Joy Unleashed Page 6

  Bob quickly told me it was fine if I was the one to do the training since it was my idea.

  “You sure?” I asked him.

  “You care about this more than I do—go ahead.”

  I thanked him and took hold of her leash. As I looked around the barn, I thought to myself—no way. There was no way Bella was ever going to be able to do this. We were told to have consistent commands for each piece of equipment and I picked over for the jumps, teeter for the see-saw, walk-it for the dog walk (a raised plank that’s about shoulder height), tunnel for the tunnel, weave for the weave poles, and frame for the huge A-frame that the dogs had to run up and down, stopping just before the ground. It was daunting but fun, and like any classroom, I learned as much from the other “students” as from the instructors. They demonstrated a skill with one of their dogs (of course, off-leash and well trained), and then, one at a time, we had to give the command and hope our dogs got it.

  We were given homework, so each day I practiced with Bella in the house. I’d say “right here” and she had to come, or “stay,” or “go left, go right” so that she learned direction, as well as the all-important “leave it” and “wait” (the command for the bottom of the A-frame where dogs had to stop with their two back paws on the frame and the front two on the ground). I didn’t have any equipment, but practiced wait on the stairs, and up we went together. She had to stay at the top until I called her and then had to stop on the bottom step until I gave her the release word, okay.

  There were treats involved—lots of treats. I become a frequent buyer at Trader Joe’s because they had Charlie Bears—small, dry liver treats that fit nicely in the pocket and didn’t smell. I had to carefully check all my pants before doing the laundry since I had treats everywhere, and soon the neighborhood dogs knew it, too, and I couldn’t walk Bella without stopping to give one to each of them.

  Bob watched us with a detached look of amusement on his face—an expression mixed with a healthy dose of skepticism. Bella was smart—we both know that—but like me, she had her own stubborn ideas about how things should be done. Manure trumped a command and she was still jumpy around the other dogs, which gave new meaning to the word unpredictable.

  As we celebrated her one-year anniversary with us in May, and the weather was warm, I really enjoyed the classes in the barn minus the frustration. We were now allowed to do one obstacle with the dog’s leash attached but not holding on to it. Bella took this as an invitation to dash to the best pile of manure or run in the opposite direction.

  “Get her attention!” yelled Gail.

  I screamed, “Right here! Bella, right here!” and nothing happened. She was having a ball and was oblivious. Gail grabbed her leash, made her sit, and put her hands on both sides of Bella’s face, grabbing her skin.

  “Here!” she yelled.

  Bella stood there like a teenager; confused, bored, and really not that interested.

  Gail handed me the leash. “You need to practice the basic commands.”

  I do, I thought. Every day. I didn’t say anything and took the leash, wishing at that moment that Bella was the Portuguese Water Dog in the class who was calm, attentive, and just got it. After class, I asked Gail if I could ask her a question. She looked tired but nodded.

  “What about a shock collar? Something that would help her learn?”

  “Are you kidding?” Gail looked at me as if I just suggested that Bella have her legs cut off. “We don’t do that. You’ve got to work with this dog, meet her where she is, and with lots of repetition, she’ll get it.”

  My thought? Sure, by that time she’ll be an old dog and neither of us will be able to run around the barn let alone compete in agility trials.

  “Thanks,” I muttered, and left the barn.

  Once outside I told her “Good girl” because, despite my frustration, I knew she was. I gave her as long as she liked to sniff the grass and enjoy the warm, moist air of spring. There were horses out in the pasture and a donkey brayed. I opened the back car door, told her “up,” and drove home. I wasn’t going to give up just because it was difficult. We had embarked on an adventure and couldn’t turn back now. And besides, a competitive and stubborn part of me wanted to show the owners of the fancy designer dogs that an all-American mutt could do just as fine a job as their purebreds could—I was convinced of it.

  Chapter 10

  BEVERLY

  May–July 2012

  Stonington, Connecticut

  We were back at The Starfish Home with Deb and Shelby, and Bella had decided that Shelby was not a threat. She gently licked her lips; a loving sign of submission. Deb and I laughed. “She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?” Deb asked.

  I wanted to say yes, but all I could think of was how she still liked to eat goose poop, and despite a lot of training, was still headstrong and unpredictable. But Deb was right—Bella was sweet, and her face was vulnerable with those soft brown eyes making her look like a puppy.

  About halfway through the facility, we went into Karen and Beverly’s room. I still wasn’t used to being in a rehab facility—the smells were sometimes staggering and the vacant looks and slumped bodies made me want to run. But I had two really good guides: Deb and Shelby, who were always so relaxed and comfortable. To them, this was a stroll in the park. They sauntered into a room, always glad to see the resident, no matter what condition he or she was in. Bella and I still held back, waiting, learning, still uncertain about our roles. Some of my old fears about places like this surfaced—a queasy feeling, a get me out of here and I hope to never be in a place like this.

  Karen was a talker and loved dogs. In fact, her bed was covered by more than forty stuffed animals, which included dogs, cats, skunks, and other creatures. She was in a large reclining chair near the door and she reached out hungrily to Shelby while looking at Bella.

  “Who’s this?” she asked.

  “This is Bella and Jean. They’re new. They’ll be coming with us most weeks.”

  I gave Karen a treat to give Bella and after Bella took it, Karen said, “More.”

  So we repeated this process a few times. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her roommate—a woman I would guess was in her early eighties, holding two dolls to her chest. She was rocking slowly back and forth. I knew from the name plate outside the room that this was Beverly, and Deb had mentioned that she was not responsive.

  As I got Bella away from Karen, I took a step toward Beverley and was hit by a look from her that stopped me dead in my tracks. Her scowl said: I am somewhere terrible, I can’t get out, and I hate you.

  I quickly turned back to Karen and listened to the same story about how she was sprayed by a skunk as a young woman, and then she said, “Why won’t you give me treats to give the dog?” As she had already given both of them lots of treats, I turned to Deb.

  “Just one more, Karen,” she said, and we left the room.

  Deb whispered to me once we were out in the hall, “You think she’s fine, but then she doesn’t remember what’s happened two minutes ago.”

  I nodded and said, “Beverly is scary. Did you see that look on her face?”

  “Just off in her own world, I guess,” said Deb, cheerfully entering the next room.

  Before we returned to The Starfish Home the next week, I thought about Beverly, wondering if there was a way to break through to her—a way to reach her. I gave myself a pep talk: I would not be afraid. “It’s okay to fail,” I told myself, “but it’s not okay to judge her based on how she looks.” I didn’t know what it was about her that made me want to try—that pulled me toward her despite my fear. Bella had no such anxiety and would go anywhere as long we were together and treats were part of the deal.

  The following week, Beverly was sitting in a chair in the hallway, again clutching the two dolls. I stopped beside her while Deb was in their room with Karen, and said, “Such nice babies. You’ve got two babies.”

  I got the same stare but noticed that she was jiggling them up and down
. “You’re doing a good job,” I told her, then joined Deb and Shelby and continued on down the hallway. As we passed her again on our way to another wing, I said, “See you next week, Beverly,” and again I was met with the hollow eyes and a dark look.

  I followed Deb into a room with two men. The first, Chuck, was a big guy in sweat pants, who looked like a former football player. He was the one Bella had jumped up on a few weeks earlier. Deb told me he loved dogs and often pet the air beside him as if his own dog were there. He couldn’t talk but his face lit up when he saw Bella and Shelby. After Shelby had stood patiently by his side while he ruffled her fur, I got Bella next to him and asked if he’d like to give her a treat. No response, so I put a small treat in his hand. In one swift motion, he put it in his mouth.

  “Oh, no!” I said, and his wife, who was sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed, forced his jaw open and snagged the treat with her finger.

  “That’s not for you!” she shouted. “It’s for the dog!”

  Chuck didn’t respond, but looked off in the distance, off into a world that only he could see.

  I apologized to his wife, and before we left, he turned his attention back to the dogs and stroked Bella. He didn’t smile, but the sadness loosened at the edges of his broad face.

  When Deb and I got outside in the parking lot, letting the dogs wander around on the grass, we talked about Chuck. “I guess the treats won’t kill him,” I told her. “They’re liver. Might even be organic.”

  “Yuck!” she said, and we both laughed and agreed to meet in the parking lot at the same time the next week.

  The third time I met Beverly, she was in her room, again sitting on the side of her bed with her babies. I gave her a few moments to get used to me and then knelt down on the floor in front of her. I could see her looking at Bella.

  “Would you like to give her a treat?” I asked. Nothing. “She’s my baby,” I added, kissing Bella’s head and giving her a treat.

  Beverly’s look changed from scary to whatever the first cousin of curiosity is, so I decided to be brave and gently took one of her hands, put a treat on her palm, and lowered her hand so that Bella could reach it. As Bella’s tongue touched her palm, Beverley’s eyebrows shot up. I let go of her hand and clapped my hands. “You did it!” I told her, and she smiled. She smiled and it was like the sun came out from behind a dark cloud. It was a miracle. There was mischief and joy for one tiny moment. And then, without dropping the babies, she clapped, too. Right at that precise moment—we became friends.

  At first we tried to pretend that all residents were equal and that we didn’t have favorites, but it wasn’t true. My relationship with Beverly evolved as Deb’s did with Wendy, a woman in her forties with Down’s syndrome. Wendy couldn’t really talk, but the minute she saw Deb and Shelby (and we found out she had a lab as a child), she threw her arms open wide waiting for a hug. Deb leaned down and put her arms around her, saying to Wendy, “I’m so glad to see you.” Wendy wouldn’t let go. The aide, a young college girl, watched and smiled, and after a bit Wendy loosened her hold and Deb straightened up. “You look beautiful today, Wendy,” said Deb. “I really like your purple shirt.”

  Wendy smiled. Bella didn’t mind missing out on this visit, as I think she was a little afraid of Wendy—or maybe the wheelchair scared her.

  Deb kept talking to Wendy, never taking her hand off her arm. Never letting Wendy’s erratic movements put her off. Shelby was right there by her side, basking in Wendy’s attention, never pulling back as Wendy’s hand flew past her face, once getting hold of her nose. Somehow she seemed to know that this was the best Wendy could do. I was learning a lot about patience and tolerance from this dog.

  When it was time to go, Deb told Wendy, “See you next week, okay?”

  Wendy flung her head to one side and watched Shelby. She loved this dog. As we continued down the hallway, Deb said to me, “Isn’t it funny how certain residents bond with us? You have your Beverly and I have Wendy.”

  Beverly now seemed to be waiting for me, perhaps knowing I’d spend time with her and admire her babies. Of course, there were good days and bad days. Days she buried herself under a blanket on her bed and wouldn’t come out. Days when nothing got through the dull stare. But one visit, I found her seated in a chair at one of the dining room tables eating a bag of potato chips. I was shocked, as I’d never seen her eat and didn’t know she could feed herself. An aide told me she was hungry, but how did she know? The dolls lay in her lap as she licked the salt off her fingers. Another week, the dolls had been replaced by a fluffy pink rabbit.

  “Oh, Beverly,” I said. “Look what you have.”

  She glanced up at me and back down at the rabbit.

  “So pretty,” I added, not knowing if I should call the rabbit a baby or a rabbit. Not knowing what she saw.

  “Bella would like that.” I didn’t tell her that Bella was a master of destruction and could rip that bunny into pieces in less than two minutes. Bella seemed to know that she wasn’t needed most of the time when I was with Beverly and sat quietly to one side.

  “Soft,” I added, patting the rabbit.

  Beverly had a shy look on her face, and I caught a glimpse of her as a girl.

  “Want to me sing to it?”

  Her eyebrows shot up, a quick alert moment.

  “Rock a-bye baby on the tree top,” I sang. I sang the whole song, remembering my two children as infants, maybe even remembering my own mother singing to me. It was a strange lullaby with destruction at the end. Just like Beverly. No one else heard us or our moment together. We focused our attention on the pink bunny, and in that way told each other we’d be there for each other. Just like good friends.

  As always, Deb and I debriefed in the parking lot, praising our dogs for their amazing work. Their presence seemed effortless, but I knew by the long nap Bella took after we got home that it wasn’t. This was work—hard work—being surrounded by strange smells and noises, machinery, carts being pushed down the hallways, and each room, each patient, different. There was no slacking off.

  On our next visit, Deb told the head nurse, Bonnie, that I almost always made Beverly laugh, but she didn’t believe it until she watched us. One day, she followed me into Beverly’s room and we went through our routine.

  I patted the babies, sang to them, and then said something silly.

  “Is that baby being a good girl?” I asked in a high voice.

  Beverly looked up.

  “You be a good baby,” I said, pretending to scold the one nearest me, shaking my finger at her.

  Beverly grinned.

  I threw my head back and laughed, and Beverly laughed, too, her missing and black teeth making her joy even more amazing.

  “That is so good,” said the head nurse. “I’ve never seen her do that. Beverly lives pretty much in her own world.”

  I thought we all did, but didn’t say that. I wanted to ask the nurse how long she’d been here, and if she had family who visited, but I couldn’t. Therapy dog teams must always respect patients’ privacy. We weren’t allowed to ask questions about medical history or why someone was there or in the hospital. We visited, we left, and we kept information private. But that didn’t stop us from becoming part of a place.

  I always thought about Beverly on the drive home; how she was that day, what she liked, what I could try on the next visit. Beverly now took to bringing the babies up to her face and kissing them. I told her that they loved her, and that she was a wonderful mother. And the next moment, I made silly kissing noises and Beverly pulled the dolls away from her face and grinned at me. I realized we didn’t need words. Her look, her eyes on mine, her funny smile meeting mine—were very much like teaching Bella agility—our bodies did all the talking.

  Chapter 11

  AN ALL-AMERICAN DOG

  2009–2010

  Yardley, Pennsylvania

  The world of dogs, like the world of horses, is a unique universe. There are rules, standards, expe
ctations, and sometimes judgment. As part of our agility training and to prepare for agility trials (which were still a long way off), I filled out the paperwork so that Bella was registered with the American Kennel Club, or AKC. Until recently, mixed breeds (what we used to call mutts) were not allowed to join, but eventually there was enough pressure to include them. They were labeled as “All American.” So my crazy rescue from Puerto Rico was now known as an All-American dog, and I had the paperwork to prove it.

  This didn’t mean that the people with fancy, purebred dogs looked on her kindly, but it did mean that she could compete. It reminded me of seventh grade when the popular girls had a certain look that the rest of us envied and did our best to emulate, knowing we’d always be outside their golden circle. My competitive nature made me even more determined to prove the Sheltie and Border Collie owners wrong, despite Bella’s erratic behavior in class. I might have been more of a terrier than Bella was.

  What I couldn’t see at the time was that I wasn’t ready to devote my life to this. I didn’t want to spend every weekend going to trials, and although I enjoyed the classes for the most part—as did Bella—it wasn’t the center of my life. I was working, writing, and now had two grandchildren with a third on the way. Bella’s work was only a piece of the puzzle—not the whole thing. A year into the classes, we still showed up every week, freezing in the unheated barn in the winter, and sweltering and swatting flies in the summer. Bella had finally begun to get it. She knew how to jump and sail over twenty-inch rails with no problem. She eventually got over her fear of the tunnel and shot through it like a bullet. Her favorite obstacle was the A-frame, which she ran up so fast, her hind legs were suspended in the air as she went over the peak and started down the other side. What I couldn’t get her to do was stop with only her front paws on the ground. Over and over I said, “Wait!” and over and over she was so excited and so fast that she flew off the obstacle.