I furthered considered the notion of Enzo – a reading dog. Not that he was going to read Where the Wild Things Are to any preschooler, but it had been proven that dogs with a benevolent, loving, but not too obnoxious nature, were given over to being perfect vessels for children for whom reading was a struggle, either through language development, nervousness or anxiety.
I began my Internet research on this topic and found an organization called R.E.A.D. whose mission is to improve the literacy skills of children through the assistance of registered therapy teams as literacy mentors.
R.E.A.D. stands for Reading Education Assistance Dogs. The R.e.a.d. program improves children’s reading and communication skills by employing a powerful method: reading to a dog. R.E.A.D. dogs are registered therapy animals who volunteer with their owner/handlers as a team, going to schools, libraries and many other settings as reading companions for children.
Dogs are ideal reading companions because they are not judgmental, at least mine is not, as long as I am feeding him his bananas in the morning, alongside his cardboard puppy chow. It is also clear that Enzo is not judgmental in that he will chew on ANY shoe, not just those belonging to my son Davis, whose footwear is optimum because his shoes have crossed many backyards, and his feet stink as if he never showered.
Last week, I visited my aging parents and took my dog along. My parents had been first to accompany me to the breeder’s home when I had gone in search of a puppy and found Enzo. At the time, there was also a runt in the litter, who had the nickname of Tiny Tim. My dad held Tiny Tim in his hands for the duration of my visit with the breeder. He could have cared a less about the others. My mother reacted this way too. She felt safe around a puppy being held in one’s hands vs. one jumping up on her lap.
In the end, Enzo became the I one selected, but during the entire drive back to my parent’s home, my mother lamented about not getting a dog. My mother has Alzheimer’s and her forgetfulness is only one reason why now is no longer the time for a dog. But in my wildest dreams, I could not have imagined her allowing the dog to occasionally have an accident on the carpet in the living room, or to chew up one of her door mats. But, since becoming a grandparent, she has changed her tune about what she allows from the grandchildren and a dog is no different. My sister’s dogs, affectionately named, The Fluffers, by their owner, and I.B.D’s (ill-behaved dogs) by the rest of the family are prone to occasionally pooping in the same spot on my mother’s dining room rug, and she simply shrugs it off, grabs a paper towel and plastic bag, and continues on with her chores.
As for my father, he would have loved to own Tiny Tim, who reminded him of the dogs he once owned. Blackie was some coon dog beagle mix and Tiny was part beagle, and part, just cute puppy. They were his hunting dogs, and served him well. The dogs survived until the first year of my parent’s marriage. After that, dogs took a backseat to children, and never became part of the equation. The only other pets allowed were bunnies, hamsters and gerbils. Not even fish. Of course, Subaru, our beloved but stubborn goldfish, still lives, after five years of intentional abandonment. So, I could see how my parents didn’t want to hang on to anything too long.
When I returned in April to retrieve Enzo from the breeder’s, my parents did not accompany me, but asked me to find out if Tiny Tim was still available. Alas, Tiny Tim was gone. He had moved on to a good home with younger homeowners.
When I arrived home during my most recent trip (funny how I still call Amherst, that house, or visiting my parents “home”), my parents were pleasantly surprised to see Enzo in tow. He too was just as surprised (read “excited”) to see them, and promptly licked my father’s face for a full five minutes. My mother quickly picked up on my falsetto voice calling Enzo, and then giving him a command. Though he rarely listened to her command, he certainly piped up when he heard her call his name.
Once I labeled the stereo buttons for Mom to operate, she began playing her Sinatra records incessantly. Enzo camped out near the stereo speakers for all his naps, lulled into slumber by Fly me to the Moon, and the softness of September in the Rain. It became quite the spectacle for us to listen to him snore away, backside nestled up against the pulsating rhythms coming through the speakers.
He would excitedly greet Mom or Dad when they descended the stairs in the morning, jumping up, waiting to be scratched behind the ears, or, what he loved best, to have his belly rubbed with a brisk motion of a Swedish masseuse.
It was Enzo’s nonjudgmental ways that my parents loved so much, after falling prey to their children’s criticizing their parents for a house move they should have made long ago, or for paying off the bills of my imprisoned sister while risking their own credit. Either way, Enzo would not condemn them for their actions, only condone what they believed to be the best decisions at that time, to protect themselves or maintain their dignity.
As I rolled on the floor with Enzo, my father remarked, “He’s a good dog, and he’s been good for you too.” And for once, I agree that my father is right. Enzo had been my outlet too, when I needed to see simplicity in life. He had been my companion, when I needed to walk outside and play among the leaves. He had been my therapy for such a low, low price. And to boot, we could share the couch.
I will have to wait until Enzo is one year old before registering him, or at least having his temperament and training tested, to determine if he can actually fulfill the role of certified therapy dog. But I wonder, Do dogs have a purpose, a vocation? Do we train them for this, or are they born into it? I have these burning questions about Enzo, the same ones I have for myself.
I could be one of those people who project on their dog all day. But the three days with my parents were not a projection of any thing other a simple healing from hurting hearts.
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