Mum,’ as I scream and hold on for dear life.

  The last time we visited Lauriston Castle, just outside Edinburgh, he decided we needed the exercise together. Not only was I stuck in my wheelchair, now I was in a boggy field and howling with laughter. Peter walked away, hands in the air, as if to deny all knowledge of how I’d managed to get myself into such a ludicrous situation. Peter is our clown, as is Harmony.

  Anyway, what I needed to convey to our daughter that evening in front of the TV was that Harmony’s arrival would make our relationship simpler: closer to the type of mother-daughter connection that didn’t involve having to get your mum dressed or grabbing a glass out of her hand when her arm went into spasm. I didn’t want Clara to have to second-guess me all the time. I was keen for her to be able to be a teenager; to sleep in late at weekends and worry about her life, not mine. And yes, life for Clara has become easier but it doesn’t stop her worrying. The big change is that she and I now have fun: Harmony has restored my sense of fun. I embarrass my daughter and we have our normal tiffs, but that’s life. After all, she’s 15 and I’m her mum.

  Harmony has paved the way for all this and more, although she hasn’t quite got the hang of making tea, mixing a gin and tonic or catching a mug before I hit the deck. Once I’m prostrate, she comes and checks me over. It’s as if she’s grumbling: Oh please, pull yourself together! Do you really need to lie on the floor again? Haven’t you done enough of all that? I can feel myself being lectured for not being sensible. For me, the joy was the realisation that Harmony loves helping me: she wags her tail, rushes to claim rewards and seems to think it’s all a great big game. When I tell people that my dog gets the washing out of the machine and gives it to me to hang up, they always laugh and joke, ‘I could do with one of those!’

  Mind you, one load of washing is OK and two is tolerated but after a heavy washing day, we get to load three and Harmony looks at me as if to say: You’re taking the Mick here – I mean, this is ridiculous! No one needs this amount of clean laundry. To avoid the need for industrial arbitration (i.e. Harmony making a formal complaint to Canine Partners), I up the reward level to cheese: she’ll do anything for cheese. Again, this is working on the high-and-low reward systems. Tiny slivers of cheese or liver cake or sausage are high rewards that the dogs will work extra-hard for; carrot and broccoli are low rewards, with which Harmony seems equally delighted. If I’m going somewhere new or asking her to take on a job that’s harder that usual, I’ll up the reward to encourage motivation. In some ways, it’s not dissimilar to bribing my son with chocolate to get my newspaper from the newsagent!

  Two weeks after Harmony arrived, I decided to take her to Sainsbury’s. The supermarket is a 20-minute walk from my house and part of a shopping complex. In general, Andrew does the weekly shop at weekends or on extreme occasions online, but I needed a few things for myself. More importantly, I wanted to test the boundaries of my independence and feel as capable as any other person to move freely outside of the house; I was also keen for Harmony to keep up her range of skills (I knew she didn’t like shopping very much). As my health deteriorates, I will need those skills more and more.

  I dressed Harmony in her purple jacket with ‘PLEASE DON’T DISTRACT ME – I’M WORKING’ clearly written on it in big white letters. Then I got into the wheelchair, did my customary keys-purse-lead-rewards-bag check and we left the house. Mandie, my aftercare worker from Canine Partners, had come all the way from Ayrshire to be with me for this momentous occasion.

  If you have a growing family or have had babies then you’ll know what I’m talking about when I say that the organisation and determination needed to leave a house is monumental. To hear the click of the lock as the door shuts behind you is an Everest moment. As usual, I took Harmony to her toilet area with the instruction: ‘Better go now!’ This is done so that she’ll feel comfortable (one of the reasons why the dogs won’t work for you is if they need to go to the loo). Usually Harmony looks at me and politely refuses the offer just by standing there. I have since learnt that she has the most enormous bladder but in the early days with the Canine Partner Rules ringing in my head, I’d stand and wait with her for sometimes hours. It was very stressful and not dissimilar to toilet training toddlers: once they’ve gone, you make a mad dash for the door and head for the shops to optimise the time.

  We arrived at Sainsbury’s and began trundling up and down the aisles looking for shampoo, gluten-free bread plus bits and bobs. Luckily the aisles are wide enough for a wheelchair and dog.

  ‘Oh, what a lovely dog! What’s her name?’ asked a lady with a big smile, her hand outstretched and ready to pat Harmony.

  ‘Sorry, do you mind if you don’t,’ I said. ‘She’s working.’

  ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry!’ she frowned and backed away.

  My beautiful blonde Labrador means I’m no longer invisible. Before I had Harmony, I was invisible. In fact, I once embarrassed a gentleman in the local shop who was buying a bottle of water and leant over me in my wheel-chair to pay.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t see you there,’ he said, as his coat sleeve brushed against my hair.

  ‘My invisibility cloak works very well when I’m in my chair,’ I told him.

  Now I’ve gone from being invisible to being ultra-visible and I have to deal with the general public and their inability to connect the message on Harmony’s jacket with my dog.

  PLEASE DO NOT DISTRACT ME

  ‘Oh, but I can, can’t I?’ is a fairly common response; ‘Oh, but I can’t resist,’ being another. The two other most common questions are: ‘What can she do for you?’ and ‘Do they get to be an ordinary dog?’

  I don’t doubt most people have the best intentions but when you’re trying to remember all the commands (you need to get your working dog to go past the c
heckout, stop, take your purse and then pay for the groceries), it’s incredibly distracting to have to fend off the over-enthusiastic public at the same time. At Canine Partners we were taught techniques on how to cope; also, how to see trouble coming and avoid it, and if you can’t avoid it and can’t get the message across, how not to be rude. After all, we are ambassadors for Canine Partners. On the Facebook page for human and dog partnerships, we share our experiences of dealing with the general public. It’s not uncommon for someone to write that they have been refused admission to a café, or to have had their dog (who is in the middle of a task) drop the packet of biscuits in response to being stroked with the result that you have very crumbly biscuits by the time you get to pay.

  Another frequent comment is that it takes us twice as long to do anything because people talk to us about our dog. Yes, at last, not the wheelchair but to me about my assistance dog.

  We were taught to give our dogs a false name for the first few months so that no one would call them on seeing them again. Sounds harsh but it’s true: people will call out to your dog from the other side of the road just as you are negotiating traffic light sequences, buttons, beeps and cars.

  I once had a lady approach me to say, ‘I really shouldn’t do this – I used to puppy walk for Guide Dogs for the Blind,’ and proceed to blithely stroke Harmony. ‘Oh, but she is so irresistible!’

  ‘PLEASE, stop doing that!’ I insisted.

  A few minutes later, she zoomed in again but this time I was quicker and moved my wheelchair between her and myself so Harmony was out of reach.

  ‘Oh, what’s her name, how old is she?’

  By now I was intently studying the label of a packet of pasta (sometimes being hard of hearing has its advantages). Bionic eyesight, however, is an essential tool: it’s amazing the number of old ladies who carry dog biscuits in their handbags! You see them from miles away rustling their bags and twitching excitedly at the sight of Harmony. One of my tricks is to say to Harmony, quite loudly, ‘Don’t touch!’ which the old ladies think is directed at them and so they back off. Otherwise I avoid eye contact and manoeuvre the wheelchair into a different direction.

  Back at Sainsbury’s, I managed to find what I needed on shelves that weren’t prohibitively high (Harmony had been able to retrieve everything) and we made our way to the checkout. Before I began putting my groceries on the conveyor belt, I asked the girl, ‘Are you OK with dogs?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  She totalled the goods and Harmony jumped up with my purse.

  ‘Oh no, we’re not allowed to take customers’ purses,’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘But she’s an assistance dog,’ I persisted. ‘It’s her job.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said the girl. ‘It’s shop policy.’

  Now I was cross. Not wishing to cause a scene with a queue behind us, Mandie and I moved to the Customer Service section.

  ‘Can I speak to the duty manager?’ I asked.

  The manager duly appeared. I introduced Harmony and explained my situation.

  ‘Canine Partners are new to Scotland,’ I said. ‘They’re like guide dogs. I don’t understand your policy about purses.’

  ‘It’s just our policy.’

  ‘Well, do you think you could possibly organise a meeting about dogs in purple jackets and point out the difference between dogs in purple jackets and those without?’ I continued.

  Mandie then asked if we could use an empty checkout at the other end of the shop, far away from everyone else, in order that Harmony and I could practise the checkout sequence.

  ‘No,’ came the reply.

  My confidence now in tatters, I left my shopping – and Sainsbury’s. I might have Harmony but it was still me against the world. Then I went to Marks and Spencer, via a patch of grass for a sniff break, where the girl took my purse from Harmony’s mouth and I got my lunch. They could not have been more welcoming; they were kind, helpful and amazed by Harmony. Boots the Chemist was next. They had just redone their store but guess what? There were no low-level counters at the checkouts; they were all too high and narrow for Harmony to jump up.

  On the way back we stopped at George’s, the news-agent, to pick up my newspaper. Harmony pushed open the door, I pushed it behind her and in we went. By now she knew to ignore the tempting smells of crisps and chocolate and make her way directly to the counter.

  ‘Hi George,’ I said, then turning to Harmony. ‘Up table!’

  Just then the door opened and a big gang of schoolboys came in, laughing and joking. They shoved their way to the front, unaware that Harmony and I were in the process of working together. At this point I should have left the overcrowded shop. Stubborn as I am, I chose not to.

  ‘Up table!’ I said again, this time too loudly.

  Flustered, Harmony leapt and landed with her four paws on the counter. Her intention had been to stand up on her hind-legs and offer George her jaws, in which to take the paper. There was silence and then George burst out laughing. Realising her mistake, Harmony slid down backwards, ashamed, having retrieved my newspaper.

  ‘Good girl!’ I told her, as we made our way out.

  It is still one of George’s favourite stories. He is incredibly kind and helpful. We’ve now trained Harmony to go into the shop alone, pick up my newspaper and head out. I still worry for the safety of those Mars Bars and Snickers on the bottom shelves but so far, so good.

  When I think back to the six months prior to Harmony’s arrival, I often spent entire days alone without speaking to anyone. As anyone who has ever suffered from loneliness knows, it’s debilitating. I always tell my doctors: I’ve suffered from depression and I suffer from MS but I know which is hardest: ‘the Black Dog’, as Mr Churchill used to describe it, is infinitely worse. However, within a week of having Harmony and taking her to the local woodland, I’d found a community of dog-walkers, who I soon came to call friends. Whatever the weather, I was now spending at least an hour in the park every day during which I shared stories, daily moans and canine truths with a trusty bunch of friends. I had rejoined the working world – I had a daily gossip, just like everyone else. Everyone has their good and bad days but by sharing your woes, no one’s left feeling down. Among our group, there have been shoulder fractures, births, deaths, illnesses, exam success and failures.

  ‘Hello, Harmony.’

  It was Liz, the owner of a wonderful Flat-coat called Barney. He has a gorgeous shiny coat and brown eyes that sparkle with mischief. I’d met Barney and Liz on the very first Monday when I went to the park to exercise Harmony without Andrew. Barney is beautifully behaved and of course, reminds me of Guy, who I worked with at the Canine Partners’ centre. He is taller than Harmony and just as obsessed with squeaky balls; he is, however, much better at remembering where he’s left his ball! We have had coffee at Liz’s house a couple of times. The chaos of toys scattered around the garden is a reminder of play-dates with toddlers. Other children’s toys are so much more fun and interesting than your own: Harmony loves Barney’s toy box.

  Harmony and Barney hit it off immediately. Off they ran, beating a path through the undergrowth, before racing back to tell us where they’d been.

  Hey, we ran all the way to the bench and chased a pigeon!

  Then Barney lifted his leg and peed all over the two front wheels of my scooter: now we were as good as family.

  Liz and I have worked out various routes across the park: taking different paths and directions to avoid boredom for both the dogs and ourselves. She happily takes paths that can accommodate the wheelchair, as do all the dog-walkers; she tells me about her day and children, and I tell her about mine. When we reach the junction of trees where all the paths intersect, one of us always comments we need a café, right there. It would make the perfect stop for a cappuccino break with a bowl of water for the dogs.

  ‘Oh, look who’s here!’ I find myself waving.

  I soon built up a network of dogs and dog-walkers that I looked forward to seeing.
There was Eric and Dorothy, with Mangus and Buddy (two gentle, older Retrievers) and Martin and Lee, with their Spaniels, Dino and Desmo (Dino loves to drop his ball onto my scooter). In fact, all the dogs make a beeline for Eric, who seems incredibly popular. Obviously if you happen to be carrying a particularly tasty, smelly treat then you’ll soon find yourself surrounded by dogs, all vying to be ‘Best at Sitting’ in order to gain a treat. None of the dogs are encouraged to play with sticks, but balls are the norm and it isn’t unusual to lose one in the bushes and find another.

  ‘I don’t think of you as Sally with MS in a wheelchair,’ said Liz, after a couple of months of knowing me. ‘I think of you as Sally with Harmony.’

  It was a lovely thing to say – especially as she had had to push my scooter with its dodgy battery a couple of times to get me up the hill. Whenever it was serviced, the mechanic would sigh and say, ‘Sally, it’s called a shop mobility scooter for a reason!’

  Most days after dropping Melissa off at school, we make it into the woods by 9am. Harmony’s other best friend is a Red Setter called Sara, who is owned by Muir and Norma. Muir is always nagging me that I should take more care; that I’m too reckless and wild on my scooter (I’m like a teenager on a skateboard!). Then there’s Anne and her two large Spaniels, Will and Ben, and an incredibly patient lady Eleanor who rescued one of her dogs from a breeder and had to teach her everything, from enjoying grass to socialising with other dogs. As the weeks and months passed, you could see the dog transform and gradually relax until it was able to run and meet the other dogs – she still keeps very close to her owner, though. Joining them is a young Red Setter called Brea. As a young dog, she loves to play and bounce. It makes me laugh when I see Harmony pretend to be too grown up for this whippersnapper. There are no obvious alpha males or a leader in the pack, however: the dogs all greet each other and off they tear.