Therapy dogs

Whitney met Hanni, the grand dame of Seeing Eye dogs, this week! The circumstances were not happy ones –we were in Urbana for a funeral. The meeting of the dogs helped take our minds off

There’s Whit with Hanni’s bone.

the sadness for a bit, though, and we were very grateful.

I’ve been to two funerals the past couple weeks, and Whitney came along to both. She could have easily stayed home — neighbors drove us to the first funeral, and we went with my husband Mike to the second. My friends, and of course Mike, were willing to lend an elbow to lead me through the funeral homes, but experience with previous Seeing Eye dogs taught me that having a dog there at wakes and funerals sometimes comforts fellow mourners. I am not about to claim Whitney qualifies as a “therapy dog,” but I do know she can serve as a distraction. And sometimes, when things are particularly sad, a distraction is, well, just right.

Speaking of just right, we stayed with our friends Steven and Nancy after this week’s memorial service – they are the wonderful couple who adopted Hanni. Hanni and Whitney are both Golden Retriever/Labrador crosses, but I had no trouble telling them apart. Hanni is a tail wagger –you know it’s her when you hear a thump, thump, thump on the floor. She’s taken on more and more of her Golden Retriever side in these matronly years: she wears her hair long and full now. Her coat matches her personality: fluffy.

Whitney, on the other hand, is a licker. When you lean down to pet her, she’ll give you a kiss before rolling over for a belly rub. And at two years old, Whitney is a lean mean machine, showing signs of childish jealousy around her predecessor.

Example: When Hanni walked into hour room Tuesday morning, Whitney immediately sprang up from a calm, quiet repose and grabbed one of Hanni’s bones, chewing it ferociously, trying to taunt her. Hanni nuzzled up to me, thumped her tail, and, I imagine, rolled her eyes.

Hanni ignored Whitney completely, choosing instead to watch me go through my pre-departure rituals –zipping my suitcase, finding my shoes. When she saw me pick up Whitney’s harness, she started jumping for joy. Jumping and jumping and jumping. It’d been a long time since Hanni had seen a harness, but she remembered exactly what it was. Hanni is 12 years old now, an arthritic retiree, but she was ready to go back to work if I needed her.

Aging. Aches. Illness. Disease. Dying. It all sure can seem senseless at times. As Mike puts it, “Who do we see about this?!” The past couple weeks have served to remind me just how delicate life is, and how fortunate I am to share my time here with such incredible people — and creatures. I’m off with one of those creatures now — it’s in the 90s, and while well-deserving retirees Hanni and Harper relax at home with their new people, energetic Whitney will guide me to the pool. Don’t worry, though, Whitney knows how to carpe the diem, too. She’ll be sitting behind the reception desk in air conditioning while I swim.