The Pup Who Came in From the Cold

We arrived home at the Monterey airport to a fine, soaking drizzle.  Jan had told me that moisture would bead up on Cleo’s hair, not penetrating to the skin, and I got a lovely first hand and up close confirmation of that as we meandered through the parking lot from the terminal to our car, Cleo stopping to sniff every bush within five feet of her and every painted line we walked across.  By the time we got to the car, she looked sodden, but with a vigorous shake, she downgraded to damp.  I, on the other hand, bore a remarkable resemblance to a drowned rat.  It was 11 PM as we pulled away from the terminal, exactly twelve hours since I had left school to begin the puppy procurement mission.

I wanted Cleo to be able to recognize the outside of her new home, so we spent several minutes exploring the driveway, front yard and deck before heading inside.  As we stepped through the front door, two very excited cats came skittering and scampering into the living room to greet me.  They got about halfway into the room, one balanced on the back of the chaise longue, the other tiptoeing across the coffee table, when they realized that something was not as they expected.  They froze, wide-eyed, in slack-jawed disbelief.  What the hell was that thing?  Cleo, too, had frozen, gazing from one to the other.  It was she who recovered first, resolving her confusion in characteristic fashion by falling back on her standard definition of anything new: Playmates!!  The cats also stayed true to form.  Rufus fled in terror while Marvin adopted an expression of haughty disdain.

Rufus came to us about three years ago and Marvin followed a year later.  I have the suspicion that cats tip each other off to good living situations.  I also suspect that it’s very important to them to make sure that their human companions are looked after when they are gone.  Every time a cat of mine has died, another has come along within a very short time to take his place. 

Rufus

Only a couple weeks after the death of our beloved boy Nikos, my husband’s singing partner, Jennifer, asked if we knew of anyone who might be willing to adopt an adult cat.  Jen and her husband Anthony were about to embark on an extended trip to Alaska, and from there, on to New Orleans to see if they would like to move there.  They were taking with them their two Labrador Retrievers—just the four of them in a converted van, obviously no place for a cat, especially not one like theirs.  They had found Rufus, half feral, three-quarters starved, in their yard one day.  He was alone and only a few weeks old.  It’s likely that his mother had been killed by a coyote.  They rescued him, but when he was still fairly young, he was attacked by some wild animal and in defending himself, badly injured all four feet.  These experiences left him extremely shy and permanently on guard (read, neurotic).  Jen and Anthony needed a quiet, patient home, so we gained both a kitty and two very good human friends.

About a year after Rufus came to us, we arrived home from an outing to find a scroungy, scabby grey cat in our yard.  As we pulled in, he came running to us, flinging himself onto the sidewalk and rolling around in ecstasy as if to say, “You’re home!  I’ve missed you so much!”  We suggested to him that he might want to move along, return from whence he came and all that.  We continued to make the same suggestion for three days during which he never left the front yard, then we broke down and named him.  We brought him in, fed him, rid him of his flea infestation, and in fairly short order, he shaped up to be a fine portly gentleman.

Marvin

For weeks after coming home to discover she had two cats, Cleo followed Marvin everywhere he went, staring at him in fascination.  Rufus would creep out of whatever hiding place he had sequestered himself in, take one look at Cleo and bolt.   I knew the acclimation process would take a while, and it has, but as of this writing the relationships have resolved pretty sweetly.  Cleo remains fascinated by Marvin, but after being on the receiving end of multiple smacks across the nose, she now gives him a wide berth.  Rufus, on the other hand, has never realized that the claws at the end of his toes could be a handy deterrent.  Instead, he bonded with Cleo through a game of hide and seek played through the cat door into the garage.  When he finally realized she wasn’t going to hurt him, they touched noses and he rubbed the top of his head against her cheek.  These days she’s tall enough that after rubbing his head against her chin, he follows it with the rest of his body, stopping only when his upright tail collides with her face.

Jackson,
the mountain man

Cesar Millan recommends limiting puppies’ territory inside the house until they are fully potty trained, so after meeting the cats, Cleo and I went straight for the kitchen where we were greeted by Jackson, my eighteen-year-old stepson who had been waiting up for our return.  It was love at first sight as the 8 inch tall puppy caught her first glimpse of the 6’2” mountain man.  As he folded himself towards the floor, she toddled up to him, put her feet on his knees and made her first attempt to chew on his beard. 

It really is impressive how confident Cleo was.  At eight weeks old, a time when puppies are supposed to be going through the first of two cautious stages, this dog was unfailingly brave.  From a noisy ride in a prop plane to the constant surprises of new territory, she was encountering everything as if it were a delightful adventure.  Was this nature or nurture?  Terrific genes or a terrific beginning with Jan and Ron?  Or maybe both?

My husband John was playing a gig (I’ve mentioned before that he is an outstanding rock guitarist) and wouldn’t be home until about 1:30 AM, so I introduced Cleo to the crate that had been set up in our bedroom for over a week.  I expected her to be somewhat averse to it, but she climbed right in, curled up and was sound asleep in a matter of seconds.  She’d woken up that morning in Texarkana and after two plane rides, a brief hotel stay, multiple car rides and uncountable new experiences, here she was in Monterey, California.  She was simply exhausted.  I’ll admit I lay down on the floor just outside her crate so I could watch her sleep.

Napping with her favorite toys

I couldn’t wait for John to get a chance to see her, and when he got home we opened the crate quietly.  “She’s so small,” he whispered, “even smaller than I thought she’d be.”  Her little head came up and she looked at him.  You could see in her eyes that she instantly recognized the alpha, even though all I saw as I looked at him was tenderness and a quiet pleasure in her absolute perfection.  Out of the crate she came, ready to be scooped up and cuddled, ready to hug. 

The rain had stopped by this time, so the three of us took a stroll-and-sniff down to the end of the block and back.  It was long past puppy bedtime, so back into the crate she went.  Most puppy books warn that the first night away from their litter mates will be a tough one for puppies and humans alike, but not for Cleo and us.  She slept right through that night.  She was safe, she was loved, she was warm. 

She was home.

Is That a Lamb?

As we drove through Phoenix from the airport to the hotel Jan and Ron had booked for the night, I felt a responsibility to take in a little of a city I’d never seen before.  But all I really wanted to do was stare at Cleo.  She was so tiny that she could stretch out width-wise on the back car seat and still have room for a chew-toy.  While I don’t want to judge a whole city on two car rides, one from the airport to the hotel, the other from the hotel to the airport, I have to wonder why anyone would want to go there.  By the time I get to Phoenix, indeed.  Then again, I do know the way to San Jose and I don’t much want to go there, either.

Gracee, Cleo's mom

As we chatted, Jan told me about Cleo’s ancestry.  Though I keep saying that the only thing that really matters to me is that Cleo is happy and healthy, and this is true, I couldn’t help being impressed by her lineage.  To breed Cleo’s litter, Jan partnered with a long-time friend, Lucy Heyman who owns Carillon Bedlingtons.  Carillon has bred an astonishing number of champions, including multiple time champions like Lover Boy, Cleo’s dad.  Together, Jan and Lucy own Sterling, Cleo’s half brother who was Lucy’s 134^th champion!  Jan Balladarsch also owns multiple champions, including Cleo’s mother Gracee, whose whole first litter were champions.  It actually gets a little mind-boggling.  Following the lineages is a little like memorizing the connections among all of the crowned heads of Europe.  The danger, of course, was that I would start to think I had to treat my little girl like a piece of fine porcelain.  I got over that the first time she had a dig fest in the backyard dirt.  She is one tough little puppy dog.

Lover Boy, Cleo's dad

On the way back to the airport, Jan coached me a bit on being an ambassador for Bedlingtons.  “I’m always asked what kind of dog Gracee is,” she said in her smooth Texarkana drawl.  “Or people will think she’s a lamb at first.”  In a gentle way, she was telling me that I would be answering a lot of questions and that it was important that I be always upbeat and thorough in my answers.  Bedlington owners love their dogs and are passionate about the breed; there is nothing snooty or standoffish about us.

As I walked through the airport, Jan was proven right.  My first stop was the ticket counter.  When you fly with an animal, most airlines require you to make a pet reservation ahead of time, then pay a fee once you’re at the airport.  For US Airways, the fee is $100, which, when you think about it, is something of a ripoff.  For one thing, they are very clear that you absolutely may not, on pain of defenestration, take the pet out of its airline approved travel crate once you’re on the plane.  Cleo had to ride underneath the seat in front of me.  So the traveler pays $100 for the privilege of putting her pet where she might normally have put her laptop for free. 

Anyway, as soon as we stepped up to the ticket counter, the agent exclaimed, “That is the cutest dog I’ve ever seen!  What kind is she?”  I looked at Jan whose return gaze clearly communicated, “This is your maiden voyage, trainee.  Answer her.”  By this time, two or three other agents had come over to our counter to get a look and several travelers in line were craning their necks.  “Ooo,” cooed one, “she looks like a little lamb.”  Holy smokes, I thought, the clichés are all true!

So I said goodbye and thank you to Jan, Ron and Jan’s son, they each gave Cleo a final hug and I was going it solo.  Negotiating through the security line was the first challenge.  Over my shoulder I had a large handbag sort of thing that now contained a banana, an apple, two books, my cell phone, my wallet, a puppy toy, puppy treats, a leash and a twenty pound box of Bedlington Terrier books and magazines that Jan lent me.  In one hand I carried the puppy crate, and wedged between my arm and ribcage was Cleo.  The line was interminable.  We finally made it up to the identity check officer and I dropped the crate and began scrabbling through my purse for my license and boarding pass.  Despite the fact that I must have been squishing her vital organs to jelly as I fought not to drop her, Cleo didn’t utter a word of complaint.  She simply gazed around at all of the other passengers, took a rapt interest in what was going on in my bag, and placed a nonchalant paw on the officer’s podium.  “Oh, she’s darling,” the officer chirruped.  “What kind of dog is she?”

I wasn’t really sure about protocol as we went through the metal detector.  All I knew was that I was not going to put my tinky puppy in a plastic bin to ride along a conveyor belt and be x-rayed.  Although I did think it would be pretty cool to have a chance to see her little bones and everything.  But no, I carried her through the metal detector, showed the security guard my boarding pass ("Cute.  What kind?"), then redressed and gathered up my paraphernalia, all without dropping the puppy on her head.  I considered that a major accomplishment.  

It was an enormous relief to finally make it to the gate and have a chance to sit for a bit.  Cleo was so beat that she sacked out half in, half out of her crate and snoozed.  As I watched her breathe (something that was endlessly entertaining at that moment), I heard the woman across from me murmur to her husband, “Is that a poodle?”  He had the good sense to say no.  At one point, Cleo woke up, looked at me and yawned, and the family at the end of the bank of seats exclaimed, “Oh, my gosh!  It’s real!  I thought it was a stuffed dog.  It’s so cute!”

Cleo naps as we wait for our plane.

People can be so lovely, can’t they?  There was the man who came over to me to offer to throw away my banana peel and slimy apple core so that I didn’t have to leave my sleeping puppy.  There was the woman who praised both Cleo and me when Cleo toddled over to the pee pad I’d hastily laid out for her when I realized she was looking for a place to go, squatted and let rip with perfect aim.  There was my seat neighbor once we were on the plane who offered me half of her under seat space for my bag and who, once we landed in Monterey, turned to me and said, “Do you think I can have a little peak at your puppy now?”  Honestly, I think there’s nothing like the promise of a brand new being to allow people to expose their vulnerabilities and to bridge the distance between human beings with kindness.

What to Expect When You’re Expecting...a Puppy

Puppy's first hair cut

During the weeks between committing to the Texas blue puppy and actually being able to pick her up, I was more dog obsessed than ever.  When I wasn’t at work I was planning and preparing.  The kitchen table became a staging area and rapidly accumulated piles of training materials, toys, grooming tools, food, treats, toys, potty training aids, crate pads, and did I mention toys?  I couldn’t help myself.  I looked forward to going to Petco to buy the next round of supplies and every time I was there I bought a toy.  Or three.  If I could have justified painting a nursery for her, I would have.

I avidly viewed old Dog Whisperer episodes online.   I bought two books by Cesar Milan, one from the Monks of New Skete, and prowled the internet for informative sites.  I obsessively watched anything about Bedlingtons on YouTube.  I made lists and checked them off.  I signed us up for a Sirius puppy training class that would start two weeks after she came home.  I read passages of How to Raise the Perfect Dog to my husband when he called me on his way home from work.  I practiced my “tssst” and memorized growth stages.  I went on Craigslist and found a woman selling two sizeable crates—one for home and one for work. My colleagues laughed at me when I had the office crate set up with a pad, toys, food and water bowls, and treats more than two weeks early.  I wrote Jan almost daily and we friended each other on Facebook.   She sent pictures, information, advice, and kind encouragement.

Gracee surrounded by her puppies.
Cleo is far right, at attention like her mom.
She still learns by watching and imitating.

My husband and I started tossing around ideas for names.  In our history together, I’ve been the one to name our animals (although he did come up with the name for our series of ill-fated algae eaters that lived with our Goldfish Morrie—they were all called Tuesdays).  So we’ve had Emma, the sweet though somewhat neurotic Chinese Crested, Rufus the orange cat, Marvin the feline behemoth.  But this time, he uncharacteristically, and somewhat wistfully, said, “I’d really like to name her Cleo.”

John is an extraordinary guitarist and composer.  I say this with complete objectivity.  After twenty-five years in the theatre, I can separate my love for someone from my assessment of his artistic abilities.  As part of some coursework he was doing to expand his experience with composing for film and television, John underscored a cartoon about a brilliant, confident, bold little girl named Cleo who befriends and has adventures with the reanimated mummy of King Tut.  John had a special fondness for his work on the project as well as for the cartoon itself.  Though I flirted briefly with the more Muse-inspired spelling of Clio, we pretty quickly dismissed that as far too pretentious.  Okay, John realized it was far too pretentious well before I did, but I eventually saw the light.  The bottom line was that “Cleo” became the name of choice, pending the actual meeting.  And after a couple days calling her Cleo between ourselves (or occasionally Chloe when we got confused), it was clear the name was going to stick and we’d have a hell of a time trying to change it once we saw her in the flesh.  Luckily, she is a perfect Cleo.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

One of the main topics of my early communications with Jan was how I would pick up the puppy.  As I have mentioned, Jan was planning to fly from Texarkana to Phoenix in order to scoop up her college age grandchildren and head out to Disneyland for a few days.  The original plan was that she would put Cleo on a plane for the short hop from Phoenix to Monterey where I would meet her at the airport.  We quickly discovered, though, that the airlines that fly into Monterey don’t permit unaccompanied animals.  A representative of one of the airlines told me that management feared someone would rig the pet to explode once the plane was airborne.  As Dave Barry would say, I am not making this up.  So feeling like a true jetsetter, I made reservations to fly out of the Monterey airport at 12:30 Friday afternoon and fly back in at 10:30 that same night.

Jan and her husband had arrived in Phoenix from Texarkana fairly early that Friday morning, gotten a hotel room and returned to the airport, with Cleo in tow, to meet me.  Okay, it’s confession time: I’m an anxious traveler.  This isn’t because I don’t like new experiences; I love new places.  It’s partly because I don’t see well and I’m always afraid I’ll miss something vital, like the sign telling me that if I pass this point I’ll be arrested.  I’m also extremely shy and it’s nerve-wracking for me to meet new people on my own, though I generally do a pretty good job of masking that character flaw.  Anyway, we had arranged to meet at baggage claim, so with the focus of a laser beam I made my way to baggage claim.  I’d seen a picture of Jan and her husband on Facebook, and I kept looking for a retirement aged couple carrying an airline approved dog crate.  Nothin’.  I called her cell phone.  It turns out they had been seated in the arrivals greeting area directly between my gate and the baggage claim area.  I had walked right by them.  And they had been holding Cleo extended over their heads.  Did I mention I’m kinda blind?  This caused them no end of amusement! 

But after almost four weeks of waiting and preparing and imagining, I saw her for the first time, a fuzzy dark grey something cradled in the arms of a grinning gray-haired gentleman.  Suddenly, I was surrounded by a smiling, excited family: Jan, petite and forthright, her towering son, and Ron who handed me a tinky ball of fluff.  My arms wrapped around Cleo and as she buried her face under my chin, her arms wrapped around my neck.  She was perfect.  I burst into tears.

Cleo and me--our first shot together.

Making the Right Choice

So you’ve found your dream dog and you’ve managed to get everyone on board with its acquisition and employment.  Now, there’s only one hitch in the giddyup.  It’s not easy to find a Bedlington Terrier puppy.

It turns out that at one point, Bedlingtons almost disappeared due to Copper Toxicosis of the liver, so today’s breeders are ardently conscientious about blood lines, DNA checks, and strengthening the genetic makeup of the line.  The result is that only about two hundred fifty Bedlingtons are born each year while in the same period there are somewhere in the vicinity of ten thousand Lab puppies looking for a home.  I began my search by first checking the bona fides of the Bedlington Terrier Club of America, and let me tell you, these folks are serious about the protection and celebration of the lamb dog.   From them, I not only learned about the breed’s history and temperament, but also found a list of Club approved breeders. 

Part of my obsessive research on the Sunday after the First Sighting included scouring the websites of the BTCA associated breeders in my general vicinity.  That didn’t take long.  There is only one, a hundred miles away.  He would have no puppies until sometime in the summer.  I cast a wider net and included all of the West Coast.  One litter eight hundred miles away.  The West Coast is a really big place.  I emailed to ask for information, then I began clicking on every link on the BTCA site.  Hurray!  A breeder in Michigan who might be willing to send a puppy by air.  I completed his online interest form, expressing my plans for the puppy and asking if he thought his dogs would be good candidates for therapy dogs.

I should probably admit to a bias right now.  I wanted a girl dog.  Yes, it’s ridiculous, but I simply didn’t want to deal with a male therapy dog.  I have nothing against boys, completely the contrary.  But I just couldn’t mentally get around the image of the eighth grade girl sitting in my office crying her eyes out about whatever crisis she was facing as the dog lolled around on the carpet with his winkie hanging out.  Plus I’ve always had girl dogs.  Girl dogs, boy cats.  That’s just the way it has to be.

The breeders I talked to were very understanding.  Does passion for something engender generosity towards others who share your interests?  Or does it take a generous person to become passionate about a fuzzy four-legged?  Whichever the case, it has been my experience that Bedlington folk will gladly spend hours talking about their dogs, giving advice, providing a sounding board to a newbie. 

Within twelve hours I had heard back from both my inquiries.  The woman in Portland had committed all of her new puppies, but she did have a little girl from her other dog’s earlier litter.  This puppy was now five months old.  And the man in Michigan?  He had just committed his last puppy to someone in New York.  He wanted me to know, though, that he had a very good friend in Texarkana, Texas, a woman with a champion Bedlington who (that?) had given birth to six puppies about a month earlier.  He thought it was possible that she had some puppies unclaimed and he forwarded my inquiry to her.  Sure enough, within a couple of hours I had an email from the Texarkana woman.   She had one little girl still available. 

I called the Portland woman, a wonderful, down-to-earth person who talked with me for nearly an hour.  She explained that she had planned to keep her five-month-old, but was quickly realizing that five dogs were simply too many for a single woman to take care of.  Though she hated to part with her little girl, she felt it was the best choice for both of them.  The nice thing, she told me, is that an older puppy is already partly trained and would be over the more demanding stages of puppyhood.  Thumbs up for therapy dog potential.  Either I could fly up to Portland and pick her up, or the woman would fly down to Monterey to deliver her.  This dog was liver.

Bedlingtons come in two colors: liver and blue.  The liver start out brown and gradually become light tan.  The blue start out charcoal, almost black, and fade to a silvery grey.  Both are lovely.

So I call the Texarkana woman.  The mother of her litter is a show dog, but also the family pet.  About three years earlier she had had a very small litter.  The woman and her husband had so enjoyed raising these babies that they decided to have one more litter “before they got too old to keep up.”   The puppy was five weeks old.  As it turned out, they would be flying to Phoenix, Arizona, just as the puppies reached eight weeks old—the age that they could leave their mom and go to their new homes.  She could bring the puppy and, depending on airline restrictions, pop it onto a plane for the short flight to Monterey.  She, too, was convinced that Bedlingtons would make terrific therapy dogs.  She quickly emailed me a photo of her baby.

First Look

That is a face to fall in love with. 

My husband and I spent a considerable amount of time talking over the advantages and disadvantages of a five month versus a five week old dog, but it was finally pure emotion that made the choice:  I wanted to experience every bit of this puppy raising.  I wanted her to be mine.  I wanted a tinky puppy.  Oh boy, had I ever forgotten just what that means.

But we emailed lovely Jan from Texarkana and sealed the deal.  She was thrilled and had the graciousness to tell me she was honored that her little one would have the chance to comfort the distressed.  She told the puppy she was “a lucky girl.”  Can you get much more supportive than that? 

But we were not home free quite yet…

First Halloween

Getting Beyond "We'll Never Own Another Dog"

When, at age forty, I married the perfect man, his household included two young kids and mine included two cats and a dog.  It was a tossup which caused more angst.  While I struggled to grow into the parental role I never thought I wanted, John became caretaker to a timid, anxious, sweet and loving former puppy mill puppy.  His work as a composer, musician and music teacher allows him to work from his home studio until after noon.  Mine as a teacher demands that I am out of the house often ten hours a day.  That meant that John was the responsible parent who walked the dog, kept the vet appointments, interrupted his work to let her out, and generally saw chunks of composing time eaten up in canine maintenance.  When she died at the age of thirteen, we agreed that our dog days were behind us.  And for a couple years, the choice felt like the right one.

One Saturday, John and I went out to breakfast at Parker-Lusseau, our favorite little French bakery.  As we were leaving, my sweetheart exclaimed, in a disbelieving tone, "Honey!"  

And I said, "What?"  

And he said, "Honey!  Look down."  

So I did and saw nothing but my shoes.  

"Honey!" he said again, "I can't believe you, of all people, missed it.  Look there!"  And he pointed to a very small sheep at the end of a man's leash.  

Okay, it wasn't really a sheep, it was a dog, but it did look like a little lamb.  We patted it and I have never felt a softer dog.  It was gentle and calm and lovely.  What kind of dog is this? we asked the man, and he spoke the magic words: a Bedlington Terrier.  

On our way to the car, my thoughtful husband, who knows me so very well, put his arm around me and murmured, "You know, sweetheart, if you really want to get another dog, I think we could make it work.  I just wish you could take it to school every day so that it wouldn't have to be alone so much."  

"You mean as a therapy dog?"

"Why not?"

In fact, I contemplated, that could be a really wonderful idea.  I am the dean of students at an independent school that serves brilliant, ambitious, creative adolescents from all socio-economic levels.  Most of what I do involves counseling teenagers who are stressed out by uproars at home, by social or academic upheavals at school, or simply by the trials of adolescence.  If a student has a meltdown she or he will end up in my office.  A therapy dog could provide a point of focus and maybe even comfort for upset students who are trying to tell me about their situations.  What's better for stress than the unconditional love of a dog?  It could be helpful for students and teachers both.  And one of my concerns has always been how to break the perceived barrier of my office door--how can I make it more comfortable for a student simply to drop by and say hi?  A dog would be an easy draw.  I wondered what the school would say to the idea.

So, in my obsessive way, I spent six hours the next day researching Bedlington Terriers.  Everything I learned about them encouraged me.  They're gentle, mellow, even tempered, smart, eager to please, people oriented, agile, confident, and help little old ladies across the street.  Okay, maybe not the last one.  I sent inquiries off to two members of the Bedlington Society of America who indicated they had puppies available.

On Monday, I took my idea to our head of school.  He looked at me with his, "What in the world will you surprise me with next?" look, one I've gotten pretty used to over the years.  Before he could respond, we were interrupted and never had the opportunity to return to the topic.  That night, I sent him an email explaining more about what I had in mind, along with pictures of grown-up Bedlingtons.  The next morning he replied saying that he actually loved the idea, was a big fan of therapy dog programs, but that we really needed to involve our business manager to ask about the insurance ramifications and other issues.

Now, the thing you need to know about our business manager is that she has mastered the use of the word NO.  As a friend of mine says, she's exactly the kind of person you want in a business manager.  She's also a warm, caring individual who loves the school fiercely.  Before I talked with her, I wanted to have my case pretty airtight.  The next day I happened to be talking with the school's lawyer about a different issue when I had a flash of inspiration.  If I asked our lawyer about a dog and she told me it could never fly, then I would just let it go and move on.  But, if she said yes, her word carries a lot of weight with our business manager which might be exactly the extra ammunition I needed.  Not only did she not say no, she adored the idea.  This is a down-to-earth, practical woman and she was going gaga about the benefits of a therapy dog for our students.  She was quite familiar with Bedlingtons, knew their reputation for looking like little lambs, knew they are hypoallergenic.  

Emboldened, I went to the business manager and as I asked her to investigate what the insurance ramifications might be, I dropped into the discussion the fact that both the head of school and our lawyer were completely behind the idea.  She was cautiously intrigued by the possibilities of a therapy dog, but hesitated to commit herself until she had spoken with our insurance agent.  Within the hour, she called me, astonished, to report the agent's response: "What a terrific idea!"  Still, he needed several pieces of information from me to present to the actual insurance company representatives.  What certification would the dog get, for example?  What certification would I get?  What would the dog's duties be?  Blah, blah, blah.  And wasn't everyone astonished when the insurance company responded, "Oh, therapy dogs have to go through so much training we have no problem with them.  It wouldn't affect your insurance a bit."  

When I told our head of school that the therapy dog was a go, his jaw literally dropped.   Then he made a sardonic (though witty) remark about my efficiency.  In five days, I had transformed from a woman who never wanted to have a dog again to a woman who had persuaded her husband, a business manager, a lawyer, a head of school and an insurance company (not to mention herself) that a dog was not only a wonderful companion, but a vital necessity for the well-being of two hundred fifty teenagers.  

The next step was to find the perfect dog.