Amazing Therapy Dogs

Pet Loss and Bereavement

Marian — Thu, 26 Mar 2009 06:53:11 +0000

Marian Silverman offers individual counseling and group workshops to support and validate your grief over the loss of your beloved animal companion.

Remember your special friend in a safe environment that does not minimize or trivialize this profound loss. You will be guided through gentle meditation exercises, and writing opportunities that highlight and celebrate your relationship. Bring a photo, tell the stories closest to your heart or just come and be quiet in a non-judgemental space.

Receive tools and techniques for assisting you through this time of bereavement.

Contact Marian : Hollyni@sbcglobal.net

The Canine Connection

Marian — Sun, 09 Nov 2008 04:43:30 +0000

Holly ‘n I ~~~ The Canine Connection

Marian Silverman, Licensed Family therapist offers consultations for dog related issues for individuals and family members. Marian has been a consultant for the People-Animal Connection Program at UCLA. She is an Animal-Assisted Therapy Specialist and published author of articles about the healing power of the human-canine relationship.

http://www.awarenessmag.com/mayjun08/mj08_take_one_dog.htm

Using a problem solving approach, she will help you create a balanced and stable relationship with your dog. Marian also offers grief counseling after the loss of a pet.

Email for appointment request; include breed and age of dog, and briefly describe your concerns, issues and other pertinent information(i.e. dog’s status in family.

Holl yni @sb cglobal.net

Mabel rescued a darling little terrier mix named Luna. She is a good student, and listens well(the woman, as well as the dog). Mabel implemented all the strategies I suggested and in a short time her dog became calm and submissive. She solved all the “doggie issues.” Or so we thought. Now it’s started again (the misbehavior). The dog barks excitedly every time the woman comes home and acts “wild,” even biting her hand. She doesn’t come when she is called unless she feels like it. This is dominant behavior, the dog is being ‘pushy’ and demanding attention. The dog gets plenty of exercise, so I’ve had her put the dog in “rehab”(so to speak) and start all over again establishing dominance/submission scenario. When she comes home, she is to ignore the dog’s excitement, and offer her nothing, no petting, no treats, no talking. She is not to give the dog any attention until the dog is calm and submissive…lying down and being quiet. And then she may call the dog to her and touch her, tell her “good girl.” Until she sees that, no attention should be given. Otherwise we are reinforcing the excited unruly behavior. When it’s time to go out, she should not call the dog to her. That gives the dog a choice, to come or not to come. I suggested going straight to the dog and putting on the leash, and off they go. No discussion. I’ve told her to simply “Be the leader.” The dog must be the follower. And again it’s working.

I’ve had to explain that it isn’t something you do one time, and when the behavior is better, you stop doing it. I said, it’s like exercise; it’s forever, for if you stop(well, not you…) the fat comes right back. People don’t get this easily. They do what I tell them, and then think the problem is fixed for good. Wrong. It’s everyday…leadership, leadership…so good for women.

Mabel and Luna

November 22

Today Mabel asked: “what if my husband doesn’t follow the program?” He enjoys the excited greeting when we come home and enters into it with Luna. Is this a problem? Do we have to be in synch?

I told her: It will go faster if you both ignore the “pushy” behavior. But you can suggest to him that if he can just “wait” 5 minutes or so, till she settles down quietly, then he can be the one to call her to him. And when she comes to him, he’ll love the gratitude she gives. But if he won’t be part of the program, at the least..you can still ignore her rambunctious behavior, and she will be seeking your attention by “being good” so then you get the pleasure of waiting for it. The idea is that she cannot demand attention. Learning submission is what she needs. And it goes a long way in all areas. I promise you that when you call her to you, she will come running, and appreciate you more. It takes a little patience, but well worth it.

Canine Problem Solving: Family issues

Problem solving might be listening to the littany of undesireable behaviors the dog shows that are troublesome to people, and making a diagnosis of the actual problem that is leading to this behavior. It would involve learning what canines actually need from us…and what it takes to get them balanced…. The canine need for a leader is usually the # 1 cause for a frustrated, or even aggressive dog..as well as the canine need for exercise, and travel (not a back yard;.this is just a larger kennel). The solution is usually an educational process. You will learn to become assertive in the relationship.

A couple that wanted help with their dog complained that the dog was attacking the husband, chasing him out of the bedroom, and not letting him back in bed if he went to the bathroom in the middle of night. The man began to avoid the dog at all cost, as he often got bitten The woman refused to give the dog up, said she’d sooner give up her husband (laughing). It was so clear what was going on. She was the dominant female, and the dog was the male leader. Their entire system was based on the man not having any power in the family. Changing this involved counseling the couple and helping them to see what the real issue was.

An easier problem to solve involved a rescued shelter dog who would urinate in the house as soon as they returned from the walk. I recommended taking the dog out earlier in the day and walking 3times a day instead of twice…problem solved.

Fear/phobia problems can be solved with desensitization….expose the dog in small increments to the source of the fear, and then instead of petting him, and reassuring him softly with affection,(most common mistake), act strong and firm and instill trust in the dog, use firm massage on rear quarters or light neck hold when dog frightened or shaking). Most people tend to offer affection when their dog is afraid, thinking it is reassurance. This is a sure way to keep the fear active, as the dog is being rewarded for it. Reassurance to a canine involves your being the leader he needs and can trust; touching the dog’s neck with fingers in a firm grip as a mother dog’s mouth would do. This lets the dog know he is safe and he can relax. Petting will create the opposite. Give affection when your dog is calm and relaxed, never when he is nervous or fearful or aggressive. November 8, 2008

Family issues may include how the family interacts with the dog, who has the highest status… who is the leader.?..usually it’s the dog, If the dog is aggressive with someone in the family, or unfriendly, learn how the entire family dynamic and the hierarchy of power has created this.

Take One Dog and Call Me in the Morning: Amazing Therapy Dogs, Prescription for Healing

Marian — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 03:20:29 +0000

Chapter One: “Go Say Hello”

Lying in the corner, on a sheep-skin pad, Holly Go Lightly waits. Her mouth is curved in that Golden Retriever smile, her tail thumps the floor in anticipation, while she holds the ‘down-stay’ position waiting to go to work.

Nearby, elderly patients sit in chairs placed in a circle. They also wait, some without purpose, others may be simply waiting to die. There is no conversation. Some of the patients look confused, as if they don’t know where they are; others mumble to themselves. One man is slumped over, half asleep, perhaps medicated. The atmosphere in the room is heavy with the depression that comes with Alzheimer’s, Dementia, and other psychiatric disorders.

Vigilant, Holly watches me. She sits sphinx-like on all fours, head up, ears forward and alert, listening for her release-command. I point to the patients, and give her the release words, “Go say hello.” In a flash, she’s up, her tail swaying gracefully as she trots to the circle of chairs, moving through the one space we have left open for her. She is off lead, but I am close behind. She stands quietly, scanning the room. Someone is in distress.

Arms thrashing, his body writhes in the hospital chair, while his moans and groans are heard over the mumblings of the other Alzheimer’s patients. The Golden Retriever moves quickly to his side. She stands in front of him staring for a moment, and then lays her head in his lap. From deep in the animal’s throat we hear a low vibrating note, “ummmmm.” The patient‘s groans change to sounds that match hers, and together they hum, “Mmmm Mmmmm.” His body becomes still. His arms relax. Now, one hand reaches slowly to touch her head as they continue to vocalize together. The dog doesn’t move but looks up into his eyes. The man returns her gaze, regarding her calmly. We just witnessed Animal-Assisted Therapy at UCLA’s Neuro-Psychiatric Hospital.

Without any cues from me, my canine partner sensed agitation in the group of patients. She could smell it. I didn’t interfere with her process by talking to her or giving her instructions while she was assessing the room. I let her nose do the work. The extraordinary power of the canine nose enables dogs to diagnose depression, anxiety, disorientation, and psychiatric disorders through smelling chemical changes in the body. They sense crisis the way medical-alert dogs predict seizure and heart attack, detect breast and bladder cancer and warn diabetics of low blood sugar.

Holly moves in a clockwise direction, stopping in front of a woman who is clutching her leather bag in her lap. The patient’s name tag reads ‘Lila.’ Her mouth is down-turned and her lips pursed tightly. Frown lines run deep between her eyes. Holly sits in front of her, then lifts a paw and offers it as she makes eye contact with the woman. Lila hesitates as Holly continues to wave her paw in the air. Finally she takes hold of it, shakes it, and says, “Hello.” I notice the frown lines soften on her face and her mouth starts to smile as she releases the handshake.

Holly doesn’t skip anyone in the circle. She stops to greet each person, waiting long enough to get a response from them, before moving on. She is here to communicate with those who are disconnected from themselves and from life. She will not leave them until she makes that connection.

The next patient is asleep. The dog stands alongside his chair staring at him with anticipation, just as she stares at closed doors waiting for them to open magically for her. Maybe he hears her breathing, or feels her presence in the same instinctive way that we know when someone is watching us. He opens his eyes to see a dog looking at him. He appears confused as to what to do about it, until she lifts her paw and puts it into his lap. From somewhere in his memory, he recognizes the gesture, and takes the extended paw in his hand. With his free hand, he touches the top of her head, and whispers, “Good dog.”

Holly will approach the person in need; the suicidal kid, the withdrawn adult, or the wildly agitated Alzheimer patient. She will look into his eyes, offer her paw, or lean into his body. She will stay with each patient until her presence is acknowledged. She will wait, not moving from the spot until a hand reaches out to touch her.

My tail twitches from side to side. My eyes see feet all around me. I lift my head and sniff the room. Something is wrong. I smell something I can’t read. The smells in the room are not the usual human smells. My nose picks up the scent of illness, or weakness, something is out of balance. She is talking too long. It is hard to wait. I stare at her. When is it my turn? She gives me the signal, “Go say hello.” I know those words. I jump up and go to one whose smell is different. I look at him but he is not looking at me. I sit at his feet and stare at his down-cast eyes. I put my head in his lap and wait for his hand to touch my head. I lean on his legs. I push my side into him and now he looks up and now his eyes see me. He touches my head. His face smiles. The funny smell is gone. Then I move to the next one who doesn’t smell right and do it all again.

~ Keppel

Sarah, the Occupational Therapist asked if I would visit a private patient after we finished our regular group session. She wanted Holly to interact with a woman who had been “unreachable” saying the family pleaded for a dog visit when they spotted Holly coming down the hallway with me. I said okay, even though we were both tired. She warned me that it might not work as this woman was ‘catatonic,’ and appeared to be in a stupor, not moving, not speaking, and not responding to her name. Individuals with this mental disorder typically show extreme immobility and rigidity. They may stay in the same position for hours, days, weeks, or longer. (DSM-IV-TR)

We followed Sarah down the hallway and stopped outside of a private room. The door was open and four family members were gathered inside speaking what sounded like Yiddish. The patient sat in a wheel-chair, and appeared to be sleeping. The family insisted, “It’s okay to wake her.” The nurse in the room tried to rouse her. “Anna, you have a special visitor.” I stood in the doorway with Holly so she could see us if she opened her eyes. But there was no movement. She didn’t seem to know the dog was standing there. I walked Holly in to meet this woman, not knowing how I would encourage my dog to make a connection with a non-responsive, immobilized patient.

The small room was crowded with the family members, standing around the woman who sat propped up in her chair. Anna was young, probably in her thirties. Someone had dressed her and combed her hair. She used to be pretty, I thought. Her face showed no expression, and she looked as if she had died. How could we do anything? I thought. I introduced Holly to the family and told them that she was a “zeis kindt”(sweet child). My mother called me ‘zeis kindt’ when I was little. I knew about three Yiddish words, and these were two of them.

The other word was ‘Keppel’ an affectionate form of Kop, meaning head. My mother always said I had a keppala (nice little head). I had once taught Holly “keppel” as an invitation to put her head in my lap. Out of desperation, and not knowing how else to make this happen, I said “Holly, keppel” while I lightly tapped the woman’s knees with my hand. My dog approached the lifeless woman and put her golden head on the still lap. The family was impressed that the dog understood Yiddish. There was no response from the woman in the chair. But Holly stayed with her, not moving. She seemed to know someone was in that shell of a body. She would simply wait, as she had learned to do with the Alzheimer patients, wait…as she had learned to do when she wanted me to open doors for her. She knew how to wait.

We all saw it. Anna slowly moved her hands to touch what she felt in her lap. She knew. With her eyes closed, she reached out to explore Holly’s head, as her astonished family looked on. With both of her hands she ran her fingertips over the dog’s face. She felt the eyelids, and eyelashes, then the high forehead and the smooth top of the oval head. Holly sat still, not moving or flinching; just allowing herself to be felt and known.

Everyone in the room seemed to stop breathing and stood in silence. The inquisitive hands slid down to caress the velvety ears and the thick furry neck. The movements were those of a blind person seeing with her hands. The family of three took a needed breath and gasped aloud, almost in unison. I looked at the O.T. who was starting to tear up. Holly moved away when the petting stopped. I brought her back, so she could do it again. I repeated “keppel,” and she knew what to do. The quiet hand reached down once again and stroked the head lying on her legs. The family members sighed, and spoke Yiddish to each other. I heard the word “keppel.”

The catatonic patient never spoke or opened her eyes. But she clearly felt the dog’s presence. The therapist explained that this was the first time this woman had responded to anyone since she’d been there. She was moving, touching, and interacting with the dog. There was life! When we left the room, each member of the family thanked me with tears in their eyes, and caressed Holly’s face, calling her “seis hindt”(sweet dog). The older woman, probably the mother, kissed my hands. I was crying too. These are the moments. Animals can be the source of our connection to each other.

After this visit, we returned to the dining room and I wrote my comments in the PAC log. Sarah and I reviewed what had just happened. She was still in shock. I guess I used the right word.

Take One Dog and Call Me in the Morning: Amazing Therapy Dogs, Prescription for Healing

Marian — Sat, 26 Jan 2008 09:43:08 +0000

EXCERPTS FROM: Take One Dog and Call Me in the Morning:

This book highlights the transformational powers of the human-animal bond, from the narrator’s childhood longings for a puppy to her grown-up search for a companion dog that is destined to change many lives, including her own. It features Holly Go Lightly, Golden Retriever and certified therapy dog as she helps launch UCLA’s People-Animal Connection program and is the first canine permitted inside the confidential Neuro-psychiatric Hospital. Here Holly uses her instincts to identify and reach out to patients in distress.

Can every dog in every household become a therapy dog? A working team requires a calm and assertive human leader of a relaxed and confident canine. Holly’s ultimate success as a therapy dog evolves from this balanced relationship with her human partner who learns how to take charge of her dog and of her life.

Prologue

I suspect it all began the day I watched my mother push up the kitchen window and pour a scalding kettle of water two stories down to scatter the ‘alley cats.’ I felt sick to my stomach. I heard the painful yowls of alarm from the alley and I ran to the window to look, but the cats were gone. In that instant of horror, I knew that animals were vulnerable—they could feel terror—-like me.

My mother considered all animals unclean, and cats particularly nasty, like vermin, and as abhorrent as the rodents my father caught in those springed death traps. The goal was to get rid of all pests.

My mother had a unique means of disciplining me. She used the telephone on the kitchen wall. “Hello? Is this the New York City Department of Correction?—I have a bad child— Can you come and take her?” She sounded calm. She would get rid of me too. I was seven years old and threw myself onto the floor screaming, “I’ll be good, I’ll be good…..don’t send me away.” I didn’t know what being good meant. But Mothers don’t lie and I was afraid for my life. I knew for sure I was a bad child, bad like the alley cats she drove away, bad like the squirming mice that I saw pinned to wooden traps and suffering a slow death in the kitchen in the early hours before my father got up and drowned them in the toilet. I lay screaming and writhing on the cold lineolum while on the stove the chicken soup simmered with the smells of home and mother mingling with the perspiration of my fear.

I would feel a kinship with animals again.

When I was twelve years old, I stood in front of the leopard cage at the Central Park Zoo in New York City. I watched the large cat pace back and forth on the cement floor. At first I thought of the fur coats that rich women wore, flashing large velvety black spots against an amber background. Then the animal turned and looked at me. I gazed into the depth of his golden eyes. There was someone in there. It shook me. A prisoner in a small concrete cage, he was left forever to pace without purpose or dignity simply because of the misfortune of his beauty and wildness. I saw in his haunted eyes the same look I had seen at the circus when I stared at the captive gorilla, and he stared back at me. I recognized the sorrow in those dark eyes.

This awareness foreshadowed the deep relationship I would have with animals throughout my life. As an adult, I rescued lost and abandoned dogs and cats on the streets of Los Angeles. Unable to tolerate abuse in any form; I couldn’t bear their suffering and their helplessness. I studied telepathic communication with an animal psychic in order to communicate with them, to find out who they were and what they thought and felt, and to learn how much like me they were. I swam with dolphins in pools inevitably too small for these wild creatures, and shuddered that they too were exploited for our entertainment and worst of all that I had participated in their captivity. I experienced hybrid wolves confined to a few acres surrounded by invisible electric wires and heard their screams at night as they ran through the boundaries, willing to tolerate electric shock rather than give up their freedom and wildness. I visited Kenya to see firsthand, the lions, giraffe, wildebeests, and other wildlife that lived in the Serengeti and was shocked to realize that they too were existing in man-made reserves and that they were attractions, and that I willingly came as a tourist. I studied animal behavior with the same compulsion that drove me to study human behavior, and to surround myself with vulnerable children as a teacher and School Psychologist. I wanted to understand how anyone could allow animal suffering. I wanted to know why I was wounded.

I became conscious of the interspecies connection and how we need it to be fully human. I awakened to the idea that animals are authentic living beings, that they are honest in the moment, and that we have a deep and primal relationship with them. I saw a nobility in animals—a purity. This passion transformed and inspired my life.

It led me to find the companion dog that was destined to provide powerful healing energy to the disabled, diseased, injured, and depressed. Through her I would witness the human-animal bond at its highest level. Through her I would find purpose and healing in my own life.

Categories: Uncategorized . . Author: Marian . Comments: No Comments Edit this entry

Take One Dog and Call me in the Morning: Amazing Therapy Dogs: Prescription for Healing

Marian — Sat, 21 Jul 2007 07:57:19 +0000

Letting Go

The Golden Retriever looked down into the swimming pool, paws extended over the edge, intently watching as her ball on a rope floated away. Her head and shoulders thrust forward, wanting desperately to retrieve it, but not at the risk of leaping into the air with an uncertain landing. The adolescents of 2 South called, “Holly, get it.” She had strong prey drive, and would chase anything moving: a leaf, a ball, a bird, a squirrel (her favorite) or my slipper tossed across the room. Her body rocked precariously on the ledge as if she was about to let go and take the plunge. But then she backed up, and looked at me with that helpless stare.

It was summer now; the days were warm, and the outdoor swimming pool of the Psychiatric Hospital was open. Gail, the Recreational Therapist invited me to conduct Animal-Assisted therapy sessions at the pool instead of in the hospital. I accepted these invitations gladly. After all, I had more than just a therapy dog. She was a retriever; bred to leap into ice cold streams or lakes, mouth the bird shot out of the sky without injuring a single feather, swim to the shore and carry it to her companion, the hunter, presenting an unscathed bird. I had a water dog.

With a swim-suit underneath my slacks and UCLA blue jacket, I came fully prepared to get wet along with Holly. Gail met us on the pool deck looking like a life guard with a whistle around her neck. The kids were already splashing around, some playing volley-ball with a freedom of movement they didn’t show inside the walls of the hospital. The water seemed to calm and soothe them.

When I unhooked Holly’s collar with its jangling tags, and untied her UCLA blue and gold scarf, her behavior also changed. She was no longer the calm therapy dog who worked in adolescent psychiatry. She became excited and ran her joyous ‘victory laps’ all around the pool perimeter. Removing her ‘uniform’ signaled that she was ‘off duty,’ and no longer a working dog. The sight and sounds of water added to her frenzy and I had to hold onto her neck with both hands to restrain her.

The PAC director, always concerned about safety issues, warned that the kids couldn’t be in the water at the same time as the dog. She recalled nearly drowning when a swimming dog accidentally placed a paw on her shoulder, pulling her underwater. I assumed hospital insurance would not cover a drowning during a group therapy session and made the disappointing announcement. The kids groaned and booed. “I want to swim with Holly” yelled Jason, a ten year old with attention-deficit disorder and hyperactivity, as he circled the pool in loud protest. I had to be as creative as possible to make the session work.

I asked the teen-agers to wait on the steps of the pool for their turn to throw a ball attached to a rope as far as they could into the water. Holly was to swim out and retrieve it, hold it in her mouth, then swim back and return it to the thrower. The first ball was tossed out by Eddie, a wiry eleven-year-old, so nervous about being first, he dropped the rope behind him twice before he finally figured out how to swing it in the air and hurl it forward. The ball landed at the deep end of the pool. Good throw! Holly never took her eyes off it. I released her and gave her the signal, “Holly get it.” The dog raced down the steps, pushing off the last one, and treading smoothly through the pool’s blue water until she reached the floating ball. She mouthed the rope attached to it, and with the ball dangling, turned back toward Eddie, holding onto her prey without so much as a splash.

“Look at her feet, she swims like a duck” he called, watching her glide through the water. Reaching the steps, she dropped the ball into his waiting hand. Everyone applauded. Eddie smiled proudly at his accomplishment. Most of the kids had never seen a retriever’s feet padding through water with the ease and grace of an amphibian with webbed toes. “She was born to swim” I said. But not in a pool!

At the beach, Holly would gleefully race from the sand into the surf, chasing her yellow tennis ball, and when her feet could no longer touch the ocean floor, she would propel those athletic legs through the water like paddles, undaunted by the turbulent tides, disappearing under a crashing wave, but never losing track of her prize. She would reach for it with her mouth, turn and swim back to me, drop it into my hand, and then stand in the shallow water, poised for the next throw.

In a pool, she had to learn to use the concrete steps to get out. She would swim in circles, getting tired as she searched for the non-existing shoreline. The kids sat on the steps calling “Holly, here” and she soon discovered which way was out.

But the one activity that still eluded her was jumping off the ledge of the pool, a drop of several feet into the water. She would stand there staring at the ball drifting away, while we all yelled in chorus, “Holly jump.” Her head turned toward me, and her eyes asked for help with this dilemma. Holly looked at me for everything she wanted. I was the keeper of her ball, toys, food and water, her walks, her comfort or discomfort, her freedom or confinement. As a pack leader, I was responsible for her survival. If she hurt her paw, she would hold it up and look at me pathetically. It was not surprising that as the bobbing ball moved further away from her, she stared hard at me. But this time I did not help her. She would have to jump into the pool and retrieve it for herself. She had to face her fears just like the rest of us.

In adolescent psychiatry, fear was a powerful motivator. Angry and defiant at 12 years old, Rose usually sauntered into the group sessions ready for battle, her fists clenched and legs poised to kick anyone in her way. She would be removed within minutes of her tirade, fighting and swearing at the staff as she was taken back to her room. She was never present long enough to interact with Holly Go Lightly, the canine therapist. Typically, Rose stayed hidden away avoiding all social contact.

But in the swimming pool, Rose took on a different demeanor. Floating on her back, isolated from the group, she appeared peaceful without the ‘oppositional-defiance’ that described her behaviors in clinical reports that stated she would stand when told to sit and throw her books on the floor when asked to open one. The water was therapeutic for her. There was freedom here. She didn’t show the aggression that had landed her in a psychiatric residential setting. She had been expelled from public school and labeled a ‘conduct disorder’ because she fought with everyone and incited large brawls on the school playground. In class and in therapy she refused to follow rules and procedures, walking out, and spewing obscenities at her teachers and therapists alike.

While Holly stood at the edge of the pool testing her confidence, I seized the opportunity to talk with the group about being afraid. They knew about fear; Rose especially. I learned that she had suffered physical abuse from the man her mother lived with. Rose’s mother was unable to control her behavior and described her simply as a “bad kid.” Protective services finally removed her from the home, and since she was out of control, referred her for psychiatric evaluation and treatment. With nowhere to go, and little change in her behavior, she was still in residence at the hospital.

I didn’t ask them to talk about what made them afraid. My technique was always to use Holly as the facilitator; keeping the focus on the child’s relationship with the dog.

“How can we help Holly to overcome her fear of jumping into the pool?’ I asked. Several children spoke up. Alan, a l5-year-old said, “Throw her in….she’ll get over it.” An older girl, Barbara, about l7, said, “No, just pet her and be kind to her, and she’ll act brave.” Unknowingly, they were talking about how they dealt with their own demons. Alan showed bravado, suppressing any doubts or anxieties he might feel. It was difficult to relate to him, so protective was his cover. Barbara was withdrawn. She needed special attention before she would engage in most activities. She did little on her own without someone to encourage her.

Rose spoke for herself.

“Well, we need to show her that it’s safe.” This was an answer made in heaven, and coming from Rose, it was profound. I jumped at the chance to use it.

“How can we show her it’s safe?” I asked.

“She can watch me,” she explained, and in that instant, the young girl stood next to Holly at the edge of the pool and leaped into the air as if on a diving board, coming down feet first, straight into the water, splashing everyone around her. Now she began paddling about, watching the dog’s reaction. Holly just stared. One at a time, the other kids followed Rose’s lead, showing the dog how it was done, until the entire group of nine children had landed in the pool splashing and thrashing around in the water. Some of them swam back and forth in front of Holly calling her name. The retriever inched forward, her paws hanging over the edge, yet still–she hesitated.

They began calling in unison “Holly jump. Holly jump.” Rose grabbed the roped ball, threw it across the pool and swam after it, modeling for Holly what she was supposed to do, while the kids continued chanting, “Holly-jump.” She leaned over and stared straight down as if she was measuring the height of the drop into the water. She was almost in. Still they coaxed her. It had become a group project, and it was thrilling to see these children, usually isolated and depressed, now smiling and calling and encouraging this hesitant and fearful dog to take the risk and to let go. They were working together as a group. The therapist was speechless. She grabbed my hand, squeezing it. Not only was Rose part of the group effort, she was leading it. Socialization was the primary goal for these teen-agers, and they were achieving it.

Finally Holly could wait no longer. She let go of the safety of her concrete perch, and like a bird leaving the nest, dove into the air and hit the water with a resounding splash. She sailed after her ball as if it was alive. The kids cheered. The staff cheered. Even the pool manager cheered. Holly captured the prey, the object of her courage, scooped it up with her mouth, and headed toward the steps of the pool, where Rose sat waiting for her. She released the ball from her mouth to Rose’s hand, following the protocol of retrieving to the thrower. In those few moments, Rose had become the leader of the pack. Holly’s mouth parted to reveal the famous golden grin as if she knew she had fulfilled her legacy as a retriever. She had conquered her fear of leaping from a high ground into a body of water, a skill that all working retrievers must have. I underlined this occasion.

“You taught her not to be afraid.” I called out to the group. Every child smiled with pride.

And then I looked at Rose, sitting on the steps, with hair soaked and glowing sun-burned face. Her arms were wrapped tightly around the neck of the wet dog, her face nuzzled against Holly’s. I said directly to her.

“And you showed her how to do it,–just let go and trust the water.”

“Yes,” she smiled, “I showed her it was safe.” Rose turned and kissed the top of Holly’s head, right on the oval bump that golden enthusiasts call ‘the smart bump.’ The kids splashed their way over to this pair, and proceeded to pet and hug the dog, telling her how brave she had been. There was lots of chatter, and laughter and celebration. We would all remember this day. The kids from 2 south had become empowered by this simple act of bravery by an animal, paired with the cooperative effort of the group. The water was a metaphor for facing their fears. In helping Holly let go and jump, perhaps they would find their own courage.

After that day, the therapy dog was willing to jump into the pool without all the hullabaloo. Just the throw of her beloved tennis ball and the words, “Holly jump” and she would leap into the water with confidence. Rose left her room to come to all of our therapy sessions in the hospital or at the pool, to make sure that Holly was not nervous or afraid anymore.