Animal-Assisted Therapy

One beautiful Autum day, the week of Thanksgiving some twenty-five years ago, a client I had seen for several years, and who would not, could not, pay her now enormous bill, arrived for her session carrying an intricately woven basket. As I was about to compliment her on the clearly hand-woven basket, a small, round fuzzy, caterpillar-like thing caught my eye. I peered into the basket, puzzled by this motionless organism. The client explained the basket contained a black, shih tzu puppy, which she planned to offer as payment for my counseling services. Thank you, but no thank you. My husband and I had a gorgeous Springer Spaniel named Kady, and a handsome (he thought so) “found” cat my son had named King Louis. We were done! I already spent more on my animals than on my children. But it just so happened (I know nothing just happens—synchronicity was in play), my younger son was in the office on what proved to be a monumental, life-changing day. “Aw Mom, can we have it? I’ll take care of him. I promise.” It was on that day that Gizmo came to live with us, or to be more precise, arrived to rule our family. I watched and waited for this odd-looking creature to do something, anything, but he didn’t move, or whine, or eat, or poop. He did nothing, absolutely nothing! By Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, I recognized something was terribly wrong. I scheduled an appointment with our local vet, and sent my “I’ll take care of him, I promise” son and his friend off with the offending entity. As it turned out, Gizmo was dying. I had been gifted a pup with Brachycephalic Obstructive Airway Syndrome, i.e., he was suffocating. Emergency surgery was scheduled for the next day, Saturday, and yet another two thousand dollars went out the door. Gizmo the Great had come to stay.

Animal-Assisted Therapy (AAT) was just becoming recognized as a viable addition to the counseling room but, not surprisingly, had actually begun centuries earlier. In 1796, in York, England, animals were introduced into an asylum’s therapeutic milieu. Known as the first in the world to offer “moral treatment” to individuals with mental health challenges, “The Retreat” introduced small domestic animals, i.e., lambs, rabbits, poultry, and hawks, into the public rooms and grounds of the treatment center. The presence of these animals was believed to provide “innocent pleasure” and improve “patient morale.” The patients were encouraged to wander the grounds and interact with these animals, who were seen as tools to awaken “social and benevolent feelings.” The patients’ agitation and distress were reduced simply by the presence of these animals, and the power of the human-animal bond in mental health was acknowledged. Sixty years later, Florence Nightengale wrote that small pets in the sick rooms were excellent companions to ill patients, drawing them closer to nature which was thought to have healing properties. Sigmund Freud had a Chow-Chow named Jofi, whom Freud believed had a calming effect on his patients, and who served as a timekeeper for each session. Jofi also had diagnostic skills. He would sit across the room if the patient was tense and anxious but move closer if they were depressed. Freud believed Jofi could judge the patient’s character. Carl Jung was known for his love of dogs and often commented on their ability of offer “pure love without the complexity of human relationships.” Smoky, a Yorkshire Terrier who served in WWII, visited wounded soldiers in the hospital, bringing them companionship, comfort, and joy. Levinson, known as the Father of Animal-Assisted Therapy, had a dog named Jingles, who helped shy, reluctant and withdrawn children communicate more effectively.

The holidays passed, the family scattered to their respective schools, and Gizzie went to work. He ushered clients in and out of my counseling office, insisted the secretary place him on her desk so she could rub his back with a pencil, and welcomed clients as they approached the desk to sign-in. This is where the entitled little beast developed what became known as the “Gizzie Stomp.” (Did I mention he was pretentious?) Gizzie was the very first fuzzy butt to impact my professional life and change my life. One day, a Saturday I believe, a new client arrived for her first session-a well-dressed, middle-aged women whose anxiety was beyond apparent. I welcomed her and asked how I could be of help. She said nothing. I said nothing. I sat, silent, recalling from some graduate class how silence could indeed be therapeutic. Gizzie, who was enjoying a late-Autumn sunbeam, hopped on the couch and nestled in beside this hurting woman. The awkward silence continued. And no surprise here, the client began rubbing Gizzie’s back. My first thought, to be honest, was, “The little shit. The things he will do for a backrub.” As I observed, frantically running therapeutic interventions through my head, she visibly relaxed and continued to stroke the tiny trickster’s back. This continued for a full 50 minutes, at which point Gizzie, apparently satisfied with his services, hopped down to commence his ushering. The client stood, smiled, and stated, “Thank you, I feel much better.” She left the office and was never seen again. From that point, our office welcomed any manner of beasts—a Chihuahua who traveled in his mama’s purse, and a St Bernard who Gizzie attempted to engage as a playmate. We had a squirrel, bunny, bird, coral-colored snake, and my favorite, an iguana on a red leash. I was beginning to grasp the power of the human-animal bond in the healing process. A second shih tzu, Kodah, joined our happy band. (He greeted our clients at the front door, ushered them into my office, and immediately took his place under the wing back chair—snoozing.) Gizzie and his buddy, Kodah, continued as worker bees. Days passed into weeks, months, and then years. And that day came, that dreaded day when Gizzie became ill, or at least I assumed he was ill. A kindly vet agreed to see us after work. She inserted multiple acupuncture needles into my little boy’s body, while his buddy, Kodah, watched suspiciously from the safety of my arms. After a few minutes of silence (not this again), she turned to me with, “He’s tired. He doesn’t want to go to work anymore. He wants to be with grandpa and sit under the woodstove at the farm.” And so, it was. From that time onward, Gizzie took care of grandpa, joining him in the mornings beside that woodstove. Then in the afternoons, when grandpa returned to his hospital bed, he insisted we place Gizzie in the wheelchair and roll him up to the hospital bed—close enough to, you guessed it, rub his back.

More to come. . .