The Healing Power of Pets

My mother died in 1995. She was not an easy woman, to put it mildly. She had her moments of sweetness but she was troubled by self-doubt and feelings of inferiority as well as a mistrust of people and a negative outlook on life in general. Daddy endured 49 years with her, and when she died he was liberated. This may sound like a degradation of my mother, and I don't mean for it to. The liberation line came from Daddy himself.

Other than a couple of obligatory dogs for my brother and me, along with the odd turtle or two, for most of their married life, my parents were petless. Mother liked it that way. She was afraid of most animals, and didn't understand the ones she knew well. Daddy, on the other hand, was raised on a farm and craved the connection to animals that he had lost when he married Mother. So when she died, practically the first thing he did was get two puppies.

On a trip to K-Mart, he saw a sign on a telephone pole advertising "free puppies" along with an address, and he came home with Buddy and Sister. Like all puppies, they were adorable, and almost instantly, he became obsessed with them. They provided laughter and companionship, both things he needed after losing his spouse to lung cancer. Even though she was difficult, she was his partner and they had weathered a lot together. The sudden aloneness was awkward for Daddy at first. And losing a loved one to cancer is not only appalling, but also exhausting to those left behind. Two cute, frolicking puppies were just the ticket to bring Daddy out of the funk of becoming a new widower. Those two pups grew up and gave Daddy fourteen years of purpose. When they died, within four weeks of each other last December, I worried that Daddy might die, too.

Sister was the first to go. Her decline was rapid and unexpected. Buddy had been the one in bad health for a while. And it seemed unfortunate that she would also die of cancer, like Mother had. Sister's cancer was in her stomach. Daddy needed a lot of help coping through her quick death. Me and my SO were the ones who took her to the vet her final time. We knew Daddy was suffering. What we didn't expect was how Buddy would grieve for his littermate. He become ill almost immediately, and after four hard weeks, the SO and I made a second final trip to the vet on Daddy's behalf. He was just too overcome with depression to be the one to put his beloved Buddy out of his misery.

This sad story has a happy ending, so don't stop reading now.

About the same time as he was losing his pets, Daddy was also losing his eyesight. I had noticed how erratic his driving had become. Daddy was always was a careful, steady driver, who to my knowledge, has never had so much as a fender-bender, but suddenly he was running stoplights he didn't see, and swerving towards curbs, running over obstacles in the road. In addition, he spent way too much time sleeping. When I went to check on him, I almost always woke him and at all times of the day. I have a key so I could let myself in when he didn't answer the door, and twice this happened. Both times he was wadded up in his bed, so still and quiet I felt compelled to shake him awake. He was obviously deeply depressed and I felt powerless to do anything about it. I prepared myself for the inevitable.

One of the reasons I chose to move into this house in the country is because it lies just outside the small town where Dad resides. Now in his 80s, I could see the time when he would need me nearby and I was only three miles from him here, rather than the twenty-six miles away I had been before the move. I had made a deathbed promise to Mother that I would take care of Daddy. Not that I needed that promise to make me see to Daddy's welfare, but still, I had told her I would look after him, and I intend to make good on my word. This house has an extra room across the garage, with its own bathroom and sort of modified kitchen area. It seemed like a place where Daddy could live with us and still have a kind of autonomy. During his depression, just after the dogs died, I broached the subject of him moving in with us. He flatly refused. I can't lie and say that I was disappointed; I was relieved. If he still wanted to live alone, then he still had some of his old spirit left.

We got through his eye surgeries, and they worked miracles. He no longer even needs his glasses on most days. Just last week I was thinking about how I haven't known him without glasses for at least forty years, and he looks a little funny to me still, a little naked without them. Now he needs only cheap reading glasses, and uses them sparingly.

So it was time, I thought after he had recovered from his surgeries, to approach him about a new dog. He was instantly receptive to the idea. Four months had gone by since Buddy's death. Daddy was ready to think about having a dog again but he had stipulations. He only wanted one dog this time, and it must be a female. She had to be grown, already housebroken. He couldn't see himself starting over with a puppy. He would be 85 on his next birthday. A calm, older, smallish dog would suit him best. We started looking online at the shelters in our area. We found a few prospects and made a date with each other to go around and meet our online choices in person.

The first pet adoption was a disappointment. They'd had one dog we had liked online, but once we were there, the people told us she had behavior problems, would often snap and bite for no apparent reason. Still, I could see the light coming on in Daddy's eyes. I think he would have liked to have given her a try. It was me who nixed that idea. The truth was, Daddy would have taken the whole roomful of dogs home if he could have. We drove to the next place.

Right away I had a better feeling. It was clean and neat, the dogs had roomy kennels and an outside play area. The dogs looked happy and cared-for. Information about each dog was posted clearly on the outside of their kennel. The border collie-cross we had seen online was bigger than I'd expected, and she growled when Daddy approached her door. However, there was one dog with unusual brindle markings that caught Daddy's attention. I'm not sure what it was about her really, who understands love at first sight? Her name was Heidi, and I saw right away that she was only 8 months old. And she was already big, so she would end up much bigger than our small Dutch shephard. They said Heidi was a Labrador cross, but I said then and still say now, she has next to no Lab in her at all. She looked like a small greyhound to me. The attendant asked if we would like to see her in a private room. Daddy's face lit and he nodded without taking his eyes off her.

Once we were in the private room, with Daddy holding a bowl full of milkbones, I asked, almost hesitantly if he realized she was not even a year old yet. He was laughing so hard at the dog's antics and her enjoyment of the bones that he barely nodded. He said, "She has charisma, don't you think?" Well, what do you do? Yes, she seemed sweet-natured, and she took right to Daddy, but she was only 8 months old, a really REALLY large puppy. The attendant said she was house-broken, and that seemed like enough for Daddy. I hadn't seen him smile so big in such a long time. I was not going to nix this dog for anything. We signed all the papers, paid the adoption fee, and they brought her out to us cleaned up like a new bride.

That was last Spring. Heidi is firmly ensconced in Daddy's heart and home now. She has destroyed every pair of houseshoes and flipflops he owned. She has dug holes in his yard and shredded papers in his office. She has chewed his couch. She has unloaded his closet several times over, strewing his things across, not only the house, but all over the backyard as well, because he leaves the sliding door open for her to come and go as she pleases. She has the run of the place, but ... she has also saved him.

When I talk to Daddy on the phone now the conversation is all about Heidi and her latest pranks. Sometimes when we're talking, he begins to talk to her midway through, and laughs. He laughs and laughs. A lot. He's full of wonderment about her intelligence, about her ability to remember and respond, about her affection. He tells me that when she wants him to get up she stands by his bed and stares him awake. I love her for this. She motivates him to stay out of that bed. She has given him a purpose and new enthusiasm for living.

I've read all the reports about how petting a dog or cat can lower your blood pressure. I believe in it. I've seen the healing power of pets with my own eyes, and felt it within myself, too. My cat has mustered me through many a hard time. Now, I have both a cat and a dog to lift me and give my life a little added joy. When the SO goes out of town to work, I have their company and their attention. We have our morning rituals and habits. Neither the dog or the cat care for much variation, and our routine gives me focus as well. I advocate for pets. What a kickstart they give us!

Onward ....