Therapy Dog

I'm here to tell you, folks, dreams really do come true! Let me tell you about the day Mom said, "Come on, Gus. It's time to go to therapy." Therapy! Yes! My dream as a therapy dog was going to come true. After years of reminding Mom that I wanted to try therapy dog school, I was finally gonna get there! This must be a reward for all my hard work taking care of myself after my knee reconstruction. I knew all the resting and activity limitations were going to be worth it!

I could hardly contain myself when Mom buckled me into the car. "Ok, Gus! Settle down!" she said. Then I thought I heard her mumble something that sounded like, "We'll see how excited you are when we get there," but I didn't let her negativity phase me. I was ready to do whatever it took to be a therapy dog. A short drive later, we rolled up outside a small storefront downtown. I had plenty of time to read the sign on the window while Mom tried about four times to parallel park. Veterinary Rehab Services. Hmmm. I wasn't sure I knew what all those words meant, and I was thinking the sign would say Therapy Dog School, but what do I know? I'm a dog.

Mom lifted me out, and we headed in. The first thing that caught my eye was a Golden Retriever walking on a treadmill submersed in water. Just beyond that contraption, a Pug was trying to get away from a lady who kept putting Puggy's front feet on a small version of the bouncy exercise ball Mom never lets me play with at home. I guess those guys are learning to help swimmers and exercisers, I thought. I couldn't wait to find out what my assignment would be, but after watching Goldie for a bit, I sure was hoping they had the swimmers covered.

"Our turn," Mom said, leading me through the gate into the room where all the action was happening. I wanted to play with Puggy, but Mom dragged me past and into the back room. Another nice lady got out a rectangular beanbag bed, and I hopped right on there. I waited patiently while Mom answered a whole mess of questions about my leg injury and surgery. When the lady asked Mom what we wanted to get out of therapy, I thought, "That's a dumb question! We want to be a therapy dog obviously!" So, when Mom answered, "To figure out what we need to do to ensure he heals 100%," I did a face something like this -

Mom! That traitor! Why, she wasn't helping me become a therapy dog at all! She had dragged me to another dog doctor in disguise! I tried to get up and out of there, but I was still a little slow, and the doctor lady was able to snag me. Mom and I spent over an hour there so Mom could learn exercises to help my legs get stronger. They let me lick a whole lot of peanut butter during the lessons, I got a nice massage, and I never had to get in the treadmill tank, so it wasn't as terrible as I thought it might be.

On the way home, Mom asked me how I thought that went. "Bait and switch, I think they call it," I replied sardonically.

"What?" Mom was surprised by my attitude.

"You heard me. Bait and switch."

"I told you we were going to therapy," Mom said defensively. "Did you think that was going to be a day at the spa?"

"I thought it was going to be a class for becoming a therapy dog!" I nearly shouted.

Mom had no reply. We cruised into a stop sign, and there was no one behind us, so Mom turned to look at me slumped in the passenger seat. "I'm sorry, Gus," she said gently, rubbing me behind my ears with one hand while she turned my face to look up at her with the other. "I can see why you had your hopes up, but I need you to know that you don't need classes to be a therapy dog."

My ear perked up. I was eagerly listening with both, but you know, only one of my ears can actually go up. Someone pulled up behind us, so Mom turned her eyes back to the road, as she said, "I mean it. While therapy dog school can get you a certificate that says you graduated, therapy dogging is a state of mind."

"But how do I get in that state of mind?" I asked.

Mom glanced at me and smiled one of her best smiles. "You already have it. When I come dragging home from work mentally exhausted, frustrated, and irritated, you're waiting there at the door with your butt wiggling, so happy to see me. I feel better the second I see you. When Big Brother is ready to settle into his evening, taking in a show on the couch, you snuggle right up there next to him and help him relax. Why, these past few weeks you've been home with Dad keeping him company after his knee surgery. You know just how he feels, and you make sure he's not lonely or depressed while he's stuck at home."

I thought about all that for a minute. It's true - I do all those things, but that's just because I love my humans. I know when they're not feeling their best, and I want them to feel better. I shared that thought with Mom, who said that's exactly the therapy dog state of mind. She said knowing how people are feeling and wanting to help them feel better is what therapy dogs do. Having a certificate just means I can help other pets' humans outside my own home.

"I still want to do that," I said. "I still want to be able to help other humans in other places, like little kids at the library or old folks who can't live in their own homes anymore."

"Well, until we can do that," Mom replied, "let's just keep practicing at home. While you're doing that, you could try writing some uplifting blog posts and help people that way!"

That's Mom, trying to find an angle. I think the uplifting blog posts are pushing it, but maybe I can make some money with my tablet and send myself to therapy dog school, or maybe . . . . I could have an angle, too. Where's that Go Fund Me page?

Below: Me literally keeping an eye on Dad after his surgery, giving him some snuggly company, and helping Mom unwind after a long day at the office.