My (now ex) wife forced me into bringing a dog home from the local Pound. She's the color of an old osage bow darkened by plenty of time in the field in the sun. A mutt of no breed in particular and every dog in general. I call her a French Canardly. Canard means duck in French, and her daddy ducked in the yard late one night and not even the French can'ardly guess what breed she comes from. And it rubs off, too. Ask me what breed she is and I say with a french accent, "I give up!"
I was having trouble getting her to understand basic commands so off to the local Kennel Club Obedience Classes. Only mutt in class and graduated top of the class. Went back a few months later for the second level of Obedience and again the only mutt and top of her class again. At the suggestion of a trainer I got Scully into Therapy Dog Training and she passed with flying colors on her first test. We registered with Therapy Dogs, Inc and she was covered by a $3 million dollar insurance policy (I have yet to find an insurance policy that will guarantee I don't bite).
The day we got the Therapy Dog card we stopped by a local nursing home, 2 minutes with the head administrator and the activities director we were invited in to visit. One of the first people we met came wheeling out of his private room only to start cussing out my dog for poor behavior, being filthy, ugly, and on-and-on!!! Meanwhile he was stroking her head and her muzzle with gentle hands and staring into her huge brown eyes. The activity director stood behind the man's wheelchair with tears pouring down her cheeks. When he finally let Scully go and wheeled off she grabbed me by the arm hard enough to leave marks and telling me in no uncertain terms that we would be back every week. She explained that this man had stopped speaking three years before and had sunk into a depression that just couldn't be broken, these were his first words in three years.
Ed and I became great friends over the years. Scully and I were invited to sit with the family at his funeral. He told everyone that would listen that I was just taking care of 'his' dog for him.
She's about 16 now, deaf, milky eyes, and is rapidly losing strength in her back legs. She can't make it thru a whole nite without a trip outside and I'm scheduling an appointment with the vet to discuss what is soon to come. No regrets.
