Pets as Therapy
[snapped last Saturday]

In the cold grey suburban
shopping-square afternoon,
four dogs and their owners
parade for the test.
Some are local, one dog's come
all the way from Melton West.

We hope to pass, dogs and minders,
rostered for 'pets as therapy'
some afternoons as hospital visitors,
specially among the elderly.
Our puppy (velvety Labrador,
almost grown) lunges fidgety
after twigs, anything chewy;
the others - lapdogs - sedate, mature.

Michael the examiner has come,
sternest of dog-trainers, who's
drilled our pup once a fortnight
till he seems surely eligible.
Vanya shows great respect for him.
(To me puup's incorrigible.)
I watch them set off in line,
pause at the crossing, 'sit'.

Stamping my poor feet,
I take shelter, with a scorching drink,
too cold to traipse after them.
They've long blocks to walk,
tested by meeting chance strangers,
other dogs, whatever surprises.

A dog whose lust to scavenge
makes him lurch will fail;
this may be Vanya's downfall.
(And don't ask my wife what tore
open her poor stitched-up fore-
finger - mistaken for a snack,
it ripped when she pulled it back.)

Examiner, dogs and minders,
back they come now, human faces
pinched with cold, one has
a perfect droplet on her nose;
dogs obedient and tireless.

All are judged acceptable.
'How come?' I whisper.
'He was an angel. Tell you later.
We were sensational.
And Michael was accosted
constantly by admiring women
asking how they and their dogs could join.'

Instructions are being given -
for the future, and for the next hour,
at the nearby old people's Home -
where we reassemble,
led into a quiet foyer.
'Here is the guest-book.
Stand thus, over your dog,
lest his tail be run down
while you sign in.

Please wait till it's your turn.'
There are tables and chairs, a glass
wall, a green garden with grass
and fountain, a large sign
saying Hairdresser.Passers-by
are businesslike staff,
with a smile for the dogs,
or, being wheeled,
immobile figures under rugs.

Michael beckons us now, presses
the high button, ushers us
through towards the residents.
Not many here today, he thinks -
some are off on family outings.
Some will ignore us, some may smile
without talking, some -
may say the oddest things.
A smile may be our day's reward.

Round a table in one corner
visitors are animated
with their resident elder.
Against the windows, invalid chairs,
folk in motley clothes, heads flung back,
sunken faces, mouths wide open.

'Hallo again, Harry, we've brought a new dog.'
Harry's gaze is fixed; he mutters a welcome,
hand goes down to fondle the velvet head.

'We'll visit Betty, in her room.
She loves dogs - can't get a word out,
but takes in everything.'
Watched by the one resident on her feet,
whose remarks though loud we can't construe,
we parade to Betty's door;
Michael checks we are welcome.
We are to admire her needlework.

Betty's withered hand goes down
to the velvet head. Her face softens.
The needlework on the walls
is old, meticulous, formulaic;
dated family photos -
lovely daughters
with ever ready smiles.
Betty does jigsaw puzzles,
very slowly these days.
Michael's a puzzle enthusiast.

In the corridor stands a wheelchair
with lady - her hands flutter
over the wheels. Yes, she's in control,
she's where she wants to be,
going nowhere, nobody bothering her.

Our circuit's almost done, short today.
The wandering old lady frowns and peers
sharply in my wife's face:
'You smile too much,' she says,
and dodders away.

It's true. What can we do but smile?
Our solemn velvet gentleman
completes his first dutiful round.
The roster, when it comes in the mail,
I hope will have us visit children.

One test Vanya passed with ease was
on the street: Michael crouched,
grimacing, growling,
protruding eyes rolling,
waving crumpled claws.
Vanya neither barked nor flinched.

Michael and I are of an age, equal,
almost eligible for aged care.
'Pets as Therapy' suits meanwhile.
How long until I'm in a chair,
eyes rolling, mouth distorted,
mutely grateful for a visit,
or grumbling at a stranger's smile?

Max Richards
Doncaster, Melbourne


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