Connie’s door is almost always open, she sits near the hallway, her walker close, tubes attached to help her breathe. I say, “Connie, It’s Jon and Red, do you want us to come in.” She says yes, she does.
As we get to know the patients and the Mansion assisted care facility – it is pleasant and comfortable there – I have a new regiment for Red and I, I come in, remind everyone who I am and who Red is – his therapy tag is usually hanging off of his collar – and once we all know one another, I back out of the room and into the hallway, signaling Red with one palm up to stay there.
I know now that the residents are not really looking to talk to me, they want to touch Red, look into his eyes and be transported to a time and place they rarely speak of aloud. I know they are going somewhere, but rarely know where. There is a silence about Red and around Red.
He goes off to places with them.
I imaging them to be going back in time, to their own dogs and cats and lives back in the world.
The residents are well cared for at the Mansion, and content there, but there is an inevitable sense of disconnection in these places, they are not the real world. Residents are cut off from many of the things they loved and were comforted by, despite the intense efforts of the staff to entertain and stimulate them.
I see that the dog brings them back to connection, back to the life they left behind, the life we will all have to leave behind one way or another. We are all one thing, headed in the same direction, going to the same place. There are some people who like to talk a bit – Brother Pete, a monk for 50 years likes to talk about the dogs he had.
Most of the time, the people we visit like Connie just want to be alone with the dog, so I keep in sight. People often fail to grasp that the therapy dog handler has to pay attention to the dog every second, I can be a few feet away but never out of sight or touch.
I never fail to remember that these visits are between the residents and Red, I am just transporting him and watching over him. Nobody wants to touch me or sit with me for many minutes.
The people we see are never aware of the commands I am giving him, almost constantly. Come to the person. Stay still. Don’t sit down. Wait right there. Come around the chair. Come slowly.
Surprising things happen all the time, and Red often looks to me for signals or reassurance or permission. If I wave the hand down, he can lie down, if I hold it up, he is to stay sitting up. People can stumble or fall, there are strange noises, sights and smells.
My rule for therapy is no mistakes, no mishaps. I don’t want anyone ever stumbling or falling over my dog, or getting frightened by him, or jumped on, I don’t want to be far away if he is spooked by something, he will be guided by my signals and commands. It can happen to any dog and my rule for therapy is no mistakes. If you can’t be absolutely certain that you are in control of your dog every minute, or can’t be 100 per cent certain of how he will behave, then don’t bring him near the elderly or the sick.
It doesn’t matter how cute or sweet he or she is, he has to be completely dependable. I could never have trained Red to be as intuitive as he is, he is very unusual.
People sometimes try to talk to me while I am doing therapy work, I don’t like it, it’s not the time for chatter. I need to pay attention.
At the very least, the dog must do no harm of any kind, not around vulnerable people who trust him and open their hearts to him.
Red and I speak without language, he reads me and I read him, and we are never not working, no matter how casual or relaxed it seems. I can only handle this work for 30 or 45 minutes at a stretch, my concentration is so intense.
We both are drained after these visits, and I am also exhilarated. It is good work to do, and it matters a great deal to people, and I am lucky to have Red to do it with me.
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If you wish to write to Connie or any of the residents of The Mansion, you can send your letters to: The Mansion, 11 South Union St., Cambridge N.Y., 12816. They love to get letters there.