At different times, my work with the Army of Good has opened me up and touched me in ways I could never have imagined.
Sometimes it’s the brave refugee children moving past their heartbreak and into their new lives in America.
At other times, the aging people at the Mansion work bravely and often alone to cope with their weakening bodies and find purpose in their remaining lives.
Right now, the Memory Care Unit at the Mansion and the brave souls fight daily to live without memory, and the helplessness of confusion has gotten to my heart.
I can make a difference there with my dog.
Something is loving and soft and pure about them. I connect with them naturally and easily.
Zinnia and I go to Memory Care every Monday morning now that my foot is working.
This work has challenged me to re-train Zinnia, who was trained to never jump on sofas and to go to anyone who wanted to see or touch her.
As it happened most of the time, the people she saw were young or healthy; they bent down, lay down, and reached down to touch and pet her.
I trained her with the refugee children, and they were loud, excitable, and active. They were always moving.
The Mansion itself is in the middle. The residents are all mobile and can reach down to pet Zinnia and talk to her.
Memory Care calls for very different therapy work, the most challenging kind. People often tell me that they believe their dogs would be great therapy dogs; they love people and would love and greet them.
But it’s much more difficult in truth.
It takes extreme vigilance on my part and constant monitoring and re-training of the dog. New things are happening constantly, and no single training covers all those possibilities.
Every Memory Care resident is different, moves at a different pace, and comprehends what is happening differently.
Zinnia and I have to pay attention. It was a joy to see the residents come up slowly, one at a time until the numbers grew—no loud noise, no excitement or shouting. It was very peaceful.
Dogs are animals, not people; almost anyone will fight if challenged or frightened. They are all, after all, descended from wolves. I love working with them in settings where they are desperately needed and appreciated.
But I take nothing for granted.
Her first mistake will be her last.
First, I realized that Memory Care is unique.
People are reluctant to approach a moving dog there. They can’t bend over or lean down. They are not sure what to do. They need time to understand what is happening.
So the dog has to be elevated so the residents can touch her, feel her, or, as often happens, watch her. She means a great deal to them; they erupt in smiles and excitement and pepper me with questions asked many times before.
How old is she? Where did I get her? How much did she cost? How much does she eat? How did I train her to be so calm and loving?
I tell them that Zinnia is a wonderful therapy dog. You can’t train kindness and empathy; the dog has to have it when she comes, like Red and Izzy. I’ve been blessed with excellent and very well-bred dogs.
The Memory Care people love purely but gingerly. They move slowly and carefully. My dog recalls their dogs’ memories, which are often emotional and disturbing.
Some residents are triggered when reminded of something they have forgotten and can’t quite recall. It cannot be enjoyable.
So I’ve re-imagined our training, and today, it works beautifully.
When we go into the Memory Care unit, I have trained Zinnia to do something she was never permitted to do – jump up on a sofa and sit until she is released.
Zinnia is sometimes overwhelmed by young people swarming her, s shouting and yelling, bumping into each other and grabbing her, sometimes roughly.
She handles it well but gets anxious and tired quickly. For Memory Care, I wanted and needed something different, something quieter that would draw more people one by one and was pure to match the purity and temperament of the residents.
Today it all came together.
Zinnia sat up on the couch, and slowly and cautiously, one by one, the residents came out to touch, pet, see, and feel her softness. She was the most comfortable I’ve ever seen in this therapy work, she was born to do this, and the new training helped.
She understands she doesn’t need to do anything but sit still, kiss nearby faces, and get a lot of attention. She always loves that.
The residents move slowly, almost like ghosts at times, and they need to take whatever time they need to come to Zinnia and get close to her and pet her.
There is a lot of cloudiness and confusion in their heads.
They need to be encouraged but quietly and clearly.
I point to Zinnia, quietly inviting them to come and say hello to her. Most of them were not sure they were allowed.
This must be repeated every time I come with Zinnia; they do not remember this new protocol.
Zinnia has come to love this. She loves a soft couch and attention, especially when it is so slow and calm as she gets into Memory Care.
You can see in the photographs how happy she is. I can see her relaxing and having fun. Sometimes, at the high schools, she comes and lies down behind me; too many people shout and demand her attention.
Bishop McGinn, where we first worked together, was a small school. Bishop Gibbons is twice the size.
This Memory Care work is beautiful therapy work, the best, I think, I think, she has ever done. We’ll go every Monday with new games, Amish bracelets, and art supplies.
If you wish to help, I can use some: You can donate via Paypal, [email protected] or Venmo, Jon Katz@Jon-Katz-13 or by check, Jon Katz, Mansion Fund, P.O. Box 205, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816. Small bills are just as good as extensive checks; it all adds up.
Today I learned many of the Memory Care residents need toiletries – shampoo, body wash, hair conditioner. I went to the Dollar Store and bought $70 worth of these items, but I will need more and some games designed for people with Dementia.
Help me if you can, this is essential work, and it lifts my heart and soul. Zinnia has found her stride, every time gets more accessible, and today we were still for 45 minutes. I’m shooting for an hour.