Joy Unleashed Read online

  Memoirs, by definition, are written depictions of events in people’s lives. They are memories. All the events in this story are as accurate and truthful as possible. Many names and places have been changed to protect the privacy of others. Mistakes, if any, are caused solely by the passage of time.

  Copyright © 2016 by Jean Baur

  Photographs copyright © 2016 by Jean Baur, unless otherwise noted

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Laura Klynstra

  Cover photo credit: Leasjo Hall

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-0240-0

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-0241-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Introduction

  Part I: Early Days

  1. What Were We Thinking?

  2. This Is a Crazy Place: Hospital Orientation

  3. The Cat Is Not a Snack

  4. The Infusion Room

  5. Baby Steps

  6. Dealing with the Unexpected

  7. Progress

  Part II: Finding the Right Job

  8. Saying Goodbye

  9. One Step Forward and Fifteen Back

  10. Beverly

  11. An All-American Dog

  12. Leonard

  13. Time to Walk Away

  Part III: Sit, Stay, Paws Up

  14. Navigating Through a Hospital

  15. Canine Good Citizen

  16. Bonding

  17. The Therapy Dog Certification Test

  18. When a Dog Is Like a Teenager

  19. Revolving Door

  Part IV: Working Girl

  20. Expect Nothing, Be Surprised

  21. We Go to School

  22. Favorites Can Still Bite

  23. What We Do

  24. Invitations

  25. Beverly’s Blessing

  26. Every Dog Has a Story

  27. Our Very Own School

  28. Slowness Is the New Kindness

  29. Legacy from Angus

  30. At the End There Is a Dog

  A Note from the Author

  Further Reading

  Therapy Dog Websites/Organizations

  Acknowledgments

  Photo Insert

  To Beverly and all the wonderful people Bella and I have met in our work as a therapy dog team. And for my five grandchildren: Molly, William, Lucy, Elliott, and Aidan.

  FOREWORD

  Aimée Scott, Special Education Teacher

  December 2015

  Stonington, Connecticut

  Being a special education teacher is a privilege filled with challenges. These challenges go far beyond teaching reading and math to students who have difficulty learning in the same way or at the same level as their peers. Helping special needs children requires trust, time, and an open mind. It means trying to make decisions that are best for the child, no matter how difficult this makes the teacher’s work. And underneath it all is an unconditional commitment to make learning and life better for each child.

  When I was first approached about having a therapy dog come to work with my students on a weekly basis, I couldn’t have been happier. As a dog lover myself, I knew firsthand how special dogs are and how effective they are at breaking through barriers. I was determined to get through the “red tape” at school to make sure this would be something I could offer my students. With the help of my administrators, Jean and I were able to set up a program with Bella and my students in my first year at a new school.

  I admit, I was nervous at first. I had several students who were afraid of dogs, as well as others who had never been near one. Would their parents consent? What would Bella really do with these children? Would she fit in with our curriculum or only be a distraction?

  We are now completing two and a half years of having Bella and Jean come to our class each week. Students cuddle up with Jean and read Bella stories on the big cushions. They tell Bella about their day and get her water and treats. They often walk her down the school hallway, a huge status symbol, as the other students can’t distract Bella while she’s working. She has become a part of our special education resources and a high point for our students. I can’t tell you how many times I’m asked each week, “Is it Friday yet?”—the children know that’s the day Bella comes to school.

  So what difference does it make having a therapy dog in our program? Bella accepts the children exactly as they are. If they can’t talk, she doesn’t care. If they’re struggling to read, she has no judgment. If they were afraid of her, they aren’t any longer, as her sweetness has won them over. What I see is that Bella helps build our students’ confidence because she wants to be with them. She licks their faces, listens to their stories, plays whatever games they want, and makes them happy. It’s always special to be with Bella.

  Bella and Jean have changed my program in the best possible way. Their presence has given my students a way to show what they do know, rather than what they don’t know. It has reaffirmed that they are wonderful just as they are, and I love seeing their hands stroking Bella’s soft, white fur as they read to her. Bella is also fun—she loves rolling on the floor, fetching her ball, prancing down the hallways. I know when Bella visits I will observe the powerful ways this dog reassures the children.

  I cannot thank Bella and Jean enough for the changes I see in my students due to their weekly visits. I look forward to the years to come with Bella and Jean, and all the students they will be helping in the future. I hope that more classrooms will be able to have this experience.

  INTRODUCTION

  Bella, my therapy dog, and I have been visiting The Starfish Home—a rehab facility—for four years (in addition to our work in two hospitals and an elementary school, and a few other places), and one of the residents we visited there was named Rose. She wasn’t one of Bella’s favorites, as she couldn’t talk and didn’t give her treats. She was Portuguese and had beautiful posture. She’d sit upright as though entertaining a dignitary, and her eyes brightened when she saw Bella. Her sister was often there in the room, visiting. She thanked me once and said what a relief it was to have a dog in the room—“Just something alive and happy” is how she put it. I nodded and moved Bella as close to Rose as I could, luring her with a treat. Later, I told Rose we would see her the following week, and she waved. Her face broke into a smile although her eyes looked sad.

  It was a casual relationship that lasted about six months, as Rose was one of many we’d see in our weekly visits. On our last visit with Rose, she was in bed, her head flung back on her pillow, her eyes closed and mouth open. “Not good,” said her sister. I put my hand on her arm and said a silent prayer. Bella sniffed around under the bed looking for crumbs. We left. The following week, Rose’s bed was empty and all her belongings, even the plants from the windowsill, were gone. Just to make sure, I a
sked the nurse and was told that Rose had passed a few days earlier.

  At the end of Rose’s life, a dog entered her room. A forty-pound whippet, lab, and terrier mix—a rescue from Puerto Rico and an unlikely therapy dog because she survived a dangerous place as a puppy and had issues. These issues included not liking many other dogs; hating to have her head patted; a huge phobia of thunder, fireworks, and gunshots; and a general fearfulness—and added to that is her terrier “I know best” attitude. But despite all this, or maybe because of it, Bella is good at her job. She shows up, she’s present, and in ways that are very hard to describe, she reaches people. She does something. She breaks through loneliness and fear.

  And she’s a busy working girl. She has helped special needs children overcome their fear of dogs and relax while reading a book. In the hospital, she has distracted patients during procedures or nudged them into turning one of those corners that make hard times a little easier. She knows how to cheer up nursing home residents or help college students relax before exams. And despite a lot of training, she reminds me every day that she’s a dog. She obeys (mostly), she knows the routine, but she clearly has her own ideas about things and will not, for example, stand still if a nurse comes rushing toward her proclaiming in a high-pitched voice, “Oh, look! A dog!”

  So what difference did Bella make for Rose? The first part of the answer is joy—just by entering the room, Bella made Rose smile. She brightened her day. She was something different in an endless routine as Rose’s body and mind failed. Bella also provided primal comfort and acceptance. Bella didn’t care if Rose could talk, or get hung up on what she was supposed to be, or worry about the future. And through this, Bella told Rose that she would be all right, that she was not alone. For Rose, and for all the lives touched by Bella, this unlikely therapy dog served as a bridge to whatever came next. At the end, there was a dog.

  If this sounds like a tall order for an ordinary dog, follow any therapy dog down the hall in a hospital and watch the faces of the people who pass you. They light up—they beam—sadness, distraction, fear, stress, busyness, all but melt away. Animals—dogs in particular—have a powerful effect on us and are ambassadors of the here and now. And yes, some people aren’t wild about dogs, and that’s fine. One of my favorite patients in the nursing home, Beverly, only touched Bella after seeing her weekly for more than a year, and most of the time, Beverly only looked at me, not her. But that’s okay because we’re a team. We complement each other and enable each other to do work that neither of us could do alone.

  A quick note on “work”: this is volunteer work, but having been raised to believe that work is really important, plus being a type A—like Bella—I like to go to work. When I speak this word, she looks for her leash, the red one with little white bones on it that she received when certified as a therapy dog. We have a job and we do it—week after week. Together we go to places where people are sick, lonely, afraid—or in the case of the school children, living with a disability or learning challenge. Sometimes I do the talking, other times Bella is in the forefront; she’s the one who curls up in bed with a teenager in the hospital who is terrified to be there. We follow and learn from each other.

  Organized in alternating chapters—Bella’s rescue and training interspersed with her work as a certified therapy dog—I hope to show you what it takes for these extraordinary animals to become therapy dogs and how they affect patients in nursing homes and hospitals and help children feel excited about learning. This is not a training manual, but a true story about Bella and the work she does. My personal story is another thread in this narrative—I discovered how working with Bella helped me through losing my job, selling our house, and moving to another state to start over at age sixty-five. In the early chapters, there is a five-year gap between Bella’s training and her certification, but as the book evolves, these two pieces come together. Join us in our adventure—it’s an amazing journey.

  PART I: EARLY DAYS

  Chapter 1

  WHAT WERE WE THINKING?

  May 2007

  Yardley, Pennsylvania

  Angus died. He was our first dog; a collie-shepherd mix. At sixteen, he was the gentlest and most loving companion. We had adopted him from the Bucks County SPCA when he was just a year old. For me, it was love at first sight—I saw his face, his beautiful tri-color coat, and even though he pulled and was a bit wild when we took him out for a walk, I wouldn’t return him to his pen out of fear someone else would get him. My husband, Bob, and our five-year-old son, Peter, walked another dog while Angus and I hung out in the parking lot. It was a warm April day and I was excited, as I hadn’t had a dog since I was a child.

  We’d always wanted a dog, but having lived in New York City for the first seven years of our marriage, we didn’t want the hassle of caring for a dog. When we moved to Pennsylvania, we had so many expenses that we knew it wasn’t the right time. But eventually, all the pieces fell into place.

  “This the one you want?” asked Bob. I didn’t have to answer—my face said it all. Peter patted him and we noticed how gentle the dog without a name was. He was a stray who had been picked up on the side of the road. He had already been at the shelter long enough to be adopted, and after paying fifty dollars and signing a contract that we would get him neutered within two weeks (there was a fifty-dollar returnable deposit we had to pay for, too), we put the dog in the back of our station wagon and drove to the store to pick up supplies. I stayed in the car to keep him company while Bob and Peter did the shopping.

  Even at the end of his life, Angus showed the same sweetness we had seen in him at the shelter. If it was too difficult for him to get up to greet us, he’d lift his head and wag his tail like mad. His face was expressive, too—large brown eyes that shone with love. But as his organs failed, we knew we had to make the impossible decision to put him down.

  We carried him to the car, both of us weeping, and Bob said, “I can’t do this.”

  I replied, “But we have to. He’s suffering and isn’t going to get better. If there’s any hope, the vet will tell us.”

  It was a Sunday in June, so we had to go to the emergency veterinary services. We carried Angus into the examining room on his bed and put him gently on the floor. The vet came in and listened to his heart and other vital signs and told us we were doing the right thing. “His organs are shutting down. Take as long as you like.” He left the room, and Bob and I folded ourselves around Angus, patting and talking to him. He didn’t seem afraid—always trusting us. After what felt like a long time, I asked Bob if we should have the vet come back in with the injection. He couldn’t talk, but nodded. It was peaceful and quick and then I had to leave the room. Bob stayed behind as I wept in the lobby and took care of the paperwork and bill. When he finally came out of the room, we decided we couldn’t go home—too many things reminded us of him. So we drove to the canal towpath that we had walked so many times with Angus, and this time we walked by ourselves. It felt awful. Finally, we went home and I put away his belongings.

  Losing him was so hard that we waited almost a year before considering another dog. Spring was on its way again, and Bob, being a college professor, had four months of free time—the perfect opportunity to train a dog. This was 2007.

  We went back to the Bucks County SPCA where we had found Angus, but they didn’t have many dogs, and the only one we thought might work couldn’t be released, as he had behavioral issues and needed additional testing. Peter was by now in college, but my daughter had a one-year-old child and lived nearby, so we wanted to make sure our new dog would be safe around children. We stood in the parking lot, missing Angus even more acutely.

  Bob said, “We won’t find another dog like him.” I agreed, but then said, “He was a bit wild when we first got him. It took time for us to figure it all out. Can’t we do that again?”

  Bob nodded, not exactly a yes, and we decided to drive over to St. Hubert’s Animal Welfare Center in New Jersey, as the daughter of a woman I work
ed with was connected with that shelter and had told her mother they had lots of puppies. We had seen photos of them online and had picked out a cute brown one to investigate.

  An hour later at St. Hubert’s, a young woman named Kim greeted us and took us back to the outdoor runs where the puppies were. We asked to see the brown one and she brought him out to a fenced-in yard where we could play with him. Bob and I sat down on the grass and the puppy sniffed our sneakers and walked away. We had filled out a long form, and Kim had asked us a wide range of questions about what we wanted. After a few minutes she said, “This isn’t the dog for you. He’s not that interested in people.”

  We agreed and went back to look at the others. There were two white puppies, brother and sister in pens next to each other, each with sweet faces and freckles on their noses. Bob instantly bonded with the larger one, the female, while I hung back, not sure about either one of them. I was disappointed that the first puppy hadn’t worked out and was wondering if we were nuts to even think of a puppy at our age (late fifties, early sixties).

  But when we sat on the grass with this one, she stayed with us and seemed curious about who we were. After sniffing around for a few minutes, she sat down on top of Bob’s foot. She was only twenty pounds and had been rescued from Puerto Rico. She and about forty other dogs had been flown to Newark Airport, as St. Hubert’s helped other shelters that were overrun and her chances of being adopted here were much better.

  “How old is she?” I asked.

  “The vet thinks she and her brother are between three-and-a-half to four months old,” said Kim.

  Bob and I talked for a while, and Kim let us bring her into the room where the cats were in cages to see how she’d do, since we had a cat, Henry. She sniffed around the room with her ears up, but didn’t lunge at the cages or bark, so we figured she’d be all right.

  We decided to have lunch at a diner next door and promised we’d come back either way. We needed time. All I remember of that lunch is that I ate a Greek salad and vacillated wildly back and forth—one moment telling Bob how cute she was, and the next, wondering what on earth we were doing.