Excerpt from: Take One Dog and Call Me in the Morning: Amazing Therapy Dogs, Prescription for Healing
Letting Go
The Golden Retriever looked down into the swimming pool, paws extended over the edge, intently watching as her ball on a rope floated away. Her head and shoulders thrust forward, wanting desperately to retrieve it, but not at the risk of leaping into the air with an uncertain landing. The adolescents of 2 South called, “Holly, get it.” She had strong prey drive, and would chase anything moving: a leaf, a ball, a bird, a squirrel (her favorite) or my slipper tossed across the room. Her body rocked precariously on the ledge as if she was about to let go and take the plunge. But then she backed up, and looked at me with that helpless stare.
It was summer now; the days were warm, and the outdoor swimming pool of the Psychiatric Hospital was open. Gail, the Recreational Therapist invited me to conduct Animal-Assisted therapy sessions at the pool instead of in the hospital. I accepted these invitations gladly. After all, I had more than just a therapy dog. She was a retriever; bred to leap into ice cold streams or lakes, mouth the bird shot out of the sky without injuring a single feather, swim to the shore and carry it to her companion, the hunter, presenting an unscathed bird. I had a water dog.
With a swim-suit underneath my slacks and UCLA blue jacket, I came fully prepared to get wet along with Holly. Gail met us on the pool deck looking like a life guard with a whistle around her neck. The kids were already splashing around, some playing volley-ball with a freedom of movement they didn’t show inside the walls of the hospital. The water seemed to calm and soothe them.
When I unhooked Holly’s collar with its jangling tags, and untied her UCLA blue and gold scarf, her behavior also changed. She was no longer the calm therapy dog who worked in adolescent psychiatry. She became excited and ran her joyous ‘victory laps’ all around the pool perimeter. Removing her ‘uniform’ signaled that she was ‘off duty,’ and no longer a working dog. The sight and sounds of water added to her frenzy and I had to hold onto her neck with both hands to restrain her.
The PAC director, always concerned about safety issues, warned that the kids couldn’t be in the water at the same time as the dog. She recalled nearly drowning when a swimming dog accidentally placed a paw on her shoulder, pulling her underwater. I assumed hospital insurance would not cover a drowning during a group therapy session and made the disappointing announcement. The kids groaned and booed. “I want to swim with Holly” yelled Jason, a ten year old with attention-deficit disorder and hyperactivity, as he circled the pool in loud protest. I had to be as creative as possible to make the session work.
I asked the teen-agers to wait on the steps of the pool for their turn to throw a ball attached to a rope as far as they could into the water. Holly was to swim out and retrieve it, hold it in her mouth, then swim back and return it to the thrower. The first ball was tossed out by Eddie, a wiry eleven-year-old, so nervous about being first, he dropped the rope behind him twice before he finally figured out how to swing it in the air and hurl it forward. The ball landed at the deep end of the pool. Good throw! Holly never took her eyes off it. I released her and gave her the signal, “Holly get it.” The dog raced down the steps, pushing off the last one, and treading smoothly through the pool’s blue water until she reached the floating ball. She mouthed the rope attached to it, and with the ball dangling, turned back toward Eddie, holding onto her prey without so much as a splash.
“Look at her feet, she swims like a duck” he called, watching her glide through the water. Reaching the steps, she dropped the ball into his waiting hand. Everyone applauded. Eddie smiled proudly at his accomplishment. Most of the kids had never seen a retriever’s feet padding through water with the ease and grace of an amphibian with webbed toes. “She was born to swim” I said. But not in a pool!
At the beach, Holly would gleefully race from the sand into the surf, chasing her yellow tennis ball, and when her feet could no longer touch the ocean floor, she would propel those athletic legs through the water like paddles, undaunted by the turbulent tides, disappearing under a crashing wave, but never losing track of her prize. She would reach for it with her mouth, turn and swim back to me, drop it into my hand, and then stand in the shallow water, poised for the next throw.
In a pool, she had to learn to use the concrete steps to get out. She would swim in circles, getting tired as she searched for the non-existing shoreline. The kids sat on the steps calling “Holly, here” and she soon discovered which way was out.
But the one activity that still eluded her was jumping off the ledge of the pool, a drop of several feet into the water. She would stand there staring at the ball drifting away, while we all yelled in chorus, “Holly jump.” Her head turned toward me, and her eyes asked for help with this dilemma. Holly looked at me for everything she wanted. I was the keeper of her ball, toys, food and water, her walks, her comfort or discomfort, her freedom or confinement. As a pack leader, I was responsible for her survival. If she hurt her paw, she would hold it up and look at me pathetically. It was not surprising that as the bobbing ball moved further away from her, she stared hard at me. But this time I did not help her. She would have to jump into the pool and retrieve it for herself. She had to face her fears just like the rest of us.
In adolescent psychiatry, fear was a powerful motivator. Angry and defiant at 12 years old, Rose usually sauntered into the group sessions ready for battle, her fists clenched and legs poised to kick anyone in her way. She would be removed within minutes of her tirade, fighting and swearing at the staff as she was taken back to her room. She was never present long enough to interact with Holly Go Lightly, the canine therapist. Typically, Rose stayed hidden away avoiding all social contact.
But in the swimming pool, Rose took on a different demeanor. Floating on her back, isolated from the group, she appeared peaceful without the ‘oppositional-defiance’ that described her behaviors in clinical reports that stated she would stand when told to sit and throw her books on the floor when asked to open one. The water was therapeutic for her. There was freedom here. She didn’t show the aggression that had landed her in a psychiatric residential setting. She had been expelled from public school and labeled a ‘conduct disorder’ because she fought with everyone and incited large brawls on the school playground. In class and in therapy she refused to follow rules and procedures, walking out, and spewing obscenities at her teachers and therapists alike.
While Holly stood at the edge of the pool testing her confidence, I seized the opportunity to talk with the group about being afraid. They knew about fear; Rose especially. I learned that she had suffered physical abuse from the man her mother lived with. Rose’s mother was unable to control her behavior and described her simply as a “bad kid.” Protective services finally removed her from the home, and since she was out of control, referred her for psychiatric evaluation and treatment. With nowhere to go, and little change in her behavior, she was still in residence at the hospital.
I didn’t ask them to talk about what made them afraid. My technique was always to use Holly as the facilitator; keeping the focus on the child’s relationship with the dog.
“How can we help Holly to overcome her fear of jumping into the pool?’ I asked. Several children spoke up. Alan, a l5-year-old said, “Throw her in….she’ll get over it.” An older girl, Barbara, about l7, said, “No, just pet her and be kind to her, and she’ll act brave.” Unknowingly, they were talking about how they dealt with their own demons. Alan showed bravado, suppressing any doubts or anxieties he might feel. It was difficult to relate to him, so protective was his cover. Barbara was withdrawn. She needed special attention before she would engage in most activities. She did little on her own without someone to encourage her.
Rose spoke for herself.
“Well, we need to show her that it’s safe.” This was an answer made in heaven, and coming from Rose, it was profound. I jumped at the chance to use it.
“How can we show her it’s safe?” I asked.
“She can watch me,” she explained, and in that instant, the young girl stood next to Holly at the edge of the pool and leaped into the air as if on a diving board, coming down feet first, straight into the water, splashing everyone around her. Now she began paddling about, watching the dog’s reaction. Holly just stared. One at a time, the other kids followed Rose’s lead, showing the dog how it was done, until the entire group of nine children had landed in the pool splashing and thrashing around in the water. Some of them swam back and forth in front of Holly calling her name. The retriever inched forward, her paws hanging over the edge, yet still–she hesitated.
They began calling in unison “Holly jump. Holly jump.” Rose grabbed the roped ball, threw it across the pool and swam after it, modeling for Holly what she was supposed to do, while the kids continued chanting, “Holly-jump.” She leaned over and stared straight down as if she was measuring the height of the drop into the water. She was almost in. Still they coaxed her. It had become a group project, and it was thrilling to see these children, usually isolated and depressed, now smiling and calling and encouraging this hesitant and fearful dog to take the risk and to let go. They were working together as a group. The therapist was speechless. She grabbed my hand, squeezing it. Not only was Rose part of the group effort, she was leading it. Socialization was the primary goal for these teen-agers, and they were achieving it.
Finally Holly could wait no longer. She let go of the safety of her concrete perch, and like a bird leaving the nest, dove into the air and hit the water with a resounding splash. She sailed after her ball as if it was alive. The kids cheered. The staff cheered. Even the pool manager cheered. Holly captured the prey, the object of her courage, scooped it up with her mouth, and headed toward the steps of the pool, where Rose sat waiting for her. She released the ball from her mouth to Rose’s hand, following the protocol of retrieving to the thrower. In those few moments, Rose had become the leader of the pack. Holly’s mouth parted to reveal the famous golden grin as if she knew she had fulfilled her legacy as a retriever. She had conquered her fear of leaping from a high ground into a body of water, a skill that all working retrievers must have. I underlined this occasion.
“You taught her not to be afraid.” I called out to the group. Every child smiled with pride.
And then I looked at Rose, sitting on the steps, with hair soaked and glowing sun-burned face. Her arms were wrapped tightly around the neck of the wet dog, her face nuzzled against Holly’s. I said directly to her.
“And you showed her how to do it,–just let go and trust the water.”
“Yes,” she smiled, “I showed her it was safe.” Rose turned and kissed the top of Holly’s head, right on the oval bump that golden enthusiasts call ‘the smart bump.’ The kids splashed their way over to this pair, and proceeded to pet and hug the dog, telling her how brave she had been. There was lots of chatter, and laughter and celebration. We would all remember this day. The kids from 2 south had become empowered by this simple act of bravery by an animal, paired with the cooperative effort of the group. The water was a metaphor for facing their fears. In helping Holly let go and jump, perhaps they would find their own courage.
After that day, the therapy dog was willing to jump into the pool without all the hullabaloo. Just the throw of her beloved tennis ball and the words, “Holly jump” and she would leap into the water with confidence. Rose left her room to come to all of our therapy sessions in the hospital or at the pool, to make sure that Holly was not nervous or afraid anymore.
