When being a therapy dog requires a certain amount of bravery.

When Gustavo and I were at the nursing home yesterday, I was holding him up for a huge lady in an orange sweater with orange and white hair to pet. Spilling out of her plus size wheelchair, she had a white t-shirt with a patchwork star on it and no stains anywhere. I think I'm used to the old ladies being so tiny and frail. Collapsed laps, sometimes over swollen ankles wrapped in stretchy accessories, but tiny little arms and hands with skin as thin and brittle as tracing vellum. This lady, like a giant and lots of padding everywhere on her bones, still so strong.

Old people's hair, so very thin, like the thinnest acrylic threads hanging off of spotty and wrinkly scalps. Comes in white, gray, or strange shades of orange. Some ladies, have hair-dos and not sure how they get those hairs to do what they get them to do. Other ladies, just seems like they can barely keep those last few hairs brushed into however much order they can. I think hair dye just goes orangish on elderly hair, no matter what color they're shooting for. Orange and white hair lady had a wiggly perm on her very few hairs. They sort of popped out away from her big fleshy face, a little bit like Krusty the Klown.

At first, she wanted to grab Gustavo and hold him tight to her shoulder. He's not the cuddliest therapy dog. Likes to snuggle in with quiet people on their bed, but the more active people, usually make him squirmy and I hold him up for people to pet, or if they can bend, he likes to stand on the floor where they can reach down. Most old people though, can't bend down to Gustavo height so he gets carted around a lot. The orange sweater lady had a good grip and I had to kind of wrestle her for him when she grabbed him to her orange cardiganned bosum. She was so happy to have him for that moment, she didn't want to give him back. Since she couldn't have him, started making kissy noises at him, which makes him kiss you back. There was something about her boldness and loudness and orangeness, just had a feeling not a good one for him to kiss, so sort of moved him out of pucker range. She moves on to whistling at him. Which becomes meowing, and then starts to go through entire Noah's ark of animal sounds while she's grabbing his legs.

I moved him back away from her just a little farther, which was good because when she got through donkey and cattle noises to snarling, demonic boar, she tried to yank his leg off.

Usually, the nursing home patients are less strong. Gnarled, closed fists gently stroke the dogs. Arthritic arms can barely lift up, just enough to stroke soft clean fur and give a little pat. Blind people, pat around trying to find where are ears and eyes. Some hands, shake so hard can barely make contact. But have never had a giant orange and white lady snarling like the meanest pig in the pen try to pull a dog leg off.

I got him away and decided to have him do some tricks for her instead. Safely on the floor. That sit-down-rollover routine, always a hit with the over 80 crowd. Then I kind of backed away, calling out, "Nice to see you today!" and out of her room, just left her there still making the pig sounds. No one really seemed to mind. I guess they're used to her. Made me wonder, does this affect his teeter totter? Make him spookier today if we pass a box in the street on the way down to the beach? Ruin his trust in me because I almost let a giant old lady making pig sounds pull his leg out of the socket?

When we were finished making the rounds, got back in the car. He rides in a crate right the driver's seat, I can see him when I look in my rear view mirror or glance over my shoulder. He hardly ever sleeps in there. Rests by sticking his pointy fox nose through the wire front and stares at me when I drive. Doesn't seem to look out the windows, or conk out like the other dogs. Just stares at me. Jimmy Cliff came on the ipod as we were pulling out of the parking lot, Sitting Here in Limbo. He curled up in the back and laid with his head on his paws for a minute. I thought about the orange and white hair lady. Don't know if she'll be there next time. Grant, one of my favorite old men, he was gone this week. There's a sweet husband and wife I always visit with, and the wife, she couldn't talk anymore and I don't think even knew Gustavo was there. Next time I looked back, Gustavo back to nose sticking through his door, and those beady eyes locked on mine. We got back on the freeway and I feel his eyes on the back of my head, waiting for his dice to roll.

Preparing the therapy dog for his job-a primer.

Yesterday Gustavo had a therapy dog visit. It's not as easy as it looks, having a Certified Pet Assisted Therapy Dog. There's stuff you gotta do. First thing is, get the dog tired. You gotta go down to the beach, run him hard, chase those sticks until all the dogs start to look a bit parched and peaked. Like that ever happens. But you gotta at least take the edge off, so he isn't fidgety and wild with the old folks. Maybe he could be like that poodle that just lays quietly on laps? The other therapy dogs are so, um, still? But wasn't happening yesterday. The fog rolled in, was nice and cool, and the dogs were tireless. Uh oh.

So Gustavo is dripping and sandy and needs a bath. Quick dog bath. Clock is ticking, was too long at beach. Throw the dogs in the front yard to dry off, and to try and get Timmy to eat some food in peace. Where is Timmy? Wedged between the waterheater and the dryer, just standing there, waiting to not be stuck. Poor Timmy. Go check on if wet dog is drying. Therapy dogs required to be dry. Only 2 dogs in front yard, the wet one is missing. Augh! Under the house. In the dirt and cobwebs and whatever else is under houses. Making the special noises ala screaming monkey and dashing about under our entire floor plan, subterranean style. Get him out through the crack he went in.

What is on his previously clean neck? Some kind of foulness excreted by something that apparently also likes running around under the house? That was maybe getting chased around under the house? Dunno. No TIME for this DAMN DOG! You are a THERAPY DOG and I am pretty sure the other therapy dog people are not giving their good and still and clean therapy dogs a second bath when they should be leaving the house! Industrial strength rubber gloves required for bath number two.

Gratuitous photo from guest photographer due to no way taking photos on this day.

By now, is clear that it's that kind of day, it is inevitable that as you run out the door you keys will be GONE because the Beatles are on the stereo, and they are playing that song Happy Birthday. Which is a song, honestly, you don't even like. And you can't help it, you are in a hurry, and you yell to Otterpop, "Hey, Otterpop, Happy Birthday!" not thinking about the power of the words you just said, and from the living room the HOWLING starts and by the way you can't find any socks, because you have trained your dogs the cute trick to HOWL when you ask Otterpop 'Is it Your Birthday?' and when she starts it and then they all howl together. Real loud, like. Real cute trick for one or two times then dog strangling may have to start. STOP HOWLING DOGS! you are hollering as you leap into shower.

And then like a flash you get out of the shower and you put on your pants and there is a hole in them. By the back pocket. That would surely show your underpants to old folks if you wear them. It is a suspicious hole as if someone discovered dog treats in that pocket and chewed their way to them and because you are not always tidy and maybe fell into bed at midnite leaving them on the floor likely it was a renegade small dog who has ruined the pants. Not horrid, ill fitting Gap Jeans but expensive ones, purchased on sale but still. The best ones. Can not have an underpants showing hole for visiting the old folks.

And so you are running into the bedroom to find new pants and the shirts stayed in the dryer for days so are all wrinkled but there is no time and you find some other pants and howling just starts on it's own again and you can only see small black dogs, wherever you look. Like have they multiplied? There may be no car keys but there are hundreds of small black dogs. You cannot tell them apart but one is chewing a pen that was procured from the desk? The counter? STOP THE HOWLING and there is Timmy. A little calm in the storm, but having his own tiny storm, spinning in circles on the kitchen floor. He just spins, and spins, and spins, and spins. Not unlike so many of the people that we're off to go sit with, maybe to see if they can stop their own kind of spinning for long enough to pet the soft little dog.

This is maybe not for the faint of heart.

I know. It's like, is she even DOING dog agility anymore? Rest assured we have 2 weekends of USDAA in a row coming up, and yes. I have barely been practicing. And Gustavo has barely been learning anything new except chew on the couch pillows. Oh wait, not new. Oh wait. And that's my sock. Hold on a minute.

OK. Gustavo has a weird wart thing growing on his nose. And today we go be therapy dogs and visit the nursing home. And he looks ugly.


Here's what his nose looked like a until a few weeks ago.


Here it is with the attractive and giant wart.

I showed it to one of my clients who is a small animal vet. She said, yep, wart. But in better and more complicated vet words. I believe the words were the like dog version of genital warts, a "common" thing puppies can get on their faces. My puppy has common genital warts on his nose.

So my idea was, can I knock him out with Tramadol and just cut it off? This is where the horse folk differ than some of the dog folk. We just sometimes knock out our animals and do stuff to them because, well, that's what we do. We like to keep an arsenal of drugs on hand ourselves. Dog folk seem to generally take them in to dog offices. Luckily I have vets that come to the barn and who understand my Perhaps A Little Bit of Knowledge is Too Much Knowledge Tendencies.

"Um," she said, "I guess you could do that. It might just go away on it's own, too. Maybe you want to bring him in the office if it doesn't?"

"So you can knock him out and cut it off?"

She looks at me. "I guess you can just do it." She'd have to knock him out to lidocaine his nose anyways. He is not an easy patient. Do not even ask how teaching him to do dog fingernails is going. He is freakishly, horribly strong for such a tiny dog and for as friendly and nice as he is, doesn't like to be messed with.

I'm like, "Do you think it's gonna need a stitch? Like if it has a root?" I think I sounded a little too eager.

Laura. Don't lets perform surgery on our own dog, ok? When we're feeling flush again, after this month's tax FIASCO, he can go get his wart sliced off by a pro. Because giant nose warts just aren't that cute. I just hope all our nursing home friends don't care.

If it's Sunday, it must be Test Day.

Today was going to be class day for the whole team. But it rained, so our lesson with Jim is off. But someone else still has to go to school.

Gustavo is going to be tested to see if he can become a Certified Therapy Dog.

He has to go to San Jose and take some tests and I don't know what else, and if he passes, I guess he's certified by this group called Furry Friends (and I am pretty sure these are not fetish people that put on giant furry animal costumes and do things not approved by baby Jesus, the Furry name frightens me) and we can start visiting old folks homes on the third Sunday of the month. When there's no agility trial that Sunday. With the whole thing of, you know, work, it's hard to go on a lot of the visit dates they offer. But third Sundays of the month, we can do that. Some of the time.

I'm not sure what he has to do to pass exactly.

I think it's sort of modeled in a Canine Good Citizen test, which has a lot of being well behaved walking and sitting and staying and letting others touch you, basic friendly and well behaved dog quiz. He's good at stuff like that. Pretty sure it doesn't include running like a demon for hours at a time at fast speed, which is the other thing he excels at. And tunnels. And chewing on glasses and address books. I am really sure it doesn't include that. I think I probably shouldn't tell them about that one.

Wish us luck!


He's been working on his training skilz too. Which by the way, is going smashingly, thanks for asking. We're making it easy and repeating lessons a lot and he gets it that way. He learns slowly but he learns it well. The weave poles are fast with rocking entrances with the channel still open. He has a great nose touch on a contact trainer or stairs or pretty much anywhere you throw a target out. Even though I'm not dead certain if he's going to be running or 2o/2o but we're starting with this. We're doing very little jumping or anything-especially since it rains like every 5 minutes so we haven't been going to our practice field. He's learning to run close to me, on each side. He's learning a couple cute tricks, rolling and commando raid crawl. They might sound like little things but they're important foundation things and take time, especially for Gustavo.

I'm making his training So Easy so he builds the Confidence of Kim Deal, which is a skill the other small dogs lack. They're more like her sister that once I ran into in a liquor store and I think she was trying to buy heroin. That was a long time ago. I hope you are better now Kelly Deal! We're trying to make agility like a thing that he thinks is So Easy and So Cool so he is So Confident as it starts to get harder. Like it is not like doing taxes or walking through a graveyard at night full of zombies. I'm not letting it get harder yet. He's in no hurry. It's weird to have a dog that learns so differently than my other dogs, but I can tell he's getting things now. Maybe he's just on island time.

Right now though, his agility is secondary to just having a cool little friendly dog that might be able to help some old people have an ok day when maybe the rest of their day maybe wasn't so hot.

What does he do if you hit him over the head with a bed pan?

Do you notice the white paint on his foot and the clean floor? Let's try another round of Jingle Bells.

Monday is my day off. Today isn't my day off. I have nothing funny to tell you today.

I love Mondays. Boy, I could have kept you in stitches yesterday. Instead, I slaved around the house. I actually got to meet one of our roofers. Who is working for our roofer. Who comes over every so often to finish our roof. Which isn't actually finished. But should be waterproof, if it actually did rain, since now that we have a roof, global warming has kicked in and it doesn't rain. We had to share the ladder, he was up on top of the roof, coating it with whatever you coat special weird roofs like ours with, and I was under the roof, painting it. He is from Denmark and really wants to quit roofing to become a pilot in Florida. I still didn't finish painting, and he still didn't finish roofing. Someday.


Proof.

I also found an organization in Santa Cruz/San Jose that you can sign up your dog to be a therapy dog with only 7 pages of paperwork called FurryFriends.org. I will have to wear a t-shirt with that word on it. That is teal. There is only one place they take dogs to in Santa Cruz on Sundays, an old folks home in Capitola. Gustavo has to go and pass a test in Sunnyvale in January to see if he is afraid of wheelchairs or screams if hit with a walker, and if he passes, maybe they will let me go. I guess I won't be visiting any old folks for Christmas time in my holiday outfit, singing Jingle Bells. But this one seems more hopeful. Then you only go on every third Sunday. So I have to hope dog shows don't come up on third Sundays of the month.

I even washed my floor yesterday. I tried to be a good homemaker. It is possible I am somewhat unconventional as a wife. My husand got somewhat ripped off. I pretty much don't cook or clean, I don't have kids, never mow the lawn, and I like to put taxidermy in the house. I have compromised on the taxidermy issue, and we are down to very limited taxidermy inside the house. If it is a deer head and any part of it is rotting, it has to live in the garage. No one can ever say I don't make compromises.

A perfect Monday would involve perfect weave poles from Gustavo (let's give that a few years), low tide and no one rolling in seal carcass, black thin pens that don't run out of ink and always finding the perfect photo, and my computer battery not dying. Also if it happened on my ranch or beach house in Stinson Beach. And I could sing Jingle Bells to an old person holding a dog. And I had pleasant trail horses living in my yard. And sushi. I better stop now.