animalsamaritans.org

Cover Story

The Hounds Of Heaven
By Sawyer Thomas

It’s an April morning at Johnson Elementary School in Indio. Elvira sashays past a line of excited second-graders awaiting lunchtime in the shaded food court. Her rock star hairdo is part Jimmy Hendrix, part Tina Turner, which adds height to her already commanding stature. Her hair—not fur—makes her an ideal therapy dog, especially for those with fragile lungs. Standard poodles do not shed.
 “I want to pet her,” says an eager child. They all do. When several children stray from the line, their teacher pipes up, “Single file.” Elvira walks on, unaffected. Now is not the time to socialize. It’s Thursday and she has clients to see.
“Elvira’s here,” says Sherri Halstead, Elvira’s human companion. The students in this class cannot speak, but several change their facial expression and look toward the door.
In Diane Montgomery’s Active Learning program—a cutting-edge approach to working with profoundly handicapped children—sounding boards and interactive mobiles replace chalkboards and desks. Students lie on padded mats or sit upright in what amount to modified plastic car seats. More advanced children strap into specialized walkers that allow them to stand upright and wheel about without risk of falling. See-through tubs line an entire classroom wall and brightly colored objects abound—stuffed animals and shakers, plastic xylophones, bongos, noisemakers of every kind. A blind autistic child sits on a homemade sounding board, spinning an aluminum mixing bowl in endless succession. The vibrations from the board tell him his proximity to the bowl, when it spins, when it stops. Elvira will visit him later. First, she must attend to the boy in the blue plastic chair, “Andrew,” who has been beaming since she entered.
Several years ago Andrew came to Diane’s class with severe diplegia, a condition of cerebral palsy that paralyzed his arms with rigidity. His hands were clenched, his arms and legs permanently crossed. During her first visit, Elvira stood beside him while he struggled to lift his head for a better look at her. On the second visit, he unclenched the fingers of his right hand to touch her. Several months later he extended his right arm for the first time since infancy—just to pet a dog.
Elvira approaches and the boy’s eyes, magnified behind thick glasses, appear even wider. His crooked smile is infectious. Elvira is his puppy; she belongs to him. On Sherri’s command, Elvira positions her long body on Andrew’s left, his weak side. She patiently waits as he struggles to lift his arm and place it where he wants it. With help from an aide he lands his hand on her neck. He strokes her awkwardly, almost roughly. She doesn’t mind. He grabs a tuft of hair and clenches to pull her closer. Elvira gently twists her head and shakes free of him. He reaches for her again and she licks his hand. Delighted, he squirms. She is nurturing, protective, like a mother with her newborn. Perhaps it’s he who belongs to her.
Five-year-old “Guadalupe” has a bent spine and constant seizures. She is always in pain. She stares skyward, as if in supplication, unable to lift or lower her head without assistance. She can no longer speak, and communicates by blinking—one for no, two for yes. Elvira walks to her side and stops when the child combs her hanging fingers through her hair.
“Elvira’s here, you want to pet her?” Sherri asks.
Guadalupe double blinks.
“I think she missed you, did you miss her?”
Two more blinks and a smile.
The grating whirl of a suction device begins and a nurse places a small tube inside the mouth of one of Guadalupe’s classmates. The routine procedure keeps the child from choking on her own saliva. At the same time, an older child spills a box of toys that clangs with a ruckus, and the blind autistic boy spins his mixing bowl. Elvira doesn’t stir. It’s all part of the job.
 At John F. Kennedy Memorial Hospital in Indio, a team of burgundy-clad nurses pauses in the corridor to ooh and ah. Many address Elvira by name. The hospital’s first Animal Assisted Therapy, or AAT, dog, she’s famous here. She even dons a plastic name badge, which hangs from her blue therapy dog vest.
Judith Lewis, a volunteer at the hospital, strokes Elvira, then stands aside and watches the handful of nurses linger behind to do the same.
“They’re not just therapeutic for the patients,” says Lewis. “Sometimes the nurses work 12 to 15 hour shifts. The dogs are great stress relievers.”
Lewis knows the simple act of petting an animal reduces a person’s blood pressure. It also boosts the immune system. We pet, we smile. We smile and our brains release endorphins, homegrown painkillers and serotonin, a chemical neurotransmitter that elevates our mood and relieves depression.
Before entering a room, Sherri peers in and gently knocks on an open door. “Would anyone like a visit from a therapy dog?”
 An emaciated woman with salt-white hair nods. Elvira approaches the side of her bed. The woman strokes her with curved hands, her fingers more bone than flesh. She says she misses her cat and asks if Elvira gets along with felines.
In the next room, Elvira greets a man with a thick Latino accent. He appears impressed but cautious. He’s never seen a dog like her before and wants to know what kind she is.
“A poodle? She’s so big.”
Sherri points out Elvira’s webbed feet.
“Standard poodles were originally bred as hunting dogs to retrieve ducks and geese from the water. All poodles started out this big,” she explains, a reference to the miniature and diminutive toy varieties. “They’re actually German, not French.”
Elvira enters the intensive care unit, an area generally off limits to therapy animals. A doctor welcomes her in and escorts her to a man lying in bed beneath a white sheet. His skin is pocked with sunspots, his eyes glazed and worn. Clear tubes stretch across his cheeks, pumping oxygen in through his nose.
“Some people are here with a therapy dog,” the doctor says.
The patient, a retired pediatrician, appears to be in his 80s. He smiles. “She’s a beauty,” he says, petting her. “Oh, I miss dogs.”
 In addition to lowering the patient’s blood pressure, Elvira helps to reduce his cholesterol and triglyceride levels, both agents of coronary diseases. If he doesn’t have a pet at home, he would be wise to adopt one. More than spousal support or the presence of extended family, studies show pet ownership is the best indicator for predicting whether heart attack patients will have a successful long-term recovery.
At JFK, as in other hospitals, therapy dogs often work in pairs. More dogs mean more patients get a visit. Today Elvira has teamed with Danica, a petite golden retriever whom Marilyn Petty-John, her owner, calls Daneeka, in case a child has the same name. When she’s not escorting Danica on therapy visits, Marilyn raises puppies for Canine Companions for Independence in Oceanside, which trains working dogs for the disabled.
Therapy dogs and working dogs serve distinct needs. Working dogs are bred and trained (often at a cost of $50,000 and higher) to serve one person exclusively. The American Disabilities Act provides access for working dogs and their owners to all public and commercial places. Not so for therapy dogs. Foster parents like Marilyn spend a year and a half training puppies more than 30 commands, including going to the bathroom on cue—anywhere, on any surface.
 Therapy dogs, on the other hand, “are more like generalists,” Sherri says. Where working dogs serve a specific owner, therapy animals serve the masses. While less intense, training is also essential for therapy dogs.
Prior to being accepted as an Animal Samaritans’ therapy dog, Elvira had to pass behavior evaluations, generally held on the last Saturday of each month from September through May. AAT candidates are tested on 16 criterions. Does the animal react fearfully to fast hand movements? How does she respond to canes and walkers? Loud noises? Can she walk calmly on a loose leash?
“Aggression toward other dogs is the number one reason animals fail,” says Lori Wainio, who oversees behavior testing for Animal Samaritans’ AAT program. A former exotic animal trainer with the Cincinnati Zoo and The Living Desert Zoo & Gardens in Palm Desert, she uses the same techniques on dogs as she did on animals from the wild. The conscientious animal trainer and founder of Dream Dogs International in La Quinta, she is adamantly opposed to harsh techniques of any kind. “You can’t put a choke chain on a tiger and say, ‘Here kitty, no kitty.’ It doesn’t work.” Her secret? Positive reinforcement. Lots of it.
Elvira’s next stop is the Oasis Mental Health Treatment Center. Here, crisis intervention is commonplace, suicide assessments routine. No cameras allowed. A nurse sends Elvira and Sherri through a set of double doors.  As I wait outside the visiting room, I’m struck by the normalcy of the place. I see no straightjackets, no mumbling catatonics, not one burly nurse wielding a syringe.
Only seven patients, all of them women, sit in the spacious waiting room. It’s after lunch and most of the men are reportedly still sleeping off their cheeseburgers. The room is long and narrow, with rows of seats facing inward, like an airport boarding area. A gregarious woman with ratty yellow hair, alligator skin and globs of eyeliner is stroking Elvira. She smiles, exposing a dearth of teeth.
She asks my name and extends her hand with a raspy, “Pleasure to meet you.” After a bit of small talk, she confesses to hard times on the street and the power of addiction. Elvira gently burrows her head into the woman’s side for more petting. Laughing, the woman leans down and enjoys a lick on the chin. Elvira shows no judgment, no bias. People are people.
 Several residents have rooms that enter directly into the rectangle. One is a bearded man with flowing white hair. He emerges from his room and sits on the nearest sofa with the poise of a seasoned yogi. He speaks to no one but Elvira. I’m told that’s how it’s been since he came here. Elvira jumps onto the open seat beside him, and the man enjoys some coveted one-on-one time with her. She eventually moves to the next patient, and the man quietly sneaks back into his room.
Compared to traditional hospitals, visitors here are rare. Schizophrenia and substance abuse have a way of severing the ties of our social and family networks. Several years ago on Christmas Eve, Sherri brought Elvira to the center during evening visiting hours. There were decorations, a Christmas tree and lots of petting. One hour and more than a dozen patients later, the music ended and the residents returned to their rooms. Elvira was their only visitor.
In addition to special needs classrooms and hospitals, Animal Samaritans’ AAT dogs visit nursing homes and assisted living facilities, easing residents’ loneliness and depression.
Ideal AAT animals are smart, accepting to strangers, non-aggressive toward other dogs, and have an innate desire to work. After evaluating each animal’s personality, size and age, Lori and Sherri will recommend the best locations for a dog to visit. The program is free; however, pet owners pay a nominal fee for their animal’s therapy vest.

To learn more about Animal Samaritans’ AAT program, contact Animal Samaritans SPCA at 760.343.0837 or view their website at animalsamaritans.org