I Can Touch His Paws!
"Look ...look...look at this; I can touch his paws! I've never known a dog that will let you touch his paws!" she said, kneeling on the hard hospital carpet-floor and looking up at the rest of her family. Rin was laid out on his side with his paws in the air; his belly exposed for the random belly rub that might come his way. This girl and Rin were having a glorious moment.
Earlier in the evening, we had been asked by a visitor, "Can you come and visit with my family? We're in the waiting room, and I know my folks would love to see your dog." I told her I would come around to see everyone soon, and we made our way up to the waiting room. The space was packed with people; so much so that we could barely squeeze off the elevator and into the hallway space. Once we were there, I saw the familiar body language of people who see Rin while he's on the 'job'; who become transfixed by his beauty and gentle power, and think, "I wonder if I can touch him...?" I love to answer their thoughts with, "Would you like to pet Rin? He's a volunteer and he's here for you!" On this night, the reaction was enormous...I wasn't sure what the reason was behind the mass of people, but it was clear they knew each other, and it was clear they were emotionally wounded beyond the telling of the wound and the pain. So, the reaction to my statement that Rin was there for them, there to comfort them, there to amuse them, there to offer his heart, soul and physical body to ease their tension for a milli-moment; was a reaction that allowed them to exhale, to raise their heads, and lower their bodies to caress Rin's soft, soft fur, and to laugh softly when he flops over in a half-somersault to make the fullness of his belly available for a scratch.
As we made our way around the table and chair maze that was the waiting room, Rin caught the attention of every eye and he turned every head. I heard bits of whispered comments, "There's a DOG over there!" "Oh look...! That lady has a dog with her...but I don't think we can pet him." It gave me so much joy to tell them softly, "Of course you can pet him, he's here for you!" As soon as I gave the permission to pet Rin, there was a rush of energy that comes when people unfold from their despair for a moment to reach out to pet Rin. The energy created by the movement of people rising from chairs and moving from where they had been posted, leaning against the walls and looking exhausted. People who had been seated for so long created a wave through the room...and soon the energy in the room suddenly became balanced and bearable.
We worked our way into a heavy corner, dark with absence the of light and dense with the pressure of grief. It took me a minute to assess whether they wanted Rin there or not, but once I did, we all sat on the hard industrial carpet, talking about all kinds of things. They told me about their dogs, and about their lives, and we became, for a moment, great friends. While Rin was laying out in the middle of us, a young woman walked near to us, with a look of unbearable pain, her face red with emotion; sobbing hard and pacing. As a handler, it's hard to know when is the right time to move along, and when is the right time to stay and let Rin help. I chose to let the moment play out. The young woman who was with me on the floor said loudly to the crying woman, "Look! Look a this dog! He's letting me hold his paws!" She looked back at her friend and back at Rin, and her hands ran up his legs, down to his paws, and her thumb ran over his nails. "I can even touch his nails! Wow...!"
In that same moment, I could feel it was time to move along and let this family support each other; but as I moved away, one of the family members caught my eye and said, "Thank you for letting us spend some time with Rin tonight...you have a special dog there."
The truth is, I was grateful. Grateful to be allowed to share a special dog with people to help assuage the grief, tension and anger, if only, for a moment.
