Bern. He’s a big-time attorney, but on the street in the early morning hours he’s just another dog guy in a hat and T-shirt with a plastic bag, doing his morning routine. Like many of us in our Upper East Side neighborhood here in New York City, he is known more for his dog and consequently is “Scout’s dad” to a lot of folks.
Here, if you’re out walking your dog (or dogs), you just come to expect that any greeting goes first to the dog—“Hey, Scout!” After that, you might get an acknowledgment, perhaps something less enthusiastic than the greeting that your dog got. And, even though people are quick to know your dog, they might not know your name—you’ll often have to settle for a nod and “How ya doin’?”
I used to own two sports bars in Seattle, and our regular customers often took on their identity with us according to what they always ordered: “Bud in a bottle”…“Stoli and tonic”…“bacon cheeseburger”…and so on. Same thing for all of us on East 72nd Street when it came to our dogs: “Poodle guy”…“Dachshund lady”…“Pug man”…
But with those who we see regularly, we do in fact have names for the dogs and their people: Elsie and Judith, Arthur and Norma, Morgan and Ed, Meggie and Karen, Lucy and Nicole, Jack and Jim and Felix, Lady and Maria, Cardozo and David, Butter and Seraphina and Michelle, and many more.
Those of us with dogs will tell you that our dogs define the neighborhood culture and social scene. The dogs are the great equalizers, bringing people together every day. It often starts with the very simple request: “May I pet your dog?” There is no phrase that brings together people any better than that one does. Diplomats should all get dogs and get to work making friends with each other.
Cheri and I joke that we might not know anyone in our neighborhood if we didn’t have dogs. Instead, we have a rich collection of friends and acquaintances: doormen, parking attendants, food vendors, street characters, nurses and doctors and other medical professionals heading to work at the nearby hospitals, people with their earbuds in, people in business suits, people in T-shirts, people hauling their children around, people just hanging out.
At the age of thirteen, Scout was slowing down, and her one-block journey each morning was becoming more and more labored. Nonetheless, Bern faithfully and patiently allowed Scout this daily ritual, no doubt knowing how much it must have meant to her to have the time with him. My guess was that for Bern, it wasn’t about the coffee—it was a combination of his sense of duty and his love for Scout. It was wonderful to witness this two-way devotion every morning.
When you have a dog, whether or not you are smart enough to realize it, this faithfulness and patience in the daily routine from start to finish is part of the deal. So in spite of the fact that we were watching Scout nearing the end of her life, we could all smile at what we got to see every day. I know that Bern would have done anything for Scout, and Scout would have done anything for Bern. She may not have done it as quickly as she would have in the past, but she would have done it.
One morning, watching Bern head back up the street with Scout, I said to him, “I guess you don’t have many early morning appointments at the office these days.”
He paused, looked at Scout, and smiled. She kept trudging along, not wanting to slow her momentum. She knew that he would catch up.
“You know,” he said, “Scout has taught me that you don’t need to go through life in a hurry. You see so much more when you go slow.”
Ah, wisdom. Bern’s a smart guy; he gets it. But as good an attorney as he might be, I bet he rarely says anything this powerful in any courtroom. I am never surprised by the simple eloquence that dogs inspire from their people.
Scout passed shortly after this, and all of us in the neighborhood mourned the loss of a family member. It doesn’t take Bern as long to get to the bodega every morning now, but I’m sure that Scout is still making that trip with him every day. And even better, she left him with a piece of wisdom that may not be taught in law school, or in any school, for that matter.
In my world of dog shows and training, we always worry so much about what we teach our dogs—to stand, to move, to heel, to sit, to behave—and that’s a good thing. But as we saw with Scout, what’s far more important is what we learn from our dogs.
So pay attention.
I Get It
Dogs are spontaneous. They live in the moment. They react to anything and everything that we say or do. They live, love, celebrate, and mourn with us whenever we give them the chance.
Interact with a dog—pet him, talk to him, feed him a cookie, go for a walk with him—and you feel better. Dog owners have known that intuitively for years; it’s a concept that anyone who has a dog understands. It’s the dog greeting you at the door, tail wagging at full speed, after you’ve had a long, tough day at the office. It’s the dog sitting next to you on the couch, putting his head on your lap when you need a little something.
It’s unconditional love. Your dog doesn’t care about appearances or how much money you make or how you talk. He just loves you, and he loves you every waking moment, whether or not you have good shoes.
It’s the combination of that spontaneity and the unconditional love that they give us every day that makes dogs so good at therapy work. No expectations, no grudges, no charge for the service. Well, maybe a good scratch right there … thank you very much.
I’ve been seeing this spontaneity and unconditional love happening with my dogs for a lot of years. In fact, I saw these things before I ever got serious about therapy dogs, but I just never really put it all together.
And here is how we know that it works: when a dog walks into the room, the energy changes.
The dog doesn’t need to be a high-profile show dog like Westminster Best in Show winners Uno, Rufus, or James, or a TV star like Lassie or Frasier’s Eddie. And the place doesn’t need to be a hospital or a nursing home. Any dog can make this happen, and it can happen anywhere. Sure, we see wonderful pictures of dogs visiting children, spending time with seniors, or comforting wounded military members in health care facilities. But it can happen for your elderly neighbor who lives alone, for someone you meet walking down the street, or right in your own living room just for you.
Maybe it’s the anticipation of that spontaneity or that unconditional love. Look! It’s a dog! Look at that haircut, look how excited he is to be here, look at his tail … wow! I want to pet him!
Suddenly, someone is thinking about something other than his or her challenges or pain or a grim outlook or the next treatment. Right now, for this moment, it’s not about the person, it’s about the dog.
Next, maybe it manifests itself in a smile—a smile from someone who hasn’t had much to smile about. I can’t tell you how often a parent has said to me as his or her child is petting or hugging or watching my dog: “That’s the first time she’s smiled this week.”
Maybe it’s a laugh or a few words or a step out of a stroller or wheelchair. Maybe it’s a lucid moment for someone, a look back in time at his or her own dog. It could be any or all of those things.
Is it magic? Perhaps. Are we changing people’s lives? Yes, we are. Maybe only for the moment, but yes, we are.
And
