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Last summer, after six wonderful years of volunteering every other Thursday morning, my border collie, Tundra, and I retired from offering pet therapy at a retirement home in our neighbourhood.
I had enrolled Tundra in the pet therapy course after she had completed pretty much every other possible course. As a dog who could not possibly get enough attention, I thought that she might have the makings of a good therapy dog. She passed the test with flying colours and we became a therapy dog team at a local nursing home.
Having grown up with grandparents who lived in England and Wales, I had had pretty limited exposure to the elderly. To be honest, at first I really didn’t know what to do with them. Over time, it was amazing to see how much more comfortable I became with seniors.
Tundra and I were fortunate to call many of them friends. I felt as though I had dozens of grandparents. I was able to ask them questions about gardening, baking, and they were never shy to scold me for not giving Tundra enough treats and to ask about the latest trouble into which Tilly (my other dog – who doesn’t have the makings of a therapy dog) had gotten into. In the early years, I remember feeling sad when they’d ask me, “How old is your dog?” I’d say “six” and they’d say, “Oh, she’s pretty old.” I remember worrying so much about her age as my reply changed throughout the years – “7” became “9,” and the numbers just kept going up. “She’s a senior – just like us,” they’d point out.
Some of the residents loved to visit with Tundra, while others liked to visit with me. J was a retired city councillor who had worked for the federal government, and someone with whom I had a very nice bond. He had a great attitude toward life. When I asked him how long it took him to adapt to life in a retirement home, he replied, “About a day.” He always asked me how my dean was treating me (never as well as he thought I should be treated) and engaged me in conversation about politics and the world in general. He tried to convince me that I would become more conservative with age, and I tried to sell him on the merits of the NDP.
Over the years, I watched J’s health decline – albeit slowly. I was always alarmed when I arrived to find him not sitting in the atrium, ready to chat with me. Usually, he’d be having a bath with one of the aides or at an appointment of some sort. Then he started having stints at the hospital. In late 2014, I came by one day and was told that he was in his room – unable to get out of bed. Though I had never done it before, I was allowed to go to his room to say hello. J was in bed and weak, but he was very happy to see Tundra and me. We chatted, I passed him his heat pad, and on my way out, I squeezed his arm and told him I’d see him soon.
Two weeks later, I checked the obituaries and there he was. I miss hearing him proudly tell other residents as I would walk away toward the rec hall, “That’s my friend, Audrey. She’s a professor.” Sadly, I lost many of my older friends over the years – a danger of volunteering with seniors.
Most of the residents were in it for Tundra. They would laugh as she did what she always did: lick illicit crumbs off of the carpet, not so gently nudging their feet out of the way as she tried to get at morsels under their wheelchairs and walkers. They enjoyed it when we would join their walking club and walk around the building – often with 101-year-old P leading the way.
They loved telling me stories of their dogs. One resident in particular, V, would always tell me about her dog, Bob, a Spanish water dog, who would meet her after school and walk home with her. Six years ago, V would tell me the story of Bob – often several times in the same conversation. In more recent years, I reminded V of her life with her dog, while she wondered aloud how I knew her name and how I knew about her dog.
Over time, Tundra started to develop health problems, most notably seizures, some back/leg/shoulder injuries, and kidney problems. Her energy wasn’t what it used to be and I found her to be getting quite tired during her visits. When we had our last visit, we had a lovely send off. The staff gave us a card and a picture frame that says “Best dog EVER!!!”
One of the staff members came in from vacation to see Tundra off. I, of course, cried quite a bit. I just couldn’t believe that I had to answer questions about her age with, “almost 12 years old.” When I told one resident that Tundra was retiring, she said, “Well, she’s in the right place! This is a retirement home.”
As someone who saw some – perhaps many – of the residents more often than their families, and as the staff had a 100-per-cent turnover (due to a new company buying the nursing home), I worry about who will be there to help the residents remember some of the stories that they told about themselves when they still had their memories: Of life as a young pharmacist. As someone who crashed his plane on a trip to pick up trophies in Cornwall, Ont., – after making it through the Second World War unscathed as a pilot. Of raising a young family after a husband’s premature death. Of dogs and cats who filled their lives with love.
I learned so much through my volunteer work with my older friends. I hope that when I’m their age, a young and naive person with his or her dog will pay me a visit and let me share my memories (probably over and over again) of my time as a therapy dog team with Tundra.
Audrey R. Giles is an associate professor at the University of Ottawa. Tundra passed away in March of this year.