More Like Mabel
Grief comes in waves. There is no right or wrong way to grieve.
I sure miss Mabel at odd times.
I’ve been thinking about how she had a way of seeing straight into your soul, such a rare and beautiful gift. Many welcomed her insight, though it stirred unease in a few.
During the pandemic, I spent a lot of time at home, maybe with just a touch of cabin fever. Therapy dog visits had come to a halt, especially during the first six to eight months. Then one day, I received an email from the Alliance of Therapy Dogs: the Neuropsychiatric Hospital of Indiana was seeking therapy dog visits. I hesitated at first, concerned about COVID, but those worries eased with a plan that included masking, sanitizing, and even gently cleaning Mabel with Chlorhexidine before and after each visit. It felt good to be able to safely return to something meaningful.
I was set.
We visited once a week or so.
One day, we arrived for a visit. I always made sure Mabel had time to take a potty break and for us to get signed in. Since the facility was secured, we often had to wait a bit for someone to let us in. But once we were behind those locked doors, it was as if the whole place had been waiting for her, staff and patients alike. She greeted everyone with her signature joy: ears slicked back, and her entire rear end wagging and not just the tail, but from mid-body all the way back. Every now and then, she’d let out a soft, excited whimper, as if she couldn’t contain her happiness. It was pure Mabel.
As we rounded the corner, we saw a group of people gathered in a circle. I held Mabel’s leash, but she was the one leading the therapy. With quiet confidence, she moved from person to person, making sure each one felt seen, valued, and acknowledged in that moment.
“Don’t bring that dog over here!” We always heard this during visits.
“Not a problem. I will keep Mabel away so others can pet her. If you change your mind, just let us know.” I replied.
Mabel looked at that patient with those gentle, knowing eyes, as if she understood that, if she could just get close enough, she might be able to absorb some of the woman’s pain.
After Mabel had made her way around the circle, we continued down a long, dimly lit hallway and took a sharp left turn. Inside the next room, several patients were waiting. Chairs lined the perimeter, with a few arranged back-to-back in the center. I also noticed one or two wheelchairs among the group, each person anticipating her arrival.
True to Mabel’s nature, she didn’t waste a moment. She quietly assessed the emotional atmosphere and got right to work. People reached out to pet her, their faces lighting up with smiles. Stories flowed with memories of beloved dogs from the past, and heartfelt mentions of pets waiting at home, missed more than words could say.
As we moved along the outer edge of the room, we came upon a patient in a slightly reclined wheelchair. He was non-verbal, with stiff hands and limited mobility. I paused for a moment, quietly assessing how I could position Mabel so he could at least see her, hoping her presence might offer a bit of comfort.
But Mabel had already made up her mind. Before I could say a word, she turned around, hopped into the chair beside the man, and locked eyes with him, her gaze steady and full of quiet understanding.
I stood there in awe and began tearing up. She needed to see his eyes so she could conduct a soul search and touch the parts of him that needed healing.
What I had just witnessed wasn’t something I had trained Mabel to do, it was pure instinct. Her response came from a place deeper than obedience; it was her natural gift.
We wrapped up our visit that day, and on the way home, I treated Mabel to a pup cup from Starbucks along with a few extra treats once we got back to the van. Watching her work with such quiet wisdom and compassion, I couldn’t help but feel inspired to be more like her.
Connection. Mabel was the queen.
Sandy
