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(Serendipitous moments in the life of a therapy dog)
Nothing sooths my soul like an early morning walk on the beach. The whoosh and sigh of the tide have a hypnotic effect. The sea breeze caresses away tension and stress. The warm sand between my toes and the cool damp firmness left by the ebbing tide bring a feeling of peace and contentment. I love to look for sea shells; but the unexpected glitter of wet “stones” - green, amber, clear and sometimes blue and pink captivate me. Sea glass! God’s way o f recycling refuse into something beautiful and cherished. What was it’s origin, it’s history, it’s “before” life? Probably very ordinary, but the churning sea, the harsh rocks and the grinding sands have softened the edges, polished the plains, and the wetness of the waves has turned it into a gemstone of sorts.
As my dog and I go about our weekly visits with those needing physical restoration, mental refurbishing, and spiritual renewal, we sometimes find “sea glass on the sand.” These are moments so precious we want to collect them like the coveted beach glass and stash them away in our bag of treasures to keep forever. On this page we will share some of our “sea glass” with you. Here are some gems from our treasure cache.
Photo courtesy of http://www.odysseyseaglass.com/
- To go directly to a specific "moment" Click the title below.
August 2010
March 2010
January 2010
October 2009
Making A Difference
August 2010
When we visit the hospital I always sign in at the Inpatient Rehab Unit before going first to the Reflections Unit. Today a therapist stops me outside the IRU exercise room.
"Could you come in here right now?" she asks with a slight sense of urgency.
"Sure," I reply, leading Reggie into the almost deserted gym. The woman sits in a wheelchair surrounded by gadgets designed to strengthen depleted muscles. The therapist steps aside as
Reggie and I approach. The woman, younger
than most in IRU, looks dejected and sad.
"Hi. Reggie wants to say hello," I announce and without asking permission, I lead Reggie right up to her. She smiles hesitantly and reaches out to touch him. Reggie moves in close. She holds out her arms and he comes closer still, his face almost touching hers. She wraps her arms around him, leans her face against his and just stays there for a long moment. As he eases back she continues to stroke him, tugging gently at his ears, reaching behind them to scratch the itchy spot. He "grins" happily, ready to settle down and stay a while.
I ask Reggie to wave, "We will be back by later, " I say as we leave for Reflections.
When we return to IRU, the woman is back in her room. The therapist rushes up to us. She kneels down and ruffs Reggie hair, "You earned your ‘pay’ today, " she says. Then she explains. The young woman had become very discouraged and with this depression came the lack of will to cooperate with the therapist on the strengthening exercises she needed. She seemed to have given up. She was in tears when the therapist saw Reggie and asked us to come in. When Reggie left there was a smile on the woman’s face. She worked patiently with the therapist and even walked with assistance back to her room. Before I leave the area the supervising nurse comes to me and adds her words of tribute for the Reggie’s influence on that patient’s attitude and, hopefully, recovery. Sea glass in the sand!
The table in the activity room was filled with patients. One man in a wheelchair is visiting with a family member. A gray-haired woman is busy coloring a picture of some flowers. Another is quietly tearing a napkin into pieces and then fitting them back together, her wrinkled face bent intently on her work. A small, shriveled man is just sitting, staring blankly into space.
Reggie and I approach each person, giving each an opportunity to interact with Reggie, to pet him. While each one responds in his/her own way, there’s no moment of excitement or special engagement in spite of my efforts to reach out and break through the invisible barriers that seem to separate us. Reggie seems as lethargic as the patients, refusing at least once to even try to catch his ball.
A man is sleeping soundly in a chair, alone at the end of the room. Gesturing toward the sleeping patient I ask the attendant,
"Should I try to awaken the man over there?"
"Oh yes. I think he will enjoy Reggie," and she walks over to the man.
Slowly he rouses blinks and looks curiously at the aide. She speaks slowly and clearly right in the man’s ear,
"This is Reggie. Isn’t he a big dog?"
The man slowly turns his gaze to Reggie and me. As he focuses his mouth spreads into a wide toothless grin. He reaches toward Reggie with both hands and Reggie intuitively moves in closer. The man tousles Reggie’s hair, scratches his ears and under his chin. "What’s his name?" "What kind of dog?" "How old is he?" The questions tumble forth as the aide patiently repeats my answers directly in his ear. He hears her answers and continues to ask more questions and obviously is delighted with her (and Reggie’s) responses.
"Would you like to see him bow?" I ask and the attendant translates.
He nods eagerly. Reggie hasn’t been very enthusiastic when visiting with the other clients at the table, but now he gives a slow, deep, dignified bow. With this success, I point my forefinger at Reggie and "cock" my thumb, "bang!" Reggie responds by dropping down and rolling over on his back, covering his eyes with his paws. The man laughs with delight. I decide the time is right to try again to play ball. Reggie leaps high in the air and makes the catch.
I had the ball to the patient, "why don’t you toss the ball to Reggie?"
I mime the action. He takes the ball tosses and Reggie catches it.
We all applaud. For several minutes the man and dog enjoy the moment with a game of catch.
Before we leave Reggie waves "goodbye" and the man grins happily.
As the aide walks with me to the locked door to let us out, she whispers,
"That makes it all worth while, doesn’t it?"
"It sure does, " I respond. Sea Glass!
A Visit to the Farmers’ Market
June 2010
Reggie and I love to go to the Farmers’ Market. It’s a busy place filled with the tantalizing smell of cooking meat, colorful displays of red and yellow apples, rosy peaches, zillions of yellow and red tomatoes, green beans, squash and more, plus a diverse crowd of people.
Today I feel a little overwhelmed with the bathing, grooming, exercising, planning programs and just working with a therapy dog in general. "Is it really worth it? Does it really make a difference?" I wonder.
As we stroll the dirt path between the rows of booths, we pause at a meat booth selling frozen steaks and fresh grilled hamburger from locally grown beef. A young woman with a small beagle on a leash approaches us. She pets Reggie absently and looks directly at me.
"Hello," she says. "I want to thank you for all you do."
Puzzled, I stare at her blankly.
"Oh, I’we heard about you and Reggie, all the things you do. I just want you to know how great I think it is."
Totally surprised by the encounter, I manage a "Thank you, we enjoy it." And as quickly as she appeared, she was gone and just as quickly the paradigm shifts. Sea glass at the market.
The dog who "took" communion
May 2010
God must have a good sense of humor. At least I sincerely hope he does!
 On this Sunday Reggie and I are responsible for Youth Worship.
Together we climb the stairs to the Youth Worship area. As usual when we have the program, we are going up early to make final preparations. Today I look over the room, allow Reggie to sniff and explore. Then I have him lie down at my side while I write some key points on the flip chart.
Suddenly, I look down. Reggie is no longer lying by my side! My eyes quickly scan the room. He is over at the communion table, innocently lapping up the grape juice and munching the communion wafers.
"Reggie," I exclaim, "Leave!" He does, reluctantly. Horrified, I think how upset some people might be if they knew Reggie had sampled these sacred elements. Then the humor of the situation spills over. A chuckle wells up in my throat and erupts as laughter out of my mouth. Certainly God has a sense of humor and surely he will forgive this gentle giant who brings so much joy and pleasure to so many people. God must have a special love for this strong and innocent creature who can never grasp the significance of these precious symbols of sacrifice, forgiveness and remembrance.
But there’s no time to linger, I suddenly have unexpected work to do before the children arrive! In spite of it all, it is a serendipitous moment!
Judy,
I cannot begin to express to you the joy you and Reggie brought to my Mom while she was in the hospital. During the total 26 days she was hospitalized the only bright spots for her were your visits. In fact, visiting with Reggie was the highlight of her week, even after she was discharged.
I have not forgotten you would like photos emailed! I am somewhat technologically challenged. But will get them to you soon. I thought you might enjoy the enclosed prints. I’m disappointed some of them are blurry, but they do look somewhat better via email, as opposed to enlarged prints. I also included photos of my Mom on Easter and our four Schnoodles.
Thank you again for the service you provide for the rehab patients at Hancock Regional Hospital and especially for lifting my Mom’s spirit.
April 2010
When Reggie and I visit the hospital, the therapists and nurses are our strongest advocates. They explain to the residents before we arrive that Reggie and I are coming to visit. They welcome us enthusiastically, petting Reggie and graciously greeting me. They direct us to the patients who are waiting eagerly to see us and advise us about those who have animal allergies or phobias.
One therapist, Connie, seems especially attracted to Reggie. Today she is working with a patient in a wheelchair who is reluctant to pet Reggie. The patient is just not sure about this big dog. Connie sits on the floor and invites Reggie to play. He licks her face (something I don’t allow) with tail going into overdrive. She talks to him and laughs as he responds with excitement. He wiggles with joy and Connie giggles happily.
With her arms still around Reggie, she looks up at the patient, "You probably won’t believe this but I don’t like dogs." She explains. "But I love Reggie. I was bitten as a child so I’m afraid of dogs. But I’m not afraid of Reggie. He is so sweet and lovable."
She stands and so does Reggie. As she goes to the patient, Reggie walks over with her. He looks expectantly at the woman in the wheelchair. She reaches out a hand and tentatively touches his head. Then she rubs his head admiring the softness and curl in his hair. She smiles and Connie grins happily (and so does Reggie!) Sea Glass!
Giant Schnoodle Meets Toy
March 2010
It was a routine day for Reggie and me at the hospital. Reggie was in a good mood and there were satisfying interactions with each of the six people we visited. Because there were fewer patients than usual, we were finishing our rounds a little early and ready to be on our way.
"Judy," called a nurse. "There’s someone at the nurses’ station who wants to see Reggie."
Puzzled, we return to the station. A slender young woman is pushing a wheelchair. Sitting in the chair is a petite woman with short black hair holding a tiny brown dog. This is an adorable "designer" dog, one that might peek out of Paris Hilton’s handbag. From the puppy’s little brown nose to her cropped ears (tipping over slightly) to her tiny stub of a tail, she looks like a Schnoodle. Wearing a pink Barbie "hoodie" she seems more like a bedroom decoration than a real dog. But Reggie knows she is real!
I recognize the woman in the wheelchair immediately. For the past two weeks I had visited her here in IRU. But Saturday she was dismissed from the hospital.
I recall the first time I met the woman (then an IRU patient) two weeks before.
"A Giant Schnoodle," she had exclaimed. "I have two little Schnoodles at home. See their pictures." She pointed to two large framed photographs. One was a portrait of her and two tiny puppies, one of which was a miniature version of Reggie. The other photo, also a portrait, was of four small dogs, all small Schnoodles. Scattered about the room were several toy dogs, very lifelike and very "Schnoodle". The toys caught Reggie’s eye immediately and he reacted with excitement.
"He’s O.K." the patient assured me as I corrected Reggie. "He’s fine," and she moved to the edge of the bed reaching out her arms to Reggie. He moved in close. She encouraged a smooch and Reggie complied.
"Oh, I want my daughter to see him," she said, picking up her cell phone and placing a call. When we waved "Goodbye" she was still talking on the phone.
The following Wednesday a therapist alerted us, "Be sure to visit Room 264." We knocked and entered the room to find the same tiny woman waiting impatiently for our arrival.
"I am so glad to see you," she crooned to Reggie. He reacted by moving in closer and responding to her small talk with a wagging tail and "smiling" face. She grabbed her cell phone and I heard a one-sided conversation. She was asking the daughter to come over now to see Reggie. But the daughter was in a meeting and couldn’t get away. Disappointed, she put down the phone and turned her attention again to Reggie.
She had a lot of questions, "How often do you come here?" "How long do you stay?" and questions about Reggie, "How much does he weigh?" "How old is he?"
We stayed longer than usual and chatted about her "babies" as she calls the miniature Schnoodles she and her daughter own. She told me she was going home this Saturday. I gave her my card and suggested her daughter check our web site to see Reggie’s pictures.
Today she has returned, bringing her daughter and one of her Schnoodles, hoping to find Reggie and me at our usual time in IRU.
This is the tiniest Schnoodle I have ever seen. It is a Toy Poodle/Miniature Schnauzer cross.
Reggie is definitely interested in this unusual doggy. I keep a tight hold on his leash (he’s been known to pounce with glee on these tiny dogs) but he seems content to sniff and nose her gently. She, on the other hand, isn’t so sure about about this monster dog. She trembles and quivers like a leaf in a windstorm. When the daughter places her on the floor the little dog turns and takes refuge behind the daughter’s feet.
Patients, therapists, nurses and visitors gather around to watch a Giant Schnoodle and a Toy Schnoodle getting acquainted, one a dainty nervous brown female and the other a gentle black and silver giant, both Schnoodles!
The mother and daughter have more questions for me about therapy dogs, their training and registration. I refer them to Delta Society and other resources on the Internet.
The woman in the wheelchair explains.
"Kelly (her daughter) brought me in today just to see Reggie," she says. (And I am sure, to show her adorable "baby" to Reggie and me.) And she adds, " We may come back to see you again sometime."
Sea Glass!
February 2010
It is December 23, 2009. As I tie a brightly colored Christmas bandana around Reggie’s neck and load him in the car for our rounds at the hospital, a cloud of sadness hovers over me. The day before I received a call informing me of the death of my oldest sister, Deedie. She was 92 and ready for the transition from this life to the next. I had visited her two weeks before and said "goodbye," releasing her in my heart. But Deedie has always been a presence in my life painted with a bold brush and colorful pigment. She was my first grade teacher, my guardian angel, and sometimes, my conscience, so her "transition" leaves a hole in my heart.
But this is the day Reggie and I visit patients at the hospital, bringing a bit of sunshine and smiles into their lives. It seems especially important at Christmas. At our first stop two men sit in the activity room. One sleeps soundly and the other is only mildly interested in Reggie.
"Is there anyone else who might enjoy Reggie?" I ask the nurse.
"Well," she hesitates, "There is a woman in her room who might. We can ask her."
We pause at the door. A tiny woman, fully dressed, lies curled up on the bed.
"Would you like to have a therapy dog visit you?" the nurse asks.
The woman lifts her head and seeing Reggie standing in the doorway, calls out "Yes, yes."
She continues to lie in a semi-fetal position as we approach. She smiles and says, "What a pretty dog. Oh, he is handsome!"
She pats the bed beside her. Reggie lays his head on the bed and she talks to him and strokes his head. He lifts his head but stays close, looking her in the eye. She continues to play with his ears, his nose and his head. We talk about Reggie and the dogs she has owned. She pats the bed again and Reggie lays his head on the bed once more. She looks at me at little frustrated.
"I want him to jump on the bed beside me," she explains.
"Oh, I don’t think so. He’s pretty big." I reply with a chuckle.
"But he is so big and cuddly. I would love to snuggle up to him," she says, clearly disappointed.
I explain that Reggie has been taught to stay off beds, besides he would be a pretty big bed companion. How about just giving him a hug? She reaches out and hugs Reggie enthusiastically. When we leave we are all smiling.
There are only three rooms with patients in Rehab today. (The hospital tries to get as many patients as possible home at Christmas.) Each of the three women welcomes us with enthusiasm. We laugh and talk as each one, in her own way, embraces Reggie finding a warmth and joy in his presence.
As we leave my spirits are lifted and my heart is filled with the joy of finding Sea Glass!
Five Women, a Dog and a Ball
January 2010
Five silver-haired women sit in a semi-circle around a small table. One woman’s eyes are closed as her head nods and she drifts off to sleep. A second woman squeezes a squishy ball slowly. Another sips a glass of juice. Another holds an empty coffee cup. Still another has a newspaper in her lap. None of them seem to connect with what is going on about them as the staff quietly clear the tables.
We're in
The Indiana Christian
To
Reggie and I move cautiously to the open area in front of them. I speak first to the woman with the newspaper.
“Good morning, “ I say softly.
“Oh Reggie,” she exclaims, “ I am so glad to see you.”
She reaches out to pet him. I move him closer to her. She puts her arms around his head and leans her face against him. The others begin to watch. I ask Reggie to “bow” to her. She smiles and responds happily.
We move on around the circle, stopping for each to pet Reggie. He “visits” with some by putting his head in their laps, others just stroke him gently for a while.
Finally, we reach the sleeping woman. She has not roused with all our activity. I touch her gently and say “Do you want to pet Reggie today?” After several moments she drifts back to us and her eyes find Reggie’s close by.
“This is Reggie,” I remind her. “We come to visit you often.” She smiles sweetly and touches Reggie hesitantly. Then with more assurance she reaches out and strokes him.
“He is so sweet,” she says.
We have been visiting the Memory Unit for over two years. But many of the residents still see Reggie for the first time every time we come. We answer the same questions over and over, “What is his name?” Is he a boy or girl?” “How old is he?” “How much does he weigh?” “How much does he eat?” Reggie is not a performing dog, but this group loves to see him do “tricks.”
Today Reggie and I move to the open area. I have him back up and, while holding the leash, I toss a soft ball to him. He catches it and brings it to me. The women laugh and applaud. They are all engaged now and watching us. I turn to the woman with the newspaper,
“Would you like to play ball with Reggie?”
She smiles, “Yes.”
I position Reggie carefully and give her the ball. “Be sure he is watching you and toss it up in an arc so he can jump up and catch it.” She rolls the ball out on the floor. I guide Reggie to it. He picks it up and drops it in the woman’s lap. She lobs the ball out but not so Reggie can catch it. I pick up the ball, “Reggie watch me. Catch” and I toss the ball in a high arc. He catches it. I guide him back to the woman with the paper. “Would you like to try again.” She nods.
She makes a couple of feigned pitches and then tosses the ball high in the air. Reggie leaps up and catches the ball. The women erupt in laughter and cheers.
“Good job,” I exclaim as they continue to applaud.
“It’s time for us to go,” I say. “Reggie, can you wave to the women?” He waves, and now involved and smiling, they wave back.
It was a good day!
December 2009
The privacy curtain is partly closed.
"May I bring my therapy dog in?" I call from outside the curtain.
A voice mumbles a response. Not sure that we have been invited in, I poke my head cautiously around the curtain, hoping I’m not invading privacy. A man is lying on the bed, propped up on pillows. Both hands are stretched out beside him, palms up, on top of the covers. His eyes welcome me and as I bring Reggie into his field of vision a broad grin creases his face, but he does not move. I bring Reggie to the side of the bed, "Reggie, visit," I say, assuming he will place his head on the covers. But Reggie knows better than I. He puts his head firmly in the outstretched hand near the edge of the bed. The man simply beams. A deep guttural voice utters words I cannot decipher. I smile and talk with him about Reggie and what we do. I tell him that we come every Wednesday to visit there in IRU. Reggie is very still and remains with his head in the motionless hand. When we wave goodbye, I feel good about the visit.
The next week, when we return to IRU, a staff member greets us, "The man in Room 233 has been waiting all day for your visit." We go immediately and find the man from last week. For some reason the staff seems quite excited. One is even taking pictures with a cell phone for the patient. Reggie immediately puts his head in the out-stretched hand. This time the fingers move almost imperceptibly against Reggie’s shaggy beard. As I chat with the man, he responds to my questions although I can’t quite comprehend his speech. Finally, as we prepare to leave, he says quite clearly "thank you for coming."
Later, a staff member explains, "We didn’t think this man could remember anything and most of the time it was difficult to communicate. But this morning, he clearly asked a therapist ‘Is this the day the dog comes?’ We have been so excited."
November 2009
As we enter the room, I see what I think is a large fluffy cat lying on the bedside table. Reggie sees it about the same time and shares my opinion (it’s a cat.)
Before I can take my proactive stance, he lunges toward the table. Missing the proactive move, I quickly go into the reactive mode and manage to restrain the 118 pound missile. But not before the patient sees it all. The “cat” hasn’t moved! Looking more closely, I see this is not a cat, but a very curly, fluffy wig! Restraining my “registered therapy dog” and placing myself firmly between him and the bedside table, red-faced, I apologize.
“I am so sorry. Reggie really misbehaved.”
With a whoop of laughter, the woman picks up the wig and places it under the sheet. “No problem,” she says still chuckling with obvious delight.
“I am truly embarrassed,” I say, “ and with your permission I’d like to do a little on the job training.”
“By all means, “ she grins and brings the wig out again. I lead Reggie close to the wig, keeping a firm grasp on his leash, “Leave it,” I command, “Yes!” and then lead him away, giving him a small treat. We repeat the process several times. Reggie settles down and accepts the wig (cat) as part of the scenery.
Reluctant to press my luck too far, I ask Reggie to bow and wave good bye. I apologize again and try to depart gracefully.The next week, I discover much to my chagrin, the woman told everyone she saw that day about the dog that thought her wig was a cat. We simply “made her day.” What was an absolute disaster for me turned out to be “sea glass” for patient!
October 2009
He is sitting at the end of the hallway where visitors sometimes gather to visit with patients. His wheelchair is pushed over to the side and his gray head drops over his sunken chest. We approach cautiously, not wanting to startle him. With Reggie at my far side, I touch him gently on the arm.
“Would you like to pet mydog?” I ask.
He looks up at me blankly, puzzled by my question.
“This is Reggie,” I say, bringing Reggie into his line of vision. “He is a therapy dog. Would you like to pet him?”
Slowly he focuses on the dog, a little surprised as his eyes meet Reggie’s on the same level as his own. “That’s a big dog,” he exclaims, smiling.
I lead Reggie closer and ask him to “visit.” Reggie gently places his shaggy head on the man’s knee. The man moves his age-splotched hand to Reggie’s head, his smile growing wider by the second. He rubs Reggie’s ears, his neck, his head, commenting softly on each feature. I move Reggie in concert with his hands as he examines the dog’s feet, his body, his tail, admiring every detail, speaking quietly as he goes about the inspection. We talk about Reggie, his size, his personality. We discuss dogs he has owned. He continues to stroke Reggie as we speak, and Reggie’s tail goes into overdrive. Finally, as time comes to leave, I ask Reggie to wave “goodbye.” The man looks at me with tears in his eyes,
“Thank you so much for coming,” he says. “You just made my day!”
And I reply, “And you have just made ours.”
September 2009
She reclines in a large comfortable chair. Well-manicured hands rest on the soft throw that covers her. Her hair is styled and brushed softly about her face, her make-up lightly and carefully applied. (A caregiver has lovingly continued a long established routine of personal care.) Her china blue eyes are wide open, staring vacantly into space. She doesn’t move or acknowledge our approach.
We have watched her, over the past two years, retreat gradually into the dark caverns of her mind. At first she would smile gently at Reggie, call him by name and reach out to stroke him. Once she even brushed him with a brush strapped around her hand. But now she sits listlessly in the recliner, rarely acknowledging our presence.
Today Reggie goes to her and without prompting lays his head on the broad arm of her chair.
“Hello,” I say softly. “Reggie and I are happy to see you.”
Getting no response, Reggie slowly moves his head until he gently nudges her arm with his nose. He waits. Nothing happens. Puzzled, he moves his head again, nudges a little more insistently. Almost in slow motion, a hand moves. It creeps toward him and finally comes to rest on his muzzle. A tiny smile flits across her lips. He waits, content with the moment. Then with something like a sigh, he lifts his head and slowly moves away. Sea Glass in the sand!
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