But our “failure” had a bright side because it gave us time to grow together as a team.  Perhaps the best command I worked was one I learned from Ilza Barron:  She was readying a dog for show as I hovered about.  Ilza, always too polite to push people away, simply placed herself between me and the dog, patted its back and said “Calm”.  The dog stood ready, completely ignoring everyone other than Ilza.  Although there are over 20 commands necessary to pass the AAT exam including basics such as heal, sit, down, stay, leave it, and come, for me and Max, our most important command is “calm”.

   In the hospital, it’s not just the sound of a frantic family, or the whiplash scurry of doctors, nurses & EMTs, (all of which can easily distract a dog), it’s the noise of a gurney in the middle of an 8’ hall, or the blare “Code Blue” inside an elevator.  These things make me jumpy.  But for a dog, granted the trusting approval of hospital staff to walk the halls without incident – no barking or growling or peeing or playing or pulling or pestering or pooping or jumping, the busy trauma of a hospital must become as normal as trees and grass.  And forget about treats to make all of this happen.  The smells of alcohol and benzene, puke, urine, blood, even death, all must become one and the same as the smell of chicken or lamb or carrots or kibble.

     Every article about AAT seems to focus on happy, smiling children, or grateful elders, or wheelchair-bound teens.  But, not much is said about the sick babies, crying parents, red-eyed nurses, brusque doctors, or brave kids going through embarrassing dialysis or painful chemotherapy treatments.   At those moments, seeing a dog is not just a welcome relief; it’s almost astonishing.  To this day, all hospitals have areas where dogs simply are not allowed.  But Max & I are regulars in the pediatric intensive care unit at Childrens Hospital Los Angeles.  We visit doctor-selected kids who are suffering extreme pain.  At other hospitals, we spend time with high risk pregnant women who along with their nervous husbands are confined to the hospital for months before birth.  Other patients are undergoing chemotherapy, waiting for a transplant, or recovering from cardiovascular surgery.  Some patients have no one and Max is their first visitor.  The women feel ugly and the men embarrassed; after all, tubes and gowns and Jello with ice chips aren’t signs of home and normalcy.

So, what does a good therapy dog team do when visiting a hospital?  We know the medical results:  the presence of a dog sends a signal to the brain which releases an enzyme causing a sense of relaxed euphoria.  This, in turn, lowers blood pressure and heart rate which, in turn, elevates the immune system.  In effect, dogs assist in creating a cycle of better health and well-being.

     To achieve this result, as a dog team, we enter the room quietly; ask the patient “would you like a visit from a dog?”; sanitize patient hands before touching; cover the chair or bed with clean sheets; move tubes