A Walk of Joy
I sure would like to meet BJ.”
My father’s speech was difficult to understand since the stroke that left him almost completely paralyzed, but his request held an unmistakable plea. I knew the boredom of long days at the nursing home was agony for this previously active outdoorsman, and I’d do just about anything to help him relieve the tedium. But how would my ultratimid dog react to the unusual sights and sounds and smells of this place?
BJ had moved into my empty nest several months before. My husband and I weren’t looking for a dog, but when the local newspaper broke the story of a raid on an area puppy mill, the plight of all those mistreated puppies touched our hearts. The rescued animals had been distributed to shelters across the state, including one in our town, so no single facility would be overburdened. We drove out there reluctantly, not sure what to expect but certainly not ready to fall in love with the matted, filthy, stinking, three-month-old black standard poodle huddled pathetically in a cold corner of the concrete pen. We instantly knew he was coming home with us.
BJ had never been around people or even inside a house. He was terrified of everything. He didn’t so much cower as collapse whenever he encountered anything unfamiliar, which was just about everything for the first few weeks. We almost named him Pancake because of his habit of dropping flat to the ground in terror, but settled on BJ, short for the French salutation bonjour. (He was a French poodle, after all!) When he conquered one fear, something new and terrifying loomed up to take its place—toys, his food bowl, the refrigerator door, the recliner’s footrest, even leaves blowing across the grass. One of his biggest fears was any terrain that inclined. Our first outdoor walk turned to disaster as we tried unsuccessfully to coax him up the very small hill at the end of our street. My husband spent weeks down on his hands and knees teaching BJ how to go up the stairs.
BJ’s one great passion, after he overcame his initial terror, was for tennis balls. He was an accomplished fetcher and would chase a ball until our arms ached from throwing it for him. So when I received permission to take BJ to the nursing home to meet Daddy, I went armed with balls.
Navigating the hallway leading to my father’s room was like running a gauntlet on the best of days. Wheelchairs and stretchers occupied by elderly or injured residents crowded the gleaming white halls and made a quick dash to Daddy’s private room impossible. Especially with a fifty-pound chicken dog trying to wrap himself around my legs. BJ had not displayed a tendency toward aggression in the months since we adopted him, but neither had I exposed him to crowds or to more than one or two close friends at a time. I was afraid he’d react in blind terror, and there was no telling what would happen.
“Lord,” I whispered, “please let us get to Daddy’s room without anything bad happening.”
I shortened the lead, and we began weaving our way between the dozing occupants of wheelchairs. We hadn’t reached the halfway point when a loud voice rang out.
“A dog! A dog!”
We’d been spotted. Heart pounding, I saw a young man, a head injury patient with whom I was vaguely familiar, speeding toward us in his electric wheelchair. I froze. BJ froze. Aroused by the shout, one elderly face looked our way, and then another. In the next instant we were surrounded with wheelchair-bound patients, all of whom wanted to meet the big black poodle.
I squatted down and placed an arm around BJ. He was trembling, his heart thundering as hard as mine. He pressed into me as the young man zoomed right up to us and reached out with an awkward hand to pound on his back. I thought BJ would certainly cower from the rough caresses, but he stood his ground. The disabled man laughed with delight and pounded harder.
Then a nearby elderly woman held out a tentative hand. “May I pet him too?”
“Uh, sure.” I led BJ to her, surprised when he came easily.
A smile lit the lady’s creased face as her fingers encountered his curly fur. “He’s so soft. I had a dog once. Her name was Lady.”
More hands joined hers, and wheelchairs inched closer. “This one’s name is BJ,” I told our audience, as a half dozen people rubbed him, clearly thrilled to have a four-legged visitor. To my utter amazement, BJ not only tolerated their attention, after a moment he actually wandered from one wheelchair to the next, as though aware of the joy and pleasure he was affording the residents.
That short walk down the hallway to Daddy’s room took longer than ever before, because every resident—and the staff too—wanted to pet the friendly giant poodle. I took my time, watching this refugee from a puppy mill spread happiness to those confined in a place with few joys, many of them due to circumstances beyond their control. Just as BJ had been when we found him. I saw smiles on faces where I’d previously seen only scowls or tears, and I silently promised God that I’d strive to bring those smiles back more often.
By the time BJ arrived in Daddy’s room, he was prancing, his head held high, clearly having the time of his life and enormously pleased with himself. Daddy was thrilled with his grand-dog and loved watching BJ fetch the ball I rolled the short distance across the floor of his room. When I left, it was with a light heart, pondering the lesson my timid dog taught me that day. Even our most dreadful fears have no power in the face of joy. Especially when that joy is a gift we give to others.
In the years that followed, BJ became a regular visitor to Daddy’s nursing home, and he was always greeted with enthusiasm. Though he remained terrified of strangers in general, he loved those people. Maybe he sensed that they loved him. Or perhaps he simply enjoyed spreading joy.
