(Bedlam Farm Heart Photo By Maria Wulf)

When I came home from the hospital Red came out of the house, veered away from the gate to the pasture where he always – always – goes, and came around to the side of the car. He stood watching, calm but excited, ears down, tail going. Gentle as always, keen. I cannot yet open a car door or get out of one without a fairly elaborate bending and rising procedure and Red took this in, he leaned forward and sniffed my chest, going from the top of the incision -through the shirt – to the bottom, and then across to the heart, the wounds from the tubes.

Inch by inch, he gathered the story, he seemed to know what he needed to know.

I closed my eyes and visualized the surgery, the operating room, the ICU, my wounds. That was our conversation, that was the story. From that moment, just about a week ago, Red has not moved by himself to the pasture unless I go, he has not left my side. His focus has been on me every second of every day.

In the house, Red lies by the sofa I lie on, in bed, he lies by the side on the floor. When I gasp or groan in pain, he appears, he puts his head in my hand or on my knee. In the dark of night, when it is loneliest and the most painful, he spends all night sitting up by the bed, if he sleeps I have not seen him do it all week.

Out in in the yard, where I sit to meditate and steady myself, Red lies behind my chair, if I move, he moves, his head will appear on my knee, then vanish if I am okay.

I have had therapy dogs for five or six years. Izzy and Lenore have done hospice work. Red and I work with hospice and with veterans from Iraq and Afghanistan, among other places, this painful and wrenching work. When I saw what we have done to these kids and what they paid for our foolishness and arrogance, perhaps this prepared me to accept my own pain and surgery, all of it so much less painful and debilitating than theirs and the trials of so many others.

I am nothing but lucky, and I knew it from the first.

But still, the tables have been turned, a new perspective. I will never feel quite the same when we walk together into a nursing room or hospital. I can see it from the other side of pain and need.

Now, for the first time in my life, or at least my conscious life, I am in need of a therapy dog, and I have a good one. Red and I are almost always together, so his presence is not as unusual for me or as much of a surprise or delight as it is to the patients we see in veteran’s groups and homes and dementia wards. I think I take him for granted, except at those moments when I need him, and he is there.

It is his presence that is comforting and steady to me. Maria will rarely leave me alone, but sometimes she trusts Red to be alone with me, and she will rest. I think Lenore is her therapy dog, sometimes the donkeys.

The donkeys are the only other animals at Bedlam Farm that I am certain know what has happened to me, they carefully sniff my chest, gather the story, trade images with me, as animals do. Simon stares at my chest, my face, he is keenly aware of the changes in my body, of my discomfort, he is always pressing himself against me. Lulu and Fanny too.  Otherwise, life goes on for the animals, they are busy eating and surviving.

Open heart bypass surgery has helped me better understand something I saw but never fully understood – the healing power of an intuitive animal. A dog does not compare to the love of someone like Maria. Nor does it replace one’s own attitude. I am determined to heal, I do not ever feel sorry for myself, I am lucky to be alive and heave a healthy heart.

Having a therapy dog of my own also helps me understand what a therapy dog cannot do. He cannot ease pain, heal wounds, keep track of medicine, dress me, help me sleep, make me well, fix my heart. When this is said and done, it will not have been Red who got me through it. It will have been me, with the help of a wonderful lover and friend, good doctors and a heart that was not ready to quit on me. In our time of emotionalizing animals – this is how the carriage horses got into so much trouble – we need to remember that they are animals, there are limits to what we can project onto them or expect them to do, or attribute to them.

Red is very much a spirit dog, a creature of the heart. He makes a difference.

As I look back over this first week home, I see that Red has merged into the experience with me, become a quiet but profound part of it. When I think of this week, I will always think of Maria and of Red, two generous spirits holding my hand, sitting by my side.  I know Red is always there, there is something very healing about his life and presence. His love is no more conditional than Maria’s but it is offered freely and readily, Red and I are connected in a very powerful way.

Animals can help us heal, for sure. Red shores up my spirit, brings smiles to me, keeps me from feeling alone, brings his great heart and loyalty to bear on me, he makes me feel worthy of healing sometimes. I never imagined I would need a therapy dog, yet another gift of my heart – the chance to see what it really means. How useful to see it from the other side, to have the tables turned.