Dandy was an oversized sable and white collie, regal in appearance
and manner. He was three years old when we adopted him from
a rescue league and about eight years old when he and I joined
PAL.
Dandy
knew he was impressive; when we made our PAL visits, he graciously
permitted strangers to admire him. With a stoic, slightly
distant expression, he stood or sat while his fans stroked
and patted him. He seemed to be saying, "This is really
for your benefit, you know – but it's okay by me, too."
He didn't let on how much he liked the attention.
Dandy was a bit lazy. Given half a chance, he would lie down
on a cool tile floor, which required his admirers to stoop
to be able to pat him. A surprising number of people were
willing to do this.
During
the years that we made PAL visits, we settled on a fairly
steady routine of going to the Northwest Home on Wisconsin
Avenue and the Psychiatric Ward at George Washington Hospital.
At the Northwest Home, our group would travel from floor to
floor. In keeping with his energy-saving ethic, Dandy preferred
the elevator to the stairs.
Invariably,
residents recognized his breed. Many of them told me stories
about growing up on a farm or in a rural area with Shep, Laddie,
Lassie or Prince, describing a collie just like mine.
The
visits to GW were my favorites. The ward was locked, but this
was not off-putting. There was nothing frightening about being
there. Patients, PAL people and dogs would assemble in a large,
windowed room. Because the ward was on an upper floor, the
windows offered a wonderful city view. I think that we averaged
as many as a dozen canine visitors, mostly regulars, in various
sizes, colors, shapes and hair-dos.
Some patients were silent and withdrawn, a few talked only
to each other, but most wanted to talk to the dogs or talk
to us about the dogs – some eagerly, some shyly. Many of the
patients were heartbreakingly young. One could not help but
wonder what had brought them here; their problems were not
manifested in their behavior while we were with them.
After our hour was over, the patients would leave the room
and our PAL group would begin to straggle out. After some
of our visits, one of the ward's psychiatrists would join
us for a chat, giving us welcome feedback.
One
day, the doctor commented, "The patient who was playing
with the collie – he is here on a suicide watch. He spent
the entire morning in tears and hasn't spoken to anyone since
he arrived here last week. Today with the dog – that was the
first time I saw him smile." The young man had sat on
the floor with Dandy for more than half an hour, hugging,
patting and whispering to him.
That
moment captured vividly what PAL means to me. With PAL we
can't fix all the world's problems and we can't even repair
life for one despairing, deeply depressed young man. But to
be able to bring a moment of joy and peace to a stranger:
what a gift, a gift to me that makes me so grateful to PAL
and to Dandy.
