I have two therapy dogs, Red the border collie, and Lenore, a certified hospice therapy dog. Her hospice career was cut short when various food earmarked for hospice patients vanished during her visits. I never actually caught her doing it, but there were sometimes tell-tale traces, indisputable evidence. Lenore is a therapy dog at heart, but her style differs from Red. She likes to hang around, come and lick the back of my legs, wag her tail, bring me her stuffed animals, sometimes bits of dead animals and things too revolting to mention.

Labs are not into fine etiquette, there is a stream of belching, gas emissions, grunting and sighing. Sometimes she rolls in things and I have to fumigate the room.

Red is vigilant and attentive, but  Lenore takes a more relaxed, longer view of her therapy work. She is all about love, pure love. She is the Love Dog. She  loves to lie on the sofa near my desk and doze, her tail thumping sometimes in sympathy and commiseration. Lenore is always available to love, and she is available to love every living human and animal – people, chickens, donkeys, sheep. You cannot look at Lenore and fail to smile, that in itself makes her a wonderful therapy dog.