Angel on a Leash

by David Frei

  Teigh still had an appetite, he would respond to certain things, but mostly he was lethargic and slow. He was showing some ascites, he had a racing heart from time to time, his breathing was very irregular, and he had diarrhea and concentrated urine. He was wobbly on his feet, falling occasionally into walls, and he couldn’t jump on the couch when it used to be effortless for him.

  It was time.

  We asked one of our veterinarians to come to our apartment one evening in January to help us give Teigh some permanent peace. We wanted him to go at home, surrounded by people who had been with him and had helped him through his life.

  We had convinced ourselves, but really Teigh also had to convince us that this was the right thing. The peaceful but pleading look in his eyes did it. We had dealt with all of the counsel from friends and family, and it was now on us. Teigh had had a great life and had done great things for so many people—most of all, for us. We owed him so much; we owed him his dignity, freedom from pain, and a peaceful passing.

  On Saturday, January 9, 2010, we sent this message to our friends and family:

  May 4, 1996–January 9, 2010

  Teigh passed at home tonight, peacefully and with dignity. May he rest in peace, whatever peace he can find now that he is reunited with his sister, Belle.

  He leaves a wonderful legacy. As a star therapy dog, he made a difference in the lives of the thousands of people he visited over the years at:

  • Bailey-Boushay AIDS Hospice (Seattle)

  • Providence Medical Center (Seattle)

  • Mt. Sinai Hospital (New York)

  • NewYork-Presbyterian—Cornell (New York)

  • Morgan Stanley Children’s Hospital (New York)

  • Terence Cardinal Cooke Health Care Center (New York)

  • Ronald McDonald House (New York City)

  • Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center (New York City)

  • …and others

  He received lots of awards and recognition. He helped open doors for therapy dogs in many places. He was the first dog allowed in the Bone Marrow Transplant unit at New York Hospital; the first dog to visit at the Ronald McDonald House in New York City, helping to create a thriving therapy dog program there; the first therapy dog allowed to visit in-room at Mt. Sinai; and he was part of a historic pilot program that brought the first dogs ever allowed at Sloan-Kettering.

  He made people smile—a simple thing, really, but something that had a huge impact when it happened with kids with cancer, paraplegics in wheelchairs or beds, women fighting devastating but hopeful battles with cancer, or homeless people sleeping on cardboard on the streets of New York.

  He did lots of media appearances to support his work for Angel On A Leash and Delta Society, including the Today Show, Good Morning America, Martha Stewart, and others. His best media performance was probably rolling over on the mall for the Today Show to introduce a weather report.

  And most of all, of course, he was a wonderful friend and member of the family. Rest in peace, T-Boy; we love you and we’ll be with you and Belle again someday.

  David and Cheri

  We were devastated by the loss of Belle and Teigh—we still are, and we think about them every day. But when we do, we smile.

  Teigh and Belle changed my life. And they touched a lot of other people, too.

  “This was another of those times where nothing needed to be said; I could just let Angel carry the moment….Everyone was crying and I was fighting back tears myself. ‘Godspeed, sweetie. God loves you, and so does Angel.’”

  My Angels Have Four Legs

  In 2007, Cheri and I decided that we were going to add a Cavalier to our Brittany household. This was not because of Elizabeth Taylor, but because Teigh and Belle were slowing down and couldn’t visit as much as they had been. We didn’t think we could handle a third active Brittany in our one-bedroom, high-rise apartment (note: active is the word you use when it is your dog; hyper is the word to describe another person’s dog acting the same way as your active dog).

  For several years, I had been serving as the emcee/ auctioneer at the American Cavalier King Charles Spaniel Club (ACKCSC)’s fund-raising auction, held at its national specialty show. The auction raises money for the club’s charitable trust, which provides financial and other support for charitable, educational, and health research efforts for Cavaliers. There are a number of breed parent clubs that have foundations for health studies, which try to find causes and treatments for health issues that might exist in their respective breeds. It’s research for the dogs, not on the dogs, and the parent clubs have made progress of which they should be proud. The ACKCSC is among those clubs that are doing it right, and I was glad to be able to help them raise a lot of money each year.

  Over the years, we had made a lot of Cavalier friends. We had come to love the breed and had done our homework, just as I always preach to everyone on my television shows, and now we were finally ready to get one of these cute little dogs for ourselves.

  One evening, we had both Teigh and Belle with us at Ronald McDonald House, and we mentioned that we were going to add another dog to our family, a smaller one so that everyone could hold her on their laps.

  “What is her name?” one of the kids asked.

  “We don’t know yet; we haven’t decided.”

  “How about Sophia?” came the first suggestion, opening the floodgates.

  “Angel!”

  “Truffle!”

  “Fleur!”

  “Bon Bon!”

  “Those are all good suggestions,” Cheri told them. “Why don’t we have a contest?” And so we did. Cheri put a ballot box in the playroom with a photo of the yet unnamed Cavalier puppy on it. With an international population at the House, we got a lot of fun entries, but in the end, “Angel” was the winner.

  Angel joined the family later that year, coming as a gift from our dear friend Patty Kanan, a great Cavalier breeder from California. Angel was five months old, and her registered name became Torlundy Courtlore Angel Eyes. Patty kept the theme going by naming the male in the litter Torlundy Courtlore Johnny Angel.

  Angel was a Blenheim, the same orange-and-white color pattern as the Brittanys, giving them together the appearance of family. We got the occasional “Is that their puppy?” inquiry from people on the streets as we walked all three of them.

  Angel fit right in with the family. She was a feisty little princess, probably equal parts feisty and princess. She didn’t need to be too feisty because Teigh and Belle welcomed her readily (well, Belle would look at her sideways once in a while). Angel loved everyone she met. We got her into therapy dog class right away even though she couldn’t be registered until she was a year old. She flew right through the class at the ASPCA, and Michele Siegel, the instructor, loved her (OK, I admit it, she was probably the teacher’s pet). Angel passed everything and became a registered therapy dog as soon as she turned one. She was a big hit wherever she went and a great part of the family.

  I love Angel dearly. She’s the first little dog I’ve ever had, and it’s been fun. It’s nice to have a dog who fits into a shoulder bag and can get on a subway or bus or into a cab with no questions. The shoulder bag brings a lot of photo opportunities, too: Angel peeking out of the top, sleeping in the bag with the front panel open, and more. I also am able to bring her along, unannounced, in her bag, to a number of other places (wink, wink).

  Bringing it back to Sex and the City, we visit Sloan-Kettering’s tenth floor—the women’s health unit—every Monday night, carrying on for Teigh and Belle. There, our audience is female and nearly the same demographic as the audience for the TV show. We get a number of patients who remember the specific episode of the show. “Is that Elizabeth Taylor?” Sometimes they start to figure it out on their own: “Hey, you were in that show, too, weren’t you?”

  Angel’s first stop on her Monday night visits is always at the nurses’ station, where she might show the nurses a few tricks and get them smiling and laughing, whic
h is a nice break for them from a tough job. A few of the nurses up there refer to her as “Elizabeth Taylor,” too.

  Angel will happily launch into her trick routine for the nurses. “What’s your best trick?” I’ll ask, and boom, she rolls over. It’s not just a lazy rollover, it’s at full speed, as she knows that a treat awaits her. She will often do this without any prompting because she senses that when the crowd gathers, it’s for her performance. She even did it in the show ring once. Angel was in the lineup of open bitches, looking up at Cheri, who made a move as if she had some kind of treat in her hand. Boom! Rollover. People at ringside laughed, so she did it again.

  Back to Sloan-Kettering. “What else can you do?” She jumps in the air and does a twisting flip. That is the most athletic move in her routine, and she does that without much prompting, either. When she stops and sits, I’ll hold out my hand and say, “Give me five!” and she puts her paw into my hand. Worth a few treats.

  It’s certainly entertaining, and I even let her special buddy, Kathy, one of the nurses, put her through the routine. My only reluctance is that I don’t want to get Angel too excited right before she goes in to visit a patient. I don’t want her to be looking to me for treats all the time, so I rarely use them in the room with a patient. When we’re done with the nurses, I take a few seconds to show Angel that I don’t have any more treats and let her know that now it’s time to get to work.

  One afternoon, we were part of a photo shoot on the tenth floor for the therapy dog calendar that the hospital publishes each year. Angel came out in a scrub suit, and business came to a halt. She had on a hat, mask, and gown, and she and her French Bulldog buddy, Cooper, drew a three-deep crowd of spectators—medical people, patients, and visitors—as she and the Frenchie posed for their calendar pictures.

  Angel is quite photogenic and also has been on a few television shows and news stories. She was featured with me in a February 2011 New York Magazine piece, and we found out just how many of our friends read the magazine because we got a lot of notes and emails commenting on the adorable picture of Angel in my arms.

  Most important to what Angel does, being the size that she is, is that she fits right into the beds at Memorial Sloan-Kettering with patients who need her, with women who have been through or are facing major, life-changing surgeries. Often, when we walk into a room, the patient starts to make room in her bed for Angel.

  We never know what we are going to find when we walk into a room at Sloan-Kettering. The census that we get at the start of the visit only says “yes” or “no” next to each patient’s name, indicating how the patients responded to the canvasser earlier in the day about a visit from a therapy dog later. The patient might be there for a checkup, for treatment, for surgery, or for something else. She may have had her surgery already or may be getting ready for surgery the next day.

  Some of the patients are in good spirits, some are hurting, and some are scared. They may have been here before, they may have just gotten here, or they may have been here for a week. It’s not my job to ask them about any of that. We are there to visit in the moment, to give them something to think about and talk about other than the challenges that they may be facing, to give them something to smile about.

  It’s obvious when the outlook is grim or, worse, when someone is getting ready to die. Often, the room is filled with people, and the patient is weak. Often, the patient still wants to see Angel, or her family members may want to get Angel in there to give them all one final smiling moment.

  One night, we walked into a room, and there must have been twelve people in there, breaking rules that were meant to be broken at a time like this. Parents, husband, children, sisters, brothers, friends. They all reacted to Angel. I recognized the patient as someone we had seen the previous week, and I knew her name from the census anyway, so I greeted her by name.

  “Hi, Reina. You really have a full house tonight. Is this a good time for a visit from us?” That question was really directed at the family, who probably knew best what was right for the moment.

  “Yes,” she said softly. “Yes,” said several of the others in the room, and they made a path for us to get to Reina’s side. I could hear lots of sniffles and soft crying. My guess was that they had all been called to Reina’s bedside.

  “Is this Angel?” one of them asked.

  “Yes. Did Reina tell you about Angel?” I asked.

  “She told us all about her. She loves Angel, and we are so glad you are here,” came an answer.

  “Well, we are glad, too. Let’s see if we can fit her in here.”

  I laid down our towel on the bed. I could see a few tubes, and I knew that Reina was so fragile that it didn’t make any difference if she had any sutures—I was going to have to be very careful to keep Angel off of her.

  I set Angel down at Reina’s side. I could hear and see cell-phone cameras shooting away, and I could hear a little more crying, almost happy crying, as they saw Reina reacting to Angel.

  Reina smiled, and I took her hand, placing it on Angel’s neck. “How’s that?” I asked. She smiled to indicate that it was just fine. She tried to sit up a little more, but it hurt her. “Just stay right there; we will get her to you,” I said. Her husband helped her move a little bit. I got Angel to lie down along Reina’s side, and she sat quietly, looking right at Reina.

  This was another of those times where nothing needed to be said; I could just let Angel carry the moment. I was giving all of my attention and energy to keeping Angel right where she was and keeping Reina’s hand on her. Reina was smiling and speaking softly to Angel in Spanish. I was thinking that, tonight, Angel was understanding everything Reina was saying, even in Spanish. Her tail was wagging softly, and that got an audible reaction and a few more tears from the room.

  Reina didn’t have much strength at this point, and after several minutes I kind of felt that Angel and I should move along and give the family their time with her. I knew she wasn’t going to last much longer.

  I said a little prayer for Reina to myself, squeezed her hand gently, and then gathered Angel up. Reina smiled and said thank you and then tried to lean forward to Angel. I moved Angel closer. Reina softly put her hand on Angel’s head, and I lifted Angel up to eye level. Reina drew Angel to her and kissed her. Angel licked her face.

  Everyone was crying, and I was fighting back tears myself. “Godspeed, sweetie. God loves you, and so does Angel.”

  It’s the nature of the job, of course, and the places we visit that we find ourselves dealing with death too often. We usually are not there, intentionally or unintentionally, to witness someone’s actual passing. For one thing, Sloan-Kettering moves the patients through the tenth floor quickly. Most of the people we visit there on our regular Monday night visits are gone—we hope home—by the time of our next visit on the following Monday. We can see death coming, though, and occasionally our patients tell us that they are being moved to hospice the next day because nothing more can be done for them at the hospital, but that’s as close as we come.

  It’s a different story at Ronald McDonald House, mostly because many of the families are there for weeks or months or even years. As the director of family support, Cheri goes to work there every day and grows close to the children and their families over time. While I don’t go every day, I usually get there more than once a week for visits and events, and I see the same kids often. The “I only come once a week; I hope to never see you here again” line from MSK doesn’t work here. You can’t help but build relationships, and too often those relationships end up being painful.

  Cheri is often the one to preside over a death and/ or a memorial service and all that goes with it. We find ourselves battling right alongside the children and their families, praying, hoping, and praying some more. But it’s a different story here because these are kids. It’s difficult to understand how this miserable disease in its many forms targets children. No, it is not fair.

  Cheri and I don’t have children of our ow
n. Yes, our dogs are our children, and we fight every battle that they fight when it comes to their health. We don’t usually share those struggles with the families at the House because of what they are going through themselves, but that doesn’t change anything for us and our dogs.

  Belle passed just after Angel turned two years old. We were devastated. Angel helped us get through it. We knew that she would be carrying on for Belle—not replacing Belle, but carrying on. That helped a little.

  It was hard to tell the kids at the House, and we didn’t tell many of them. They had their own battles, and we didn’t want to burden them with one more. We told some of the parents, giving them the option of how, if at all, they would tell the kids. We still could bring Angel and Teigh to visit; it just wouldn’t be Belle’s turn on this night.

  When you are visible in the neighborhood, as all of us with dogs can be, certain things happen when you go through the loss of one of your family members. We all know that it could happen to us next, and we want to say and do the right thing to be supportive. We say it and do it while looking at our own dogs, thinking about the day that it will be them and about how much our own dogs mean to us. So we actually get a double dose of sadness: one for our friend and his or her dog, and one for ourselves and our own dogs.

  The news about Belle spread quickly around the neighborhood. It happened with Belle just like it happens with all of them. Our friends, accustomed to seeing us with three dogs, would now see us out with two, and couldn’t help but ask, “Where’s Belle?” Sometimes they didn’t ask, but instead would look at us like they knew, they had heard, or they had seen us carrying her out of our building wrapped in a blanket. The first go-round can often be a wordless hug.

  I found myself telling Belle’s story a lot, and I was happy to do it, difficult as it may have been. Well, why not? She was a great dog, a great member of our family, and beloved in the neighborhood. She went too early, but she had a full life, and I didn’t mind sharing that with people. God rest her orange-and-white soul.