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Sickness and death scare me. But as a writer who spends a lot of time alone, I figured it would do me good to get out and touch a few other lives on a regular basis. So there I was, standing near a nursing home in a green Los Angeles neighborhood with my eight-year-old Lab mix, Ella. She and I were about to begin our first joy-spreading assignment, and I was a nervous wreck. We'd done our training at a Santa Monica nonprofit group that oversees therapy teams in our area, but now here was the real thing. As we walked up the steps to the optimistically named Country Villa Westwood, I paused."Thanks for being here," I whispered to Ella as she got busy sniffing the carpet. Near the entrance to the nursing home, the activity coordinator, Flor Guerrero, greeted us and invited us to wander the hallways. We were to pop into any rooms with open doors, she said. We didn't need an escort or supervision. "Everyone will be happy to see you," she promised.
I adjusted Ella's red service vest and checked her collar. I took a deep breath. "Okay, girl," I said. "Let's go meet some new people."
I had found Ella in Runyon Canyon Park on July 1, 1994, a week after I'd moved to Los Angeles from New York. She was walking next to a man who said he'd discovered her behind a doughnut shop two days earlier. He asked me if I wanted her. I couldn't believe it. She was gorgeous and healthy-looking, a pup with paws too big for her body and white eyelashes. When I started cooing to her, she put sloppy kisses on my nose.
I said softly, "Hello, beautiful puppy. Are you looking for a home?"
She gave an excited yelp and began to lick my neck. "I think it's love," said her rescuer, laughing.
Ella has loved and been loved by hundreds of people since that day -- friends, family, neighbors and people I've passed on the street. I started to get an idea. Maybe Ella and I could spread joy to people who really needed it, not just random strangers.
I had read about therapy dogs. They helped ailing patients recover in ways small and large, as profound as discovering lost motor skills or as simple as smiling. I thought Ella might do a little of that. And me too.
Doing some research, I learned that Ella and I needed to be certified by an accredited organization that insured the teams and arranged visits. The process involved attending workshops, passing a home-study course, and completing a behavioral test. So Ella and I went through the paces. Sitting, staying, lying down, walking through a crowd, remaining in place despite loud noises -- these were easy. Ignoring a misplaced dog cookie, being approached by someone on crutches -- these were also part of Ella's standard repertoire.
There was just one tiny problem. She had to get along with other dogs, something she wasn't good at. No, something she was terrible at. Great Dane near our front yard? She'd go ballistic. Once, I welcomed a stray mutt named Louis into our home. It was not a duet Ella appreciated. With hackle-raising and fang-bearing, she suggested to Louis that she did not consider their relationship "A Fine Romance." In fact, if she had her way, she would propose "Let's Call the Whole Thing Off" -- which I did, a few months later, when I found another home for him. Ella shed no tears.
Maybe other dogs just made her jealous. So when our evaluator, Daniela, told me that Ella had to pass this test, I began to sweat.
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