There is always a sense of joy and privilege, responsibility too, when you take a therapy dog to work. Every time is special but there are some days that just stand out.
On Wednesday, when I visited UCLA with Gus, he was at the top of his game. He was having a great hair day, at his fluffiest best. His tail never stopped wagging as we greeted countless people on our way to the elevator.
When we reached our regular Resnick neuropsych units, there was the usual air of excitement. Everyone, staff and patients alike, were as happy to see Gus as he was to see them. It almost looked as if he was smiling. But as the morning went on, Gus had some interactions that epitomized the profound emotional power of therapy dogs.
A very talkative teenage girl was telling us about her animals at home. She was 
incredibly engaged with Gus, brushing him, hugging him, giving him belly rubs. Still, I could tell she had severe problems. I noticed several cuts on her arms and she kept repeating that she didn’t ever want to forget anything about Gus. When we were leaving she said very quietly, “This is the first thing that’s made me want to live in a long time.”
In another group, I was sharing some of the dogs’ accessories. I put on Gus’s birthday headband and asked if anyone was celebrating. No one said they were but a few minutes later, one of the boys whispered to me that it was his birthday. He very seriously told me that he didn’t want anyone to know because he didn’t celebrate birthdays. I asked if he was okay with Gus and the headband. With the trace of a smile, he said “Yes, that was okay.”
When we went into one of the day rooms, a young man, whom I believe is severely autistic and generally non-verbal, was on a sofa with his one-on-one aid, keeping his distance from everyone. At first he didn’t want Gus to come any closer but after a few minutes the aid indicated that the patient had changed his mind. I walked over and gently lifted Gus up in front of him. He smiled as he awkwardly petted him. Then I heard him say two words,”soft” and “remember.” He was the same young man, who, a few months earlier, with encouragement from other patients, had petted Stanley.
Driving home later, I was thinking about the magic I had just witnessed and somehow it brought to mind my late brother Stan who was an amateur magician. His business card said “How’d Ya Do That?” As I glanced at Gus, asleep on the seat, that’s exactly what I wondered.
As with so many of your visits Ellen your dogs and you have given so much to us (human beings) more more than we (humans) can do for each other. Thank you for doing what you loved to do but at the same time takes so much time to get to your level (if) in fact others can even get to 50% of your knowledge and experience. Love all the stories, please keep putting this out there. The world needs to know about the miracles you have experienced. Love, Jack