On our first visit, as we walked through the canary-yellow Hallway One, I heard an elderly man's excited voice, thick with a German accent, streaming out of room 112. "Ma, Ma, the German dog is here! The German dog is here!"
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On Monday afternoons at two o'clock, Beau and I would arrive at the Silver Spring Convalescent Center on Milwaukee's northeast side of town for an hour of pet therapy with the seniors who lived there. We'd walk the hall-ways greeting everyone on our way to the hospitality room, where residents would come to pet Beau and bask in the adoration of this beautiful, happy, ten-year-old, ninety-nine-pound Doberman pinscher. You'd never know this was the same dog that arrived at my doorstep eight years earlier so beaten, scarred and scared that as soon as he made eye contact with you, he'd lie down on his back with his feet up in the air and pee until you petted and soothed him into feeling safe.
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No sooner did I hear the voice than a wrinkle-faced, six-foot tall, white-haired pogo stick of a man was greeting us at the door, swooping his big, open hand and strong arm across the doorway, inviting us in. " I' m Charlie. This is my wife, Emma. Come in, come in."
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When Beau heard Charlie's friendly, enthusiastic voice, his entire body went into his customary wagging frenzy and leanagainst-your-thigh position, waiting for a petting, which was immediately forthcoming from Charlie.
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As we walked into the room, a frail but lively eightyish, violet-haired Emma sat in bed, smiling, patting her hand on the bed. All she had to do was pat once, and Beau, leashed and always obedient, was up on the bed lying down beside her, licking her face. Her eyes teared up as Charlie told us that he and Emma had immigrated to the United States from Germany during World War II and had to leave their beloved Doberman, Max, behind. Max, according to Charlie, was the spitting image of Beau.
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The next door, room 114, was home to Katherine, a woman in her seventies who had stopped talking for a few months earlier and had been living in a catatonic state in her wheelchair for the past month. No amount of love, hugs, talking or sitting had been able to stir her. When Beau and I walked into her room, a small light was on next to her bed and the shades were pulled. She was sitting in her wheelchair, her back toward us, slouched over, facing the viewless window.
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Beau was pulling ahead of me with his leash. Before I could get around to kneel down in front of her, he was at her left side, with his head in her lap. I pulled a chair up in front of her and sat down, saying hello. No response. In the fifteen minutes that Beau and I sat with Katherine, she never said a word and never moved. Surprising as that may be, more surprising was that Beau never moved either. He stood the entire fifteen minutes, his long chin resting on her lap.
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I asked one of the nurses why Katherine was catatonic. "We don't know why. Sometimes it just happens when elderly people have family who show no interest in them. We just try to make her as comfortable as possible."
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If you knew Beau, you'd know that even ten seconds was an eternity to wait for a petting. Not here. He was as frozen as Katherine, head glued to her lap. I became so uncomfortable with the lack of life in this woman that, much as I wished I felt differently, when the clock chimed 2:30 P. M., I rushed to say good-bye, stood up and pulled the reluctant Beau out.
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All the wonderful people and animals who blessed my life flashed in front of my eyes, and then they were gone. I felt what I imagined Katherine must be feeling: lonely, lost and forgotten. I was determined to find a way through to her.
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On our fourth visit, I was ready to bypass Katherine's room, but Beau had other plans. He pulled me into Katherine's room and took his familiar pose on her left side, head on lap. I acquiesced, but since I had a business meeting later in the afternoon with which I was preoccupied, I decided to cut short our usual fifteen minutes with Katherine to five. Instead of talking, I remained quiet, focusing inwardly on my upcoming meeting. Surely she'd never notice or care. As I stood up to walk out and began to pull Beau away, he wouldn't budge.
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Each visit I attempted to engage Katherine in conversation. No response. I grew more and more frustrated with Katherine, not content with just "being" with her. Yet here was Beau, meditative dog-monk, teaching me how to "be" and love quietly, assuming "the position" for the fifteen minutes we sat at each visit.
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Every Monday thereafter, Beau and I made our rounds to the hospitality room, stopping to make special visits in room 112 to visit Charlie and Emma, and in room 114 to sit with Katherine. Always the same response -- Charlie waving us in and Emma patting the bed, waiting for Beau's licks, both so alive. And then on to Katherine, sitting desolately, no sign of life except for her shallow breathing.
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I sat back down in silent shock, and for the next ten precious minutes, reveled in the stream of life flowing between Katherine's hand and Beau's head. As the clock chimed half past two, marking the end of our fifteen minutes, Katherine's hand gently slid back into her lap, and Beau turned to walk out the door.
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It's been ten years since that visit and eight years since Beau died in my arms from a stroke. Love has many ways of showing its face. Each time I am ready to walk away from a person on whom I've given up, I am reminded of the power of Beau's loving persistence with Katherine and with me. If Beau can give an extra ten minutes, surely I can too.
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And then the most miraculous thing happened. Katherine's hand went up to the top of Beau's head and rested there. No other movement, just her hand. Instead of Beau's customary response of nose nuzzling and increased body wagging, he continued to stand like a statue, never moving from his spot.
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