Shellbee's Story

  I want to share with you my very first therapy-dog job. I was still too young to officially be a therapy dog, but there is something about the work that comes naturally to me. Mommy had two very frightened, traumatized children in her office; they were standing in the middle of her therapy room motionless, nonverbal. I was in the busy secretarial area, hanging out with my work littermates. I’d had no preparation, no training; I was running purely on instinct. Mommy opened her door and said, “Shellbee, sit, listen to me.” Her tone was serious and protective. Mommy explained that there were two children who were very frightened and needed to see me. I peeked my head into the doorway, smelled their fear, and knew exactly what to do! I slowly crawled on my belly toward them, put my face by their feet, and flattened myself to the ground. The smell of fear was everywhere, so I didn’t move, but my eyes were focused on the boy and girl. I felt sad for them, wanting to help in some way. Mommy sat down and quietly told them that they could pet me if they wanted to. Soon, they were sitting beside me, petting me, talking in a whisper. Whatever they said made them feel at least a little better because the smell of fear lessened as they gently rubbed my fur. I must admit this lasted a long time. Staying still had not been something I knew much about. Eventually I rolled onto my back; belly rubs are always a good stress reliever—plus I can smile and show my pearly whites. When the children left, they were standing taller and were so much less fearful. Oh, the praise I received for my behavior! But I wasn’t so much proud as I was confused about why such fear has to exist. How could someone frighten such gentle children?

  My work hasn’t always been so profound. It’s different, based on the uniqueness of each person’s challenge, although almost everyone has the same vibration when I first meet them: loneliness and a sad heart. I don’t fully understand the human language, so the details of their life stories are lost on me. But I’ve learned that’s a good thing. My job is to be their comforter and their protector, and to always be ready to express joy about being together. I’ve had to learn that feelings of sadness, hurt, anger, pain, and fear require great patience on my part. I’ve also learned that when humans are in such states of mind, they may not even notice me, so I wait until the smell of these feelings lessen and the vibration of their color changes. I see people’s vibrations in shades of darkness to lightness, and I can smell emotions shift. These two elements guide me in my work. All I want to do is make everyone happy—that is such a constant about who I am that, more often than not, I help everyone around me get to happiness.

  Now, don’t think for one moment I am perfect at my job. Some things I just can’t deal with at all. Some emotions smell too frightening to me, and I don’t want to go into the therapy room. Mommy is very sensitive to my reactions—she becomes my protector and lets me off the hook, so to speak. It’s hard to define or explain who frightens me away from my job, but I have noticed these people never stay long. They don’t seem to want to be helped, but prefer instead to keep their dark emotions, which hurt not only them but those around them. Maybe that’s it: I don’t want to be around people who prefer to hurt others. I don’t know for sure; I only know I can tell the difference between when I can help and when I should stay away.

  I do have a very funny therapy-dog story, one that makes me feel embarrassed. (Dogs do feel embarrassment, you know!) One day, a new patient arrived, and Mommy let me greet him in the waiting room. Mommy knew he was an animal lover and wouldn’t mind my attention. Well, the unthinkable happened: he smelled like a hundred different dogs and horses. I was so confused by the smells that I squatted and peed on his shoes! Imagine that!! Everyone laughed, including him, which only added to my embarrassment. In the end, it all turned out great because he’s now the person whose lap I sleep on during therapy sessions (after I bestow my kisses on him first, of course).

  Everyone has a unique story for how they’ve come to a place of pain, confusion, sorrow, and fear. There is anger as well, but I’ve learned that the anger only covers their tears. What I’ve never come to understand is why someone (often more than one person) hurt them in the first place. I personally have never encountered cruelty or meanness, so it makes no sense to me why it exists. Yet it does exist in a big way. So I watch these wounded human souls come to be healed from mental scars, memories, and feelings that can’t be seen but can certainly be felt. That is the sad part of my work, but it’s always balanced with fun, happiness, and joy. I lie by their feet or put my head on their lap, timing my next therapeutic intervention perfectly. I like to give them gifts, like a slobber-covered toy from my basket, and that always makes them laugh. Some people grab it with both hands; others take it gently between two fingers. It’s funny to see the difference in human response to slobber.

  So people come to us, and, over time, they laugh more, they fear less, and they start to look “so so proud” of themselves. I love this part because I get to see their essence, which is special and unique—something to be “so so proud” about.

  Everyone who comes to see us is in a safe place. I guard this office as if it were the last bag of kibble on earth! And everyone who comes here is one of our cherished littermates. When these people leave, whether it be until their next appointment or for good because they have completed their heroic work, I am confident that they know they never have to be alone in pain or sorrow again because they have been adopted into our litter and always have a den to seek shelter in.

  Yours truly, in love,

  Shellbee

  P A R T 5

  ADVENTURES

  Letter 21

  Taking the Plunge

  Hi, it’s me—Shellbee. Today is a special day. I had the chance to practice my water skills. Mommy, Pappy, and I went for a walk in the woods, and it led us to a beach we called Secret Beach.

  I pranced around by the water and splashed in the shallows. Pappy brought a special stick-like toy for me, but, of course, I wasn’t interested and refused to chase it into the water. Pappy ended up having to retrieve it himself. Poor Pappy—while he was out in the water, I found a very interesting piece of floating junk. I think it was an old buoy part. I became even more interested in it because Mommy and Pappy chased me to take it away. An “illegal substance” they called my prize. Pappy flung it out into the deep water and, to everyone’s great surprise (including my own!), I went after it, plunging off the bank into the deep water. Off I went, swimming after my prize and carrying it back in my trap. I could see Mommy and Pappy from the water doing their “so so proud” tail-wagging, wiggle-wave dance.

  Once back on the beach, I ran around with my prize, attempting to distance myself from Mommy and Pappy’s embarrassing behavior. They were so proud of me that they even let me play fetch with my illegal substance; every time I swam back with it, I made them chase after me to throw it again. Then Mommy decided she was done with the chasing and became Dogman-like. She directed me to “come” with a hand signal while bending over. (Mommy’s got a bad back, so you’re never quite sure if she’s going to straighten up again.) I knew she meant business, so I gave my prize to her three times without any hassle. Oh my God, they both went wild with their praise, jumping up and down, kissing one another, just about crying, and making such a big fuss over a silly little swim. I do love these old fools!

  When we got back home, I was rinsed off and given a bone with peanut butter—a treat for my adventurous swimming—which I thoroughly enjoyed while lazing on the lounge chair in the sun. Isn’t life grand.

  Yours truly, in love,

  Shellbee

  Letter 22

  Little Tybee Island

  Hi, it’s me—Shellbee. I haven’t always had the greatest experiences at Little Tybee Island. One time we went yachting (a.k.a., kayaking) and were nearly swept out to sea by the currents (something I have experienced before). Timing is of the essence with the water around Little Tybee Island, and Mommy and Pappy hadn’t looked at the tide charts, so it was a hair-raising adventure.

  We’re on vacation again at our
house in Georgia, and I can hear snatches of Mommy and Pappy’s conversation in the other room. They’re planning another yachting trip for tomorrow to Little Tybee Island. There is always a lot of running around getting ready for these trips the night before. I am pacing back and forth, up and down the stairs, panting from the heat. Mommy notices my behavior and says, “Don’t worry, Shellbee, you’re going with us.” If I could have caught my breath, you would have heard me say, “No thanks, you’re nuts—I’ll relax at home.” No such luck.

  It’s the morning of our trip to Little Tybee Island. Usually I wake Pappy up early to pee, poop, and chow down, but today I don’t. I know waking him up will only bring on the trip sooner. Instead, I lie real still, ignoring the calls of nature and praying for the noise box to not buzz. Beep-beep-beep—oh no! Mommy and Pappy are opening their eyes and stretching; they’re surprised I am still sleeping. Ha—faking sleep! All their efforts to get me up are met with lazy, stretched-out legs, big yawns, and repositioning myself to feign some more sleep. Do you think they take the hint? Nooo! Mommy and Pappy say I can sleep on our way to the yacht that’s taking us God-knows-where. I love my Mommy and Pappy dearly, but they can be oblivious to potential danger.

  Before we leave the house, Kipper comes by to say “Bon voyage!” Kipper is real smart—he tells Mommy and Pappy to be careful with the swift currents. Hooray, I might get out of this mess yet! Kipper takes out a piece of paper to show us the dangers (normally I hate paper—Mommy always has so much to write about, and it takes away from me). Pappy studies Kipper’s charts and figures out a way for the strong currents to work for us, not against us. Kipper says, “Imagine that! Sounds good.” Our trip is well-planned. With Kipper’s vibrations of goodness, I feel calmer for the moment.

  It’s a long paddle to Little Tybee Beach—access to paradise. We’ve packed a picnic lunch and lots of bags. Our yacht has two seats, two sticks to push the water around, and Mommy’s lap. I love Mommy’s lap—she can’t move her stick in the water because she has me to hug, kiss, and love. Pappy is a strong human tree—he can get all of us to the piece of land across the sea. Thank goodness the sailing is smooth. I am starting to wiggle and venture onto the bow of our yacht.

  Finally, we hit land. It’s a sandy patch in the middle of nowhere. Great. Now what? I leap out of the yacht, prance around confidently—I’m having a good time—then I yelp real loudly and hold one of my paws up while hopping around on the other three. My foot hurts. What got me? I can’t even fight back. I’m yelping my brains out. Mommy and Pappy rush to my side. After an intense—meaning long—inspection of all the webs in my feets, it is determined that I am fine. “Okay,” they say, “you’re fine, Shellbee.” Well, I don’t have wings to fly, so walking is my only choice. But I don’t just walk—I prance and stomp to let whatever thing bit me know that it’d better not mess with me again.

  Yours truly, in love,

  Shellbee

  Letter 23

  Dock Diving

  Hi, it’s me—Shellbee. As I am sure you’ve already figured out, I am a very talented, intelligent dog, and I’m cautiously always up for an adventure. A favorite yearly adventure of mine is going with Mommy and Pappy to Interlaken Inn in Connecticut. When we check in, I put my front legs up onto the counter to let them know I’ve arrived. The clerks love seeing me, stretched out tall, peeking over the counter. The first time we went, I could smell dog treats behind the counter, so I knew I had to be patient and polite. These treats were like manna from the sky. The clerk showed me the dog bone-shaped box of treats and asked, “Would you like a biscuit?” I wagged my tail, a feat not so easy when you’re stretched out so tall. I don’t know about other dogs, but I’m always good for three biscuits.

  Our vacation to Interlaken Inn is always so exciting. We bring our yacht (a.k.a., kayak) for adventures on the freshwater Interlaken lake. There is also hiking and lots of dining at top-of-the-line restaurants. It’s dog-friendly–ville everywhere, and I am admired for my beauty inside and out!

  I have so many stories from our years of staying at Interlaken Inn. On our first trip, I was still a baby—two years old. Mommy and Pappy took me on a flat, floating board that they called an “open kayak.” It was a lot of fun all being together, cruising the lake. I love lakes with their fresh, clean water. Now, my mommy is a prankster, as am I, but she did the unthinkable out on our open kayak: she stood up, put a finger in each of her ears, flapped the rest of her fingers around, and made a sound she knows I really don’t like. Humans call the sound “raspberries.” I eat raspberries, but I still don’t like that mouth-smacking noise. I watched her in disbelief. Mommy knows I whack her with my paw and whine when she makes that unearthly sound! She thinks it’s funny. Pappy told her, “You better stop.” I watched Mommy very intently; maybe she’d gone nuts—it was a real possibility. Well, something had to be done, so I leapt off my hind legs and pushed her into the water! I thought a good dunking would bring her back to polite human behavior. Mommy surfaced, laughing; Pappy howled with laughter too, but I was puzzled. I wondered if I’d have to start dunking Mommy on a regular basis to get her to stop acting like a nut. But once I realized that my sane old Mommy was back, my confusion gave way to happiness. I wiggled around as if to say, “Shellbee, you done good.” So much for my victory dance—I tripped and fell into the water, too! Mommy yelped, “Oh no,” because I was hot on her tail. With me paddling after her, Mommy swam to the floating hunk of wood they call a dock and jumped to safety. It wasn’t long before I was hoisted up, too, where I pinned Mommy down and licked her relentlessly.

  Knowing Mommy and Pappy, the story doesn’t end there. We couldn’t just lounge around and soak up some sun. Mommy and Pappy wanted to teach me how to dive off the dock! I am guessing my reaction to their plan is similar to humans thinking, “Why should I jump out of a perfectly good airplane?” Well, Mommy jumped in first to be my human floatie. Pappy cheered me on, with a demonstration of running and jumping. He was truly embarrassing himself, and I feared some other dog might see him. So, with steady nerves and a big snort, I leapt into the water. I loved it—airborne, wet landing, and cheers of “so so proud, Shellbee.” In fact, I loved it so much, I didn’t want to stop. I taught Mommy and Pappy a big lesson that day: don’t start something you can’t finish! We developed a system to get me back up onto the dock—I would bounce off Mommy’s knee and Pappy would give me a lift. Needless to say, this dock jumping became a tireless game for me—flying just for a moment and feeling free as a bird.

  Yours truly, in love,

  Shellbee

  P A R T 6

  SHELLBEE’S TIPS

  Letter 24

  Self-Help Guide to

  Being Alone

  Hi, it’s me—Shellbee. Sometimes we all have to be alone, get some personal space, be crated, or just left like a dirty dog. I’m rarely crated or left like a dirty dog, but when it happens, I get insulted.

  Crating, which ended by the time I was six months old, is only when Mommy or Pappy go out at night. Oh yeah, and also once a month when Mommy goes off for hours on end to the beauty parlor. She comes back smelling so different, I guess they clean her up real good. When Mommy and Pappy get back home and let me out of my crate, I make a big fuss—wiggling around, bringing them presents. This is my cunning way of luring them into a false sense of relaxation. The minute they sit down or walk away, I give them a good, firm jump and bark. I can’t let them off too easy, or else they might think I like being home alone. Don’t tell Mommy and Pappy this, but, truth is, it’s actually not so bad. I mostly sleep. And if they’re not going to be gone too long (whatever that means), they don’t even put me in the crate. I can be alone, with the run of the house. I sleep under the table or at the top of the stairs—waiting for someone to come home.

  Of course I don’t just lie around the whole time; my freedom in the home isn’t without exploration. I especially love to nose around in the rooms that are usually closed. One of the rooms has a special, tall seat tha
t my family sits on to poop and pee. (I am an outdoor do-your-business girl.) One day I decided to take a peek at this chair—and lucky for me, it was a day when I wasn’t home alone. I sniffed the seat all over before hopping up onto it. My paws slipped into a deep hole with water, and I got very scared! Dogs do pray: “Lord, hear my prayer; get me out of this, and I’ll never do it again. Amen.” Well, things got worse before they got better. Something crashed down on my front paws as my back paws slid across the icy floor, and I let out a howling cry! I had pulled myself free from the water hole, but I was holding one of my legs off the ground—tripod mode again. Mommy came running, brother Jimmy too, as I hopped on three legs, howling.

  Mommy and brother Jimmy were frightened. Mommy was especially frantic about my leg that had retracted into my shoulder. Brother Jimmy, on the other hand, stayed calm. He is so smart. “Cutest Puppy, you want a cookie?” he said to me. All I can say is, miracles happen. I trotted over to the special cookie jar on, you guessed it, four legs! My crisis was over; now, Mommy needed to calm down. Of course, I was inspected from head to toe, and then the investigation began. I peeked around the corner as they went to see how my troubles began. The tell-tale signs of my hair were on the seat of their indoor pee-and-poop hole. Mommy and brother Jimmy laughed, recreating the debacle. “Her paws must have slipped when she tried to climb up, and then the cover fell down on her.” Mommy told me, “Shellbee, do your business outside—this seat is for people.” My brother Jimmy made up a new name for me: “Tripod Puppy,” because of my hopping around on three legs. I’ll never again go it alone in that room, though I am always up for throwing myself on Mommy while she sits on that seat with the attacking cover.