Re-seeing the Dog

Murphy’s been unusually quiet these past few weeks.

I can’t really figure it out. I know he’s not sick, because he scarfs down his food so fast I’ve had to start splitting his meals into quarter cup portions. I can tell he’s not depressed: Murphy wags his tail nonstop, all day long. He wags it when he’s in the car, on his bed, at soccer games, and when he’s in the middle of being scolded. He wags his tail so much I’m surprised it hasn’t fallen off. Murphy isn’t unhappy. I get kissed every morning when I roll over to say good morning, and get a warm lapful of sleepy dog right before I put him to bed. He doesn’t think I’m mad at him. He’s not feeling confined or cooped up. I’m positive he’s not lonely.

So what’s going on with my typically unruly dog?

The vet says it’s age.

Murphy will be three and a half the beginning of December, which means he’s permanently out of the puppy stage. He is now officially an adolescent, one that is making a steady progression towards middle age. The antics are slowing down, though won’t completely disappear, because things like tearing up people’s blog critiques is just part of his personality. But he has mellowed out. These days, he’d rather sleep than play, snuggle than wrestle, and lie at my feet instead of try to bowl me over. He’s not a quiet dog, but has developed a quieter aura, and it’s this quietness, the still moments when Murphy just sits and watches, that makes him perfect for therapy work. 

Murphy as a therapy dog. Who would have thought?

Certainly not me. I was introduced to the idea a year ago, through various individuals. The vet recommended applying for a Canine Good Citizen certificate, after seeing Murphy’s non-reaction when a fourteen month old ran over, grabbed his face, and planted a big wet one on his nose. My coworker and the owner of Murphy’s best friend, a Bull Mastiff named Jameson, also suggested getting my dog certified, so he could work with some of our school children. Strangers, when they aren’t running away from the darkness of my dog’s coat, have even asked if he did therapy work. They’ll pet Murphy, who sits still under their hand, offering a slow kiss every so often, and ask what places he visits.

He didn’t visit any place, because for the first two years, Murphy was a behavioral mess. But the more people asked, the more I noticed the qualities that made him perfect for healing work: patience, particularly around kids and seniors; the uncanny ability to sense when someone is sick or upset; the need to touch and be touched. There’s more, of course, that are so often masked by his bad behavior. Murphy watches out for the fourteen-year-old family dog, and refuses to leave her side when she’s having a hard day. He tries, sometimes in frustration, to do the obedience commands right the first time. Murphy accepts whoever he meets, without qualms or hesitation, and he loves. From the bottom of his too-big feet to the tip of his dripping wet nose, he loves everyone.

And, for some odd reason, everyone loves him. 

So, we've been training. The only way Murphy can become a certified therapy dog, or a dog who visits people at the hospital or in nursing homes, is to pass the Canine Good Citizen Test. The requirements, which range everywhere from politely saying hello to a stranger to not freaking out when someone walks by with a gurney, are intense. Murphy, as big as he is, freaks out over everything. A squirrel drops a nut in the woods while he's going to the bathroom? He jumps. Someone starts their motorcycle outside? He scrambles. The baby gate falls over and make a loud clanging noise? He bolts.

The only way Murphy (and, subsequently, me) will pass the CGC Test is if we practice. Constantly. So, I bring him everywhere. We go to the grocery store and spend time at Scottish Highland Games and he's with me on every Starbucks run, for socialization. We practice greeting scary objects, like crutches and skateboards and baby strollers up and down the street, once at the dog park, and whenever he has a puppy play date. Of course, I thought it would be a struggle preparing him. Murphy didn't do well with his initial training; it was going to be a nightmare teaching him the concept of being a "good" dog.

But, be it age or the sheer desire to please, Murphy has taken everything in stride. He behaves. He follows commands and listens to my voice and stops whenever a stranger comes up and asks to pet him, even for just a moment. Murphy sits and waits; lets unfamiliar fingers slide through his fur, over his nose, and through the fringe of his ears. He listens to secrets, and the wishes of little kids, and the hum of words that whisper his way. In these moments when Murphy belongs to the person kneeling in front of him, I notice his demeanor, the cathartic stillness he freely offers, and can't help but wonder if he knows what he's doing. I can't help but wonder when my dog turned into a normal dog. A therapy dog.

A good dog.

And when that stranger leaves, picks themselves up off the street or patch of grass or carpeted rug and moves on, Murphy just watches, and waits. For me. For someone else. And I know: he's been a good dog, all along.