Therapy Dog

 

I had a little meltdown this morning and, in the process, I discovered something about Sophie, my year- old collie.  The meltdown involved a tangled mess of cords running to my internet box, phone and power stip.  I don’t deal well with cords – I look forward to the day when everything will be cordless and electricity just comes out of the air somehow.

Anyway, I did have a little meltdown trying to sort out and untangle several wires so I could move my internet box to a higher shelf.  My friend Clay had built this nice little shelf and installed it and was helping me arrange things when the meltdown occurred.  I was listening to Willie Nelson and Sophie and Phoebe were supervising.  Sophie is a very nose-on supervisor.  Everything that happens in or out of this house requires her direct involvement.  If I dig in the yard, she digs in the yard.  If Clay is on the floor nailing a baseboard on, Sophie is right here with her long collie nose poking at the hammer.  I don’t know how I ever got anything done correctly before she joined this family!  Willie Nelson music keeps me sane, most of the time.  Willie was no match for the mess I got in today especially when I accidentally turned off the power strip and he stopped mid-chorus of Whiskey River.

This led to an even bigger meltdown, and it was then that I realized that Sophie was having a little doggy meltdown too.  Actually hers was bigger than mine.  She was glued to my side, whining and pawing at my leg.  The whining turned to barking and she nudged me with a worried expression in her big brown eyes.  It was a pretty effective way to end my carrying-on, because I had to stop and reassure her that I was okay. 

This is not the first time Sophie has shown this trait.  Several months ago, Clay and I had a traumatic encounter with my vacuum cleaner.  I was vacuuming the only large rug in this enormous house when I realized I was putting out as much dirt as I was taking up.  This particular vacuum cleaner does this when a clog in the hose occurs, which is pretty much every time I use it.   Like an idiot, I left the vacuum on the rug and took out the dirt container, which has both a top and a bottom cover.  I didn’t mean to unlatch the bottom, but I did and all the dirt I had just removed from the rug was now on the rug again, in a big pile.  Clay heard my graphic description of the mishap and came to the rescue with a trash can, which we filled with the pile of dirt and tried to unclog the hose.  During this operation, the trash can turned over, spilling all the dirt, plus what came out of the clogged hose, on the rug again.  That was the last straw for me.  I started laughing and went into one of those uncontrollable episodes where you can’t stop laughing and you start crying and every time you think you can stop, it starts all over again. Sophie was not familiar with my tendency to do that and she thought something was horribly wrong.  (She had naturally  been supervising the dismantling of the vacuum all this time.)  Next thing I know, I have 50 pounds of collie in my lap, whining and licking my face.  “What’s wrong, what’s wrong, what’s wrong?” was human language for what she was saying.  “I’ll help, I’ll help, I’ll help,” she continued.  Those brown eyes that melt my heart were so anxious, I had to give hugs and snuggles to convince her I was okay. 

Now, here is the interesting thing about this.  I tried pretending to cry to see what Sophie would do.  She looked at me and walked away.  So, not only does she leap into action when something is wrong, but she knows when I’m faking.

Maybe she missed her calling as a therapy dog.  Or maybe she’s in exactly the right place.  Maybe I need a therapy dog myself.