Tomorrow is a red letter day! My husband and I will close on the purchase of an historic downtown building here in Colfax. We have been working for and dreaming of this for many months, and it has finally come to pass. This is not just an ordinary commercial building, but the building in which we will create "The American Working Dog Museum" to honor all the dogs who have served mankind from time immemorial. Since the first wolf curled up at the fire of prehistoric man, dogs have been our constant companions and working partners. Dogs are the most versatile animal ever created. I believe that they can and will learn almost anything we ask of them, and perform that job faithfully until they are no longer able. If we treat them with kindness and respect, they serve us with love and devotion.
I have been soliciting donations and loans of exhibit materials in anticipation of this coming to fruition, and have so far secured the support of the United States Police Canine Association (USPCA), Pet Partners (formerly Delta Society) and the American Kennel Club (AKC). I am working to find materials representing herding, guarding, police, military, hunting, sledding, carting, acting, therapy, service/medical alert, fire, search & rescue, and other working dogs that deserve to have their stories told.
If you or someone you know might be interested in helping with this project, please follow our progress on Facebook at www.facebook.com/WorkingDogMuseumTobysSitStay, and let me know how you may be able to help. I will be posting pictures and comments about our work on the creation of the museum and its supporting shop (and a few notes and photos about our own "working dog" therapy work as well). This is a grassroots project, and our Facebook page reflects that homey atmosphere and casual news reporting style. I hope you will visit us there!
Museum front
This is the future site of "The American Working Dog Museum" and its supporting coffee and gift shop, "Toby's Sit & Stay." We will eventually renovate the facade in keeping with historical preservation guidelines.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Greg and I have begun taking Toby to the Des Moines Veterans Hospital twice a month. We went through volunteer orientation and the background and health check last summer, but were waiting for a chance to do some physical therapy with the patients there, rather than simply making social visits. A recreational therapist called in January to say that Blue, the Cairn terrier she had been working with, had some back problems and needed to take an extended break from therapy, and she wondered if we would be interested in bringing Toby to work with her. She is a rec therapist, but continues the patients' physical therapy in the evenings, working with therapy dogs to make it more enjoyable.
We have been there three evenings so far, and it has been very interesting. Sometimes the patients walk Toby down the hallway, other times they sit with him and practice manual dexterity exercises. When walking, the patients prove that they can walk farther than usual when they have a dog beside them, and actually enjoy doing it. I have also trained Toby to ride in a wheelchair, and we are hoping we will have a chance to practice this with a patient soon. The staff is anxious to see a dog being pushed in a wheelchair by the person who is usually riding. How often do you see that!?
The manual dexterity exercises so far have included tying and untying Toby's bandana, taking treats out of a zipper bag, and brushing him with the hand on the side of the patient's body affected by stroke. Again, veterans will perform services for Toby that they are reluctant to do as exercises for a therapist alone. A dog is great motivation for getting up, walking, and doing nice things for a fellow creature.
And Toby has been just wonderful in this work. He jumps up on chairs so he can be high enough to be petted, sits on laps and beds, walks between the patient and me (on a double leash, so each of us can hold one), does tricks to amuse the staff and patients, and tries to follow commands from those struggling with speech aphasia. I couldn't ask for a better partner.
We love this work, because we feel that we are actually helping someone to get better. It's so lovely to hear that one of the patients will be going home in a few days, and to know that we have helped them become stronger and more independent. Greg and I are both army veterans, so we get an extra kick out of helping our fellow soldiers. And Toby just loves everyone, no matter what their rank!
We have been there three evenings so far, and it has been very interesting. Sometimes the patients walk Toby down the hallway, other times they sit with him and practice manual dexterity exercises. When walking, the patients prove that they can walk farther than usual when they have a dog beside them, and actually enjoy doing it. I have also trained Toby to ride in a wheelchair, and we are hoping we will have a chance to practice this with a patient soon. The staff is anxious to see a dog being pushed in a wheelchair by the person who is usually riding. How often do you see that!?
The manual dexterity exercises so far have included tying and untying Toby's bandana, taking treats out of a zipper bag, and brushing him with the hand on the side of the patient's body affected by stroke. Again, veterans will perform services for Toby that they are reluctant to do as exercises for a therapist alone. A dog is great motivation for getting up, walking, and doing nice things for a fellow creature.
And Toby has been just wonderful in this work. He jumps up on chairs so he can be high enough to be petted, sits on laps and beds, walks between the patient and me (on a double leash, so each of us can hold one), does tricks to amuse the staff and patients, and tries to follow commands from those struggling with speech aphasia. I couldn't ask for a better partner.
We love this work, because we feel that we are actually helping someone to get better. It's so lovely to hear that one of the patients will be going home in a few days, and to know that we have helped them become stronger and more independent. Greg and I are both army veterans, so we get an extra kick out of helping our fellow soldiers. And Toby just loves everyone, no matter what their rank!
Monday, February 6, 2012
Toby Gets Published
I recently wrote an article for interventions magazine, a Pet Partners (formerly Delta Society ) publication. I will copy my submission here. It may be edited for publication, so you'll see the original first. I have changed the names of clients and staff to protect their anonymity.
Toby, my Shetland Sheepdog, and I became Pet Partners in the spring of 2011. He has the natural reserve of the Sheltie, which at first worried me, but I've come to understand that there is a special calling for dogs like Toby. He isn't the kind of boy who runs up to a stranger and begs for attention. Rather, he is a very gentle soul with the gift of calming quiet for those who need comfort and consolation. He is a wonderful R.E.A.D. dog, lying peacefully beside the children who attend our "Pawed Pages" summer reading programs in two local libraries. And he is the picture of tranquility as we minister to residents in care facilities, sitting or lying next to them, offering his paw to shake, or performing tricks for those who need a livelier visit or physical therapy.
In January of 2012 Toby and I made our regular monthly visit to a nursing and rehabilitation center. It had been a normal meet-and-greet type of visit, nothing out of the ordinary. We were just about to leave when we passed by a lounge with several residents in wheelchairs watching TV. 'Nancy,' the Activity Assistant accompanying us, realized that one of the women there was shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. "Oh no," Nancy said, "'Ginny' gets like this sometimes, and doesn't stop crying for hours, sometimes all day. We've never been able to stop her; she just has to get it out of her system." The staff is always distressed when she has a day like this, because they can't find a way to help her.
Toby and I had visited with Ginny several times before. She had taken cell phone pictures of herself with Toby on her lap, and always enjoyed spending time with him. Watching Nancy try to comfort her, I had an idea. Ginny's wheelchair had an attached tray table spanning it (for books, drinks, etc.), and I asked Nancy if she could put Toby's towel on the table. I lifted his 20-pound body up onto the narrow table and positioned him in a "down" directly in front of Ginny. He just fit, if he didn't move.
I told her that Toby had celebrated his sixth birthday a few days earlier, and she began singing "happy birthday" to him between sobs. She put out her hands to pet him, and said in a querulous, tear-filled voice, "I...want...kisses." Now, Toby is not a very "licky" dog, and seldom gives kisses to strangers. But he suddenly started licking her hands, and didn't stop until she calmed down and stopped crying. It took less than ten minutes for Ginny to change from total devastation to grins and laughter. It seemed that we had witnessed a small miracle.
We took our leave of a smiling Ginny with a deeper awareness of the human-animal bond, knowing that Toby had made a difference in the quality of her day. Nancy expressed her heartfelt thanks, on the verge of tears herself. We both felt that we had experienced something very profound.
A few days after our visit with Ginny, Toby and I found ourselves in the Monarch Wing of Skiff Hospice in Newton, Iowa. We spent nearly an hour with 'Carl,' a retired engineer. Toby lay next to him in the hospital bed, pressed between Carl's thin body and the side rails, with his muzzle on Carl's chest and his expressive almond eyes gazing into Carl's face. While Carl stroked Toby's soft fur with a frail hand taped with an IV tube, he told us about his career as a WWII navy flier and then as a civilian engineer. We heard the stories of how he met and married his wife, and of his children's and grandchildren's trials and successes.
Carl told us with pleasure of the years he had spent visiting the hospice with his own little dog, Susie, whispering with difficulty as the nasal tube fed him oxygen. We both smiled at the remarkable circle of life: the former hospice animal therapist now being visisted in hospice by another, younger, dog therapy team. It was hard to say goodbye to Carl, as he and Toby seemed to be enjoying their visit so much, but he needed his rest, and so we took our leave.
The next week I made my usual phone call to the hospice volunteer coordinator to ask if she had any patients who might enjoy an animal visit, and learned that Carl had quietly passed away a few days after our visit with him. I later spoke to a hospice nurse, and she told me that Toby's visit had meant a lot to Carl, and that the staff was so glad that he had had an hour of happiness so close to his passing. I didn't know Carl before our visit, but in the short time we spent together with Toby, I felt that we had all become friends. I was reminded yet again how fragile is our time here on earth, and how precious the moments spent with our animal partners and hospice patients truly are.
Moments like these make all the socialization, obedience and Pet Partner training--and the sacrifice of resources and time--worthwhile. I thank God every day for my wonderful animal therapy partners, especially Toby, my sweet, gentle Sheltie.
Toby, my Shetland Sheepdog, and I became Pet Partners in the spring of 2011. He has the natural reserve of the Sheltie, which at first worried me, but I've come to understand that there is a special calling for dogs like Toby. He isn't the kind of boy who runs up to a stranger and begs for attention. Rather, he is a very gentle soul with the gift of calming quiet for those who need comfort and consolation. He is a wonderful R.E.A.D. dog, lying peacefully beside the children who attend our "Pawed Pages" summer reading programs in two local libraries. And he is the picture of tranquility as we minister to residents in care facilities, sitting or lying next to them, offering his paw to shake, or performing tricks for those who need a livelier visit or physical therapy.
In January of 2012 Toby and I made our regular monthly visit to a nursing and rehabilitation center. It had been a normal meet-and-greet type of visit, nothing out of the ordinary. We were just about to leave when we passed by a lounge with several residents in wheelchairs watching TV. 'Nancy,' the Activity Assistant accompanying us, realized that one of the women there was shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. "Oh no," Nancy said, "'Ginny' gets like this sometimes, and doesn't stop crying for hours, sometimes all day. We've never been able to stop her; she just has to get it out of her system." The staff is always distressed when she has a day like this, because they can't find a way to help her.
Toby and I had visited with Ginny several times before. She had taken cell phone pictures of herself with Toby on her lap, and always enjoyed spending time with him. Watching Nancy try to comfort her, I had an idea. Ginny's wheelchair had an attached tray table spanning it (for books, drinks, etc.), and I asked Nancy if she could put Toby's towel on the table. I lifted his 20-pound body up onto the narrow table and positioned him in a "down" directly in front of Ginny. He just fit, if he didn't move.
I told her that Toby had celebrated his sixth birthday a few days earlier, and she began singing "happy birthday" to him between sobs. She put out her hands to pet him, and said in a querulous, tear-filled voice, "I...want...kisses." Now, Toby is not a very "licky" dog, and seldom gives kisses to strangers. But he suddenly started licking her hands, and didn't stop until she calmed down and stopped crying. It took less than ten minutes for Ginny to change from total devastation to grins and laughter. It seemed that we had witnessed a small miracle.
We took our leave of a smiling Ginny with a deeper awareness of the human-animal bond, knowing that Toby had made a difference in the quality of her day. Nancy expressed her heartfelt thanks, on the verge of tears herself. We both felt that we had experienced something very profound.
A few days after our visit with Ginny, Toby and I found ourselves in the Monarch Wing of Skiff Hospice in Newton, Iowa. We spent nearly an hour with 'Carl,' a retired engineer. Toby lay next to him in the hospital bed, pressed between Carl's thin body and the side rails, with his muzzle on Carl's chest and his expressive almond eyes gazing into Carl's face. While Carl stroked Toby's soft fur with a frail hand taped with an IV tube, he told us about his career as a WWII navy flier and then as a civilian engineer. We heard the stories of how he met and married his wife, and of his children's and grandchildren's trials and successes.
Carl told us with pleasure of the years he had spent visiting the hospice with his own little dog, Susie, whispering with difficulty as the nasal tube fed him oxygen. We both smiled at the remarkable circle of life: the former hospice animal therapist now being visisted in hospice by another, younger, dog therapy team. It was hard to say goodbye to Carl, as he and Toby seemed to be enjoying their visit so much, but he needed his rest, and so we took our leave.
The next week I made my usual phone call to the hospice volunteer coordinator to ask if she had any patients who might enjoy an animal visit, and learned that Carl had quietly passed away a few days after our visit with him. I later spoke to a hospice nurse, and she told me that Toby's visit had meant a lot to Carl, and that the staff was so glad that he had had an hour of happiness so close to his passing. I didn't know Carl before our visit, but in the short time we spent together with Toby, I felt that we had all become friends. I was reminded yet again how fragile is our time here on earth, and how precious the moments spent with our animal partners and hospice patients truly are.
Moments like these make all the socialization, obedience and Pet Partner training--and the sacrifice of resources and time--worthwhile. I thank God every day for my wonderful animal therapy partners, especially Toby, my sweet, gentle Sheltie.
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