Yesterday was a
Sunday like any other - I was working on my Masters thesis and transferring
various loads of laundry from washer to dryer and contemplating vacuuming my
house instead of watching The Golden
Girls marathon on tvland (The Golden
Girls won, by the way) when I remembered that my dog Beckett was out of his
favorite beef-flavored treats. Since there is very little Beckett can eat
thanks to a finicky digestive system that is probably the combined result of
his slow-to-develop “runt of the litter” organs and my reliance on the most
natural (read: most expensive) foods and treats on the market, I didn't want
him to go through the week without the little freeze dried chews he looks
forward to whenever he goes into his crate. So, even though I contemplated
staying inside where it was warm and quiet, my “mommy guilt” got the best of me
as I grabbed Beckett’s harness and leash. “Wanna go to Petco?” I asked. An
unnecessary question, since I could barely get him into the car he was so
excited.
The second we walked into the store,
Beckett, who has memorized the layout and is, like me, a creature of habit,
dragged me over to our regular first stop: the ferret cages. We always visit
them first, and he loves to stand on his hind legs and peer at them while they
slither around and play with each other and pretend to ignore him. He whines
and paws and seems to think they can’t see him, though I suspect they fancy
themselves better than him, as they turn their little noses up toward the
ceiling and go about the business of simply being ferrets. As usual, though,
his attention for the ferrets was short-lived yesterday, and within minutes he
was pulling me toward the bird cages. Once again, he was on his hind legs,
front paws in the air, head titling from side to side whenever the birds
tweeted at him. I can never tell whether he is happy or sad to be outside their
cages while they are locked inside, and I often wonder, when I look at him
wanting so desperately to play with his little friends, which side seems more
like captivity to him.
After Beckett sniffed a cute little
cocker spaniel and failed to amuse an older, lethargic looking golden
retriever, I finally coaxed him into the “cookie aisle” where he enjoyed his
usual sniffing expedition of all the rawhides and meat-scented chewy things
displayed at nose level. While I searched for the correct package and
contemplated a new brand of biscuits, Beckett smelled and groaned and did his
best to lick everything his little tongue could reach. Finally, I pulled the
regular cookies off the shelf and did my best to tug Beckett toward the cash
register. As usual, I had planned on a quick in-and-out, and, as usual, Beckett
had planned on tasting everything (and everyone) he could reach.
As we headed to the front of the
store, I stopped to price a package of squeaky toys hanging on the end of an
aisle. And that was when a woman who looked to be about my age approached
me.
“He’s
a sweet dog,” she smiled and nodded toward Beckett, who by then was frantically
pawing at the pork bones just beyond his paws.
I
thanked her, always worrying that I sound immodest when I admit that I actually
do, in fact, have the sweetest dog on the planet.
“Is
he good with children?” she went on. I wasn't expecting that question, so I
stuttered a bit before responding that, yes, he loves children, though he tends
to jump and lick any person short enough to serve as a potential playmate, so
perhaps not all children would agree.
“My
little boy … was wondering ...” she hesitated. “He asked if he could pet the
black doggie. So I just thought I’d see …”
“Oh
of course he can,” I replied, saving her from what seemed to be an awkwardness
I couldn't quite understand. After all, I was dressed in my Sunday sweat pants,
unimposing pony tail, feeling relaxed and approachable and open to conversation
(which isn't always the case, I admit with some regret), so I wasn't sure where
her discomfort was coming from.
Until
her son walked around the corner. He was a beautiful little boy dressed in
overalls and a turtleneck. He had a sweet, diamond-shaped face that looked too
small for his large, square glasses. And he would not – could not – look at me,
even when I said hello. He did, however, fix his gaze on Beckett while he
pointed and repeated “pet the black doggie, pet the black doggie, pet the black
doggie” over and over and over again.
“Yes,”
his mother said. “You can pet the black doggie.”
Then
she looked at me, seeming to struggle for words, until she was finally able to
explain that her adorable son, who is seven, was diagnosed with autism several
years ago. She and her husband had been wanting to get him a therapy dog, but
he was so terrified of dogs that he become inconsolable and often aggressive
anytime a dog was nearby. On the advice of one of the child’s counselors, the
parents had been bringing him to Petco as a way of gradually exposing him to
leashed, well-behaved dogs in a controlled environment, and so far, the mother
told me, it had been working pretty well. The little boy could now walk through
the store, could see and hear and even be in the same aisle with another dog,
and not get upset. “Most of the time,” she added with a chuckle.
“But
your dog is the first one he has ever wanted to pet,” she almost
whispered. She was trying not to cry,
and, in all honesty, I was fighting back some tears myself.
“How wonderful,” was all I could manage,
before squatting a safe distance away from the little boy so I didn't crowd
him. “His name is Beckett,” I said. “And he would love for you to pet
him.”
Inside
I was panicking. At seventeen months of age, Beckett is just now coming to
terms with some of his training – probably because, after fifteen months as Beckett’s
mom, I have finally learned how to train him (which first involved training
myself). Even so, he still suffers occasional lapses, particularly in public
places where he is overstimulated and more than willing to suffer the
inevitable “Time Out” later for the sheer pleasure of misbehaving now. But this
moment was critical. A lapse for Beckett could become a lifelong fear of dogs
that this little boy would always trace back to today.
As
I thought about all the things that could go wrong in this scenario, imagining
every possible negative outcome, I suddenly realized that Beckett had stopped
sniffing and pulling and begging for the bones and toys spilling out of the
rack above him. Instead, while I had been talking to the boy’s mother, Beckett
had been sitting perfectly still, staring at the little boy, the little boy
staring back at him, both of them looking away from each other now and then, but
neither of them reacting to anything outside of whatever communication they
were having. Not even when other dogs walked by.
So
I did the only thing I could do. I knelt beside Beckett and said “It’s ok, buddy. Approach.” I was ready to pull his leash
tight if he started to jump, but I could see, without a doubt, that he knew. He
couldn't jump. Not this time. And he wouldn't. Instead, he approached the
little boy slowly, gently, pushing his nose toward the tiny, outstretched hand
until, eventually, child and dog touched. The little boy wiggled his fingers
and Beckett licked them. The little boy waved his arms and Beckett followed
them. The little boy crossed his legs and Beckett laid beside them. The little
boy put his hands in his lap, and Beckett rested his head on top of them.
And
we stayed like this, in silence, for twenty minutes. There was nothing else in
the world except a mother and me, watching a little boy stroke Beckett’s head,
his back, his tail.
“We've
been working on this for years,” was all she seemed able to say. Though she was
doing better than I was, as I stood there speechless, relieved, proud,
inspired.
Before
we parted, I gave the mom my phone number and told her that I would be happy to
arrange get-togethers between her son and Beckett, if she thought it would
help. She thanked me and assured me that she would call. And I hope she does.
But more than anything, I hope that this beautiful little boy will now be open
to the possibility of a therapy dog, and I like to think, if he is, that maybe
Beckett had something to do with that.
It's
funny how, even though instinct never fails me when I pay attention to it, I often
doubt myself and others, always letting my fears interrupt the natural flow of
things. Thankfully, Beckett knew what to do yesterday. And, despite my panic, I
knew it was time to let him try. Even the mother who approached me knew that,
scary as it was, she had to let her son pet a strange dog, and she had to have
faith that he would be alright. Still, it was the little boy who taught all of
us to put away our worries and our preconceived ideas and our fears about what
may have happened in the past. To simply experience that single moment, when his
instincts told him that Beckett was safe, when his instincts told me that all I
needed to do was believe in my dog and trust that he would do the right thing. I
am so glad I listened.
Guest Post, Heather Haskins
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