Matthew LaMott had always been a fussy baby. He had to be swaddled tightly to go to sleep, and even then, he would cry for hours, no matter what his parents tried. Bassinet, arms, rocking, singing, silence, lying with him in bed, white noise, lavender—nothing worked. When his mother, Christine, brought him into the shower with her to see if the gentle warmth of the water would help calm him, he screamed in what seemed to be physical pain. She never tried that again.
His temperament took her by surprise. His sister and stepsister hadn’t been like this. But Christine knew plenty of babies were sensitive and not so good at falling asleep. She figured he’d grow out of it by the time he was old enough for day care.
But day care was a disaster. He wouldn’t play with the other children, and if he engaged, it would usually end badly. It seemed to his parents that he couldn’t “read” people. He’d get angry and frustrated, and would have frequent meltdowns. Sometimes he bit other children. If someone took his toy or accidentally bumped him, or even if someone was too close—anything that threatened his environment—he would lash out. Once he drew blood.
“I thought it was a stage. But it lasted far too long and was too severe,” says Christine, who got her share of hard bites when she had to restrain him during a meltdown.
The best word she could think of for him was “intense.” When he was about two and a half, Matthew became obsessed with the color blue. Everything had to be blue, from his underwear to his clothes to his cup and plate. If something wasn’t blue, he had meltdowns of “epic proportions,” sometimes lasting more than an hour.
He couldn’t run through the sprinkler like the other kids because he said it hurt when the water touched him. He couldn’t stand fluorescent lights, loud noises, strong smells. Brushing his teeth, brushing his hair, trimming his nails, or any personal grooming was a two-person job.
An occupational therapist diagnosed Matthew with sensory processing disorder. She and his parents worked to expose Matthew to sensory skills in fun ways, like jumping in a ball pit, swinging, playing with shaving cream as paint, blowing bubbles, making noises.
But it seemed to Christine that there was something wrong beyond this sensory diagnosis. She felt it in her gut but relied on the experts.
She took him to see a psychologist and was glad when Matthew had a meltdown in front of him. She thought this would help the psychologist come up with a more accurate diagnosis. But he said it was just normal two-year-old behavior. Christine wanted this to be true, but she couldn’t really believe it. “So many things were just off,” she says.
It would be another year before Matthew was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder. Everything finally made sense to Christine and to Matthew’s dad, Jon. As they navigated the treacherous waters of the fresh diagnosis, they tried to continue life as normal—although they could barely remember what normal was.
That Christmas, the relatives came to their house. It didn’t take long for Matthew to crash. Christine doesn’t remember what set him off, but she was embarrassed by his screaming and yelling and biting and head-butting. She didn’t want this to be happening at all, much less on Christmas and in front of the relatives. She whisked him into the closest room—the bathroom—and hoped he would calm down. If nothing else, the relatives would have a break from his storm.
There was a knock at the door. Christine could barely hear it through the screams. It was Christine’s sister, who had brought her two Doberman pinschers to the festivities.
“Let Dior in. She’s a mama,” she told Christine.
The Doberman walked into the bathroom. Matthew immediately fell silent. Dior walked over to Matthew. He reached out his arm and stroked her fur. He rubbed her side. He hugged her.
Christine had never seen anything like this. What just happened? she asked herself as she emerged from the room with a transformed child a few minutes later.
She looked for information about the benefits of dogs for children with autism. She learned that Can Do Canines—the same organization that had trained Terri Krake’s dog, Brody, from Chapter 2—also trained autism-assistance dogs. The organization was close, and the dogs were provided free of charge.
It seemed too good to be true. She applied for a dog.
Within a few days she learned there was a waiting list of 177 people.
It would turn out to be a four-year wait. But Christine didn’t know that at the time. She’s glad she didn’t; just the idea of a dog who could help her son gave her hope and comfort during dark times.
In the interim, the LaMotts gave up going to restaurants because it was too much for Matthew. The family had a well-worn three-ring binder of takeout menus. It was the closest they could come to eating out. They never went on vacations. At home they had what they needed to survive—his familiar room, weighted blankets, noise-canceling headphones, a library of books they could read aloud. Reading usually calmed him. But only in the house.
Leaving the house was hell, especially when it came to appointments beyond Matthew’s therapies.
Haircuts tormented him. He usually had long, shaggy hair because in the salon chair he screamed and writhed and had to be held by his mom. Christine and the stylist understood that haircuts were frightening to him, and that the little hairs that fell on his neck probably felt like needles. They tried to make it as soothing and gentle as possible, but no matter what, it was enervating for everyone.
The dentist was worse. They’d been only twice before he was seven years old. Christine had to lie on the chair with Matthew in her lap. He spent the appointment banging his head into her and screaming. The first time the hygienist tried to clean his teeth, he bit her. Doctor visits were just as traumatic. He was petrified of doctors and nurses. His parents usually had to hold him down for him to get even a basic exam. They hated taking him to the doctor almost as much as he hated going.
Christine grew weary, and sick of the looks people gave her when Matthew had meltdowns, especially in stores. Shopping was one activity they couldn’t avoid. When she had to bring him with her, she used all her strategies to keep him calm—going late in the evening when it was less crowded, putting him in a stroller and letting him play with his iPad. Inevitably, at some point something would set him off.
If he wasn’t in his stroller, he might bolt away. She’d have to leave everything and run after him. She’d hold him as he screamed, or she’d try to sing to him. The dirty looks from people with judgmental MY child would never get away with that expressions got to her. She had been one of those people before Matthew came along.
Usually the only solution was to rush home to a calmer environment.
Matthew often couldn’t or wouldn’t talk. He was considered high-functioning on the autism spectrum, yet words frequently wouldn’t come to him, especially when he was overwhelmed.
But his parents noticed something intriguing: While he might not talk to people, he would readily talk to the neighbors’ dogs. He would tell the dogs things he wouldn’t tell anyone. He’d tell them about his day—often about problems with other kids. The dogs just listened. So he told them more.
His parents decided they’d waited long enough. It was time to get a dog, even if he or she was just a pet and not a service dog trained to help Matthew.
They settled on a golden retriever puppy. He was adorable, of course. Matthew named him Chase, after a dog in the animated children’s series Paw Patrol. It was fun, but it was chaos. And unfortunately, as Chase grew up, he became scared of loud noises—just like Matthew. When Matthew had meltdowns, Chase ran away.
At least school was going OK. Sometimes. Matthew did well with the structure provided by school, especially since he could take “sensory breaks” in a special room with calming lighting and equipment like swings and fidget toys. But he would still sometimes lash out at the teacher. Even the principal wasn’t immune.
Christine went to the principal’s office one day and saw that he had bloody scratch marks all over the top of his hand from Matthew. “I was horrified and mortified that Matthew had done this, at the same time I felt terrible that Matthew had gotten to the point where he was that upset.”
At home, his parents were following the advice of therapists and structuring his time there as much as they could, including giving him some chores. “He can’t get a pass just because he has a disability,” Christine says. “That’s not how it works in the world.”
It was still taking Matthew two hours to fall asleep. He had daily meltdowns, sometimes more. If someone tried to calm him with words or speak to him during meltdowns, it seemed to push him further over the edge. “Stop talking to me!” he’d yell.
Everyone was at a loss.
And then, just when the LaMotts were thinking they’d never get off the wait list for a service dog, they got the call. Can Do Canines had a dog they thought would be perfect for Matthew—a calm, good-natured, shiny black Lab named Lloyd.
The LaMotts had no idea of the changes that were in store, or that a dog could alter the course of a family’s trajectory so profoundly.
Lloyd’s first meeting with Matthew came at the end of a school day when Matthew was seven years old. Tears streamed down Matthew’s cheeks as he greeted his new dog. He buried his face in Lloyd’s fur.
It was the first time he had ever cried tears of happiness.
The two clicked immediately. “It was as if they were made for each other,” Christine says. “Matthew became a whole different kid.”
Lloyd’s magic comes mostly from being a calm fellow, never ruffled, ever the unflappable and steady friend.
Matthew’s meltdowns have dwindled to maybe one per month, usually lasting no more than fifteen minutes. When he starts getting to where he might boil over—raising his voice and becoming agitated—Lloyd nudges him.
What’s going on? What are you doing? Let’s just chill now. You’ll feel so much better. Let me help you. Give me a hug!
Lloyd may also lick Matthew, and rather than run away, he stays by his boy’s side. His parents are quick to tell people that Lloyd’s actions calm Matthew better than any therapy they’ve tried.
“Dogs love without prejudice. They don’t expect any verbal interaction, like people do,” Christine says. “I think that takes the pressure off. Autism is a skyrocket. Lloyd brings him back down safely.”
The takeout-food binder is forgotten in a drawer. As long as Lloyd is with them, the whole family can go out to restaurants. The overstimulating atmosphere doesn’t upset him anymore. He usually hangs out under the table with his dog. Christine is aware that it’s less than sanitary down there, but it’s not a battle she’s interested in fighting.
Recently, during a visit to Panda Express, Matthew asked to sit at his own table—just him and Lloyd. His mother watched in joyful shock as he took his food and settled at a two-person table. Lloyd lay at his feet as his boy ate his whole meal under the bright lights of the chain restaurant.
For the first year or so, Matthew was tethered to Lloyd during shopping trips since Matthew was still inclined to bolt.* Christine held Lloyd’s leash so there was never a danger of him being dragged off with Matthew, and Matthew was never violent with Lloyd. She says the tether gave her son a chance to pause and rethink what he was doing. When he tried to escape, Lloyd sat and wouldn’t budge.
Lloyd helped temper Matthew’s sensory overload until he was able to express it in words instead of bolting. Now Matthew will tell his parents when he’s about to go downhill.
“I’m feeling triggered,” he’ll say. Christine will get him to sit somewhere away from crowds—a quiet aisle, if they’re shopping—and Lloyd immediately lies down across Matthew’s lap. “This gives Matthew the weighted, warm, soft feeling that helps him regulate his senses,” she explains. Then she’ll ask her son what’s going on, and he’s usually able to put his frustration into words. They work it out.
Getting more sleep may be helping every aspect of Matthew’s life. He no longer spends a couple of hours lying awake. At bedtime Lloyd zips tight against Matthew, who usually falls asleep within twenty minutes.
Everything is easier with Lloyd. Matthew gets through haircuts without a struggle as long as Lloyd is right next to him and within petting distance. The stylist can even use buzzing electric clippers. Lloyd’s black fur ends up covered in little blond hair clippings, but he doesn’t mind. Like everything else, he just shakes it off.
At the dentist, Lloyd lies across Matthew, almost like a blanket. Matthew sits quietly with his arms around Lloyd’s neck. During their first dentist appointment together, the dentist was even able to apply sealants to Matthew’s molars.
A few months after getting Lloyd, Matthew fell ill with a high fever. Christine took him to urgent care. Once she assured him that Lloyd could be on the gurney with him, he let her lift him onto it. Lloyd jumped up after him and lay down. Matthew cuddled him as he waited for the doctors and handled everything like a pro during the exam.
“It was like Lloyd had lifted this enormous weight off of me. I cried all the way home,” Christine says.
The LaMotts have made up for lost vacation time, too. Since Lloyd, they’ve been to California (including a ride on San Francisco’s clanging cable cars), Mount Rushmore, and Universal Studios Florida. With Lloyd at his side, Matthew can handle every aspect of travel, including cross-country plane trips.
Most important and heartwarming, Christine says, is that Matthew is making friends at school. He has blossomed since Lloyd arrived. He attends school functions (albeit sometimes with earplugs to muffle the noise) and has a confidence that wins over other kids, even if he still isn’t as adept at interacting as most children. He gets invited to parties and sleepovers. The kids like his sense of humor—something he comes by naturally from being raised in a family of jokers.
Lloyd doesn’t attend school because Matthew would have to take care of him there, and he’s still young and unaware of his dog’s needs. But sometimes Lloyd visits school—usually when Matthew is having a rough day. A few minutes of quiet time with his dog leaves Matthew in a better place.
To the amazement of his family, Matthew has joined the school band. He wanted to play trumpet, but the band teacher evaluated him and said that because he has excellent pitch sensitivity, he’d be a great trombone player. During the initial band practices Matthew tried to play the trombone and cover his ears at the same time because of the other instruments. That didn’t work out so well. Christine bought him some earplugs that significantly reduce the noise. They seem to be helping.
Matthew brings the instrument home to practice on weekends. His parents realize beginners in any instrument will be rough on the ears, and they bear with the baying sounds and squawks. But Lloyd is another story. He was trained for only so much.
The trombone was not part of the job description.
When Matthew practices at home, Lloyd barks as if an intruder were in the house. He’s never complained about anything, so Christine and Jon take the dog’s protestations seriously. They have Matthew practice on one floor, and make sure Lloyd is far enough away on another floor where it doesn’t bother him.
“It’s the least we could do after what he has done for us,” she says.
In the 1960s, child psychologist Boris Levinson, PhD, of Yeshiva University, broke new ground in a presentation to the American Psychological Association when he described how his dog Jingles affected therapy sessions with uncommunicative children. By chance he discovered that when Jingles was in the room, these children would open up and become significantly better at communicating.
Stanley Coren, PhD, professor emeritus in the Department of Psychology at the University of British Columbia, and author of many engaging and excellent books about dogs (you met him in a footnote in Chapter 4), was in the beginning stages of his career when he attended the talk. He recalled in a column in Psychology Today the reaction to Dr. Levinson’s presentation.
“The reception of his talk was not positive, and the tone in the room did not do credit to the psychological profession,” Dr. Coren wrote. “Levinson was distressed to find that many of his colleagues treated his work as a laughing matter. One even cat-called from the audience, ‘What percentage of your therapy fees do you pay to the dog?’”
Dr. Coren lamented the response. He thought it might be the end for that line of “work” for dogs. But he wrote that around that same time, biographies of Sigmund Freud were being published. The books discussed the psychoanalyst’s use of his own dogs in therapy sessions.
In the 1930s, Dr. Freud’s dog, a fluffy red chow chow named Jofi, originally joined him in his sessions just as his cherished pet. She was there mainly to keep Freud company. He had been smitten with Jofi from the beginning. “She is a charming creature, so interesting in her feminine characteristics, too, wild, impulsive, intelligent and yet not so dependent as dogs often are,” he wrote when Jofi came into his life. “One cannot help feeling respect for animals like this.”
It didn’t take Dr. Freud long to see Jofi’s effect on patients. “This difference was most marked when Freud was dealing with children or adolescents,” Dr. Coren wrote. “It seemed to him that the patients seemed more willing to talk openly when the dog was in the room. They were also more willing to talk about painful issues.”
When Dr. Freud’s findings appeared in these books, Dr. Levinson’s work started being taken more seriously, according to Dr. Coren. Eventually this led to studies of dogs and their effect on children with autism spectrum disorder.
Considering that one in fifty-nine children in the United States has been identified as being on the spectrum, there’s a surprising dearth of quality, peer-reviewed studies of this relationship. The authors of these studies tend to conclude they’re encouraged by the results, but call for more research.
Some studies find that dogs in therapy settings can help children on the spectrum. One study of twenty-two children showed more improvement in language use and social interactions during occupational therapy sessions that incorporated animals (dogs, but also llamas and rabbits) than sessions without them. In a study of a dozen boys in sessions with therapy dogs, children showed less aggression and self-absorption, and more smiling, visual contact, and affectionate behaviors.
But it’s not all unicorns and rainbows. An earlier study, published in the Western Journal of Nursing Research, found an increase in hand-flapping in a dog’s presence and less eye contact with the therapist. In addition, the children provided less-detailed answers to questions. Still, the authors leaned on the study’s more positive results in their conclusion: “Children exhibited a more playful mood, were more focused, and were more aware of their social environments when in the presence of a therapy dog. These findings indicate that interaction with dogs may have specific benefits for this population and suggest that animal-assisted therapy (AAT) may be an appropriate form of therapy.”
As for autism-assistance dogs like Lloyd, the little research that’s been done points to the kind of positive outcomes the LaMotts have experienced: a calmer child who sleeps better and has fewer tantrums and other behavioral problems.*
Not all dogs are miracle workers like Lloyd. Sometimes these dogs aren’t a good fit for families with autism. But when it’s a strong match, autism-assistance dogs seem to be able to help across the spectrum. And around the world . . .
With his shoulder-length grizzled bob swept to one side, his leather bomber jacket, his faded jeans, and his ice-blue eyes, Damir Vučić looks like a rock star from another era. Even as he drives a Fiat Doblò that smells like dog food through the winding streets of Zagreb, Croatia, the fifty-two-year-old comes across as someone who belongs on a stage holding a guitar.
But a closer look reveals he’s a rock star of a different sort. He wears a necklace that ends in a pouch. The pouch is full of dog kibble. Also around his neck are a couple of leashes. His jacket pockets brim with dog treats.
Damir had spent plenty of time in the spotlight, but always with a dog at his side. He’s a respected and popular dog trainer, and has devoted much of the last quarter century to raising and showing big, fluffy, light-cream golden retrievers, and being a show judge throughout Europe.
A couple of years ago he became the head trainer for the Croatian Guide Dog and Mobility Association. He loves the work, and finds it more rewarding than anything he’s ever done. “To help improve someone’s life by training a dog for them feels very good,” says Damir. “Dog is my brother, so it’s a natural fit for me to help them help people.”
I ask him what he means about dog being his brother. I’ve heard “dog is my copilot,” but the brother reference eluded me.
“It’s my surname. ‘Vučić’ means ‘little wolf,’ like a wolf cub. So dogs and I get along very well.” He adds that he was born in Dalmatia, so he is also a Dalmatian. “I am all about dogs.”
I’d met Damir earlier that day when I was learning how the association uses dogs as educational aides for children with developmental disabilities. Psychologist and counselor Lea Devčić had been showing me some of the ways dogs have been helping children with their reading and numbers skills, days of the week, months, seasons, colors, and even coordination, empathy, recognizing emotions, and overcoming sensory issues.
Dogs are active parts of the lessons. At the office, Lea works with her dog Leo, a black Lab, to demonstrate skill-building exercises to parents and children. If a child has a service dog, that dog will be part of the lessons at home.
It’s all a game for the dogs (as always), and learning becomes a game for the children. Let’s say a child is struggling with months and seasons. The family has been given a big red cloth bag reminiscent of Santa’s Christmas sack, filled with goodies for various lessons. The child or parent fishes out four big wooden numbers, each in a different color and with the name of a season, and sets them on the floor somewhere in the room. Near the child is a big circular calendar with all the months radiating out from the center, color-coded in sections to match the wooden numbers, which are inscribed with the seasons.
The parent or child asks the dog to “fetch” a number, and the dog brings the number to the child. The dog gets a treat. Children are usually happy to be working with a wagging and nonjudgmental educational facilitator. It seems to be able to make it easier to learn without frustration, and to participate in answering questions. Typical questions or requests from a parent doing this lesson go something like this:
“Which number did the dog bring you?”
“What is that season?”
“What months and color does that season go on? Can you read me the months?”
“Go ahead and set the number on the right season.”
The dog is usually watching, even if from a corner of the room. Depending on the child’s imagination, the dog is still participating in the lesson. Children often look at the dog during the activity, even when the dog isn’t actively engaged. Some lessons are all about the dog—like matching a ball color to a dog’s bandanna, which the parent changes. During the sessions the dog can bring different-colored balls to the child, or the child can choose a ball and bring it to the dog.
Balls and dogs and children are a winning combination.
“Dogs are great motivators for learning and skill development,” Lea explained as she poured her sack of educational props onto the floor. “They’re nonthreatening, nonjudgmental, and give unconditional love. There’s no better teacher.”
Just then, Damir walked in with a yellow Lab–golden retriever mix.
“This is Bob. He’s going to go to a very nice girl with autism spectrum disorder today,” Damir said after Lea had introduced him.
I’d never seen a service dog being placed with a child before.
“Is there any chance I could go with you?”
Bob is lying in a large kennel in the back of the van. For all he knows, he’s going to the nearby grassy park—maybe the one with the big crunchy autumn leaves all over the ground. Or back to Damir’s.
Bob had been staying with Damir and his wife for the last three months. He had come to them after spending most of his early life with a volunteer puppy-raiser family. And now Bob was ready for the next stage of his service dog career. Bob, who is eighteen months old, has had the time of his life at the Vučićs’. He shared the couple’s large home and fenced meadow with their nine golden retrievers and a couple of other dogs Damir has been training for the organization.
He also shared the Vučićs’ bed. There are dog beds scattered around the house, but most nights you can find several dogs piled into bed with the couple.
By day, Damir worked with Bob on basic obedience. Damir has known Bob since puppyhood. In fact, Damir was the one who named Bob. His full name is Bobby McGee. Damir shrugs and smiles when he tells me. This man clearly knows his Janis Joplin.
I’m fond of short human names for dogs, and to meet a dog named Bob in a country where I can’t pronounce most names is a treat. I find myself saying “Hey, Bob!” in an idiotic voice every time I see him looking at me from his kennel. Bang bang goes his tail against the frame. “Bahhhhhb!” Bang bang!
Bob is a mellow, friendly dog. The organization, known for raising and training guide dogs, was hoping he’d be a guide dog. But after Damir and some other members of the staff tested him, they realized he didn’t have the right stuff for guiding the blind. He was a little nervous in certain new situations. He would pant, with his ears back and tail down. Guide dog work can be high pressure, and they needed to see a more confident temperament. But all was not lost. They simply found a new career path for him.
“Bob is sweet and sensitive and gentle,” Damir tells me. “We chose a gentle, sweet, sensitive girl for him. He met her and her family last week and they were all so happy. Today is the big day for everyone.”
We pull up to a modest house and park along the street. Damir opens the back door of the van and out pops Bob, who stretches, yawns, and looks at Damir to find out what’s next. Damir, flanked by Bob, starts up the exterior stairs of the house.
I glance at a window on the second floor and see a girl looking out. She has long straight blond hair and is smiling tenderly. Her hands are little fists of excitement under her chin.
When we get to the top of the stairs, Renato Petek opens the door. Bob runs up to him and his wife, Kosjenka. Bob is wagging and smiling, licking them on the face. He seems to recognize them from their first encounter last week with their daughter, Ira.
Ira scampers into the kitchen from the room where she’d been watching for Bob. Her eyes are wide and glittering with excitement. She doesn’t say anything, but she seems to revel in Bob’s presence.
“He’s here, Bob is really here! We have a dog!” Kosjenka exclaims. Her eyes well up. “We have all been looking forward to this day for such a long time.”
She invites me to the small kitchen table for a cup of coffee while Damir talks to Renato and Ira in the adjoining living room about Bob and the kind of training they will be doing with him. Bob knows basic obedience, and the family will have to learn how to work with him to keep up his skills. The training for Ira’s needs will happen after Bob passes some obedience tests. Renato will be Bob’s main adult handler since he’s off work for a while because of an injury.
Ira sits on the couch, and Bob lies at her feet. She reaches down and strokes his fur, staring at him, rapt, silent, while she listens to Damir speak with her father. Bob licks her hands. She beams and looks at her mother, who is watching from the adjoining kitchen.
“This makes me so happy,” Kosjenka says, setting a plate of buttery Croatian cookies on the table. “Ira has been talking about Bob nonstop. The idea of a dog has been a source of great happiness for a long time.”
Ira is in second grade. She has been having a rough go of school the last couple of years, since leaving her Montessori kindergarten for public school. She hasn’t been engaging with children well and feels uncomfortable in the classroom. At first they thought she was just shy, but it gradually got worse. She doesn’t like to leave the house, preferring the comfort of familiar, calm surroundings to the outside world.
A year ago, she was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder. Her autism looks much different from Matthew’s. She may also have some learning issues. Ira is bright and attentive, but she’s been having trouble with reading, math, and other school subjects. She’s scheduled for evaluation in a few months to see if she has dyslexia or other learning disabilities. In the meantime her parents have been working with her so she won’t fall far behind. Her mom is a primary school teacher, so Ira is in good hands.
In the months they’ve been waiting for a dog, they’ve been visiting Lea and Leo for learning enrichment. Ira has thrived during lessons with Leo. Kosjenka wishes it were the same at school.
It’s been difficult for Kosjenka to watch her daughter struggle academically at such a young age. But far worse is seeing her longing for friends and having a hard time making them. She’s at a stage where she still wants to play with dolls and stuffed animals, while some of her classmates have already moved on to talking about makeup and boys. Ira often comes home from school in tears. Or she has meltdowns because school and the outside world feel so overwhelming.
“I don’t like seeing my daughter suffer,” Kosjenka says. “She’s a kid, she should be enjoying life. Every parent wants their child to be happy, and she’s such a good girl.”
They’d applied for a dog months earlier and were ecstatic when Lea told them their application was accepted. Once Bob had a career change, Lea knew just the place for him.
The Peteks have been gearing up for Bob for a while. Preparations included a trip to the pet store, where they bought him a bed, a collar, a leash, some toys, and food. Ira has a large Labrador retriever doll on her bed, in the room she shares with her parents. She has been sleeping next to the toy dog at night. Her parents will let Bob sleep in her bed, hoping his calmness, his warmth, and his affection will help Ira be more relaxed and sleep better.
As Kosjenka is showing me the “Bob doll” in the bedroom, Ira walks in, followed by the real Bob. Her smile is broad, her eyes alive with happiness. Bob’s big tail wags as he snortles an inspection around the room.
Ira says something quietly to her mother.
“She wants me to show you her painting,” Kosjenka says, looking at something behind me.
I turn around and see a square canvas painted with a couple of green hills. Above the right hill is a dark sky with stars and a giant moon. Above the left hill is a lighter sky with puffy clouds and sunshine. If you look closely, there is a little golden figure running to the left, from the hill on the dark side toward the hill on the lighter side.
Bob.
Without knowing it, Bob has already been helping Ira with something she finds difficult: understanding calendars, including days of the week. Once she and her parents knew Bob’s arrival date, she made a little countdown calendar with her mother’s help. It shows the days of the week, including the numeric order, and the big arrival date with an exclamation point and a heart and his name in ALL CAPS.
Ira had never taken to calendars, but at the end of each day she couldn’t wait to cross off another square and say the day of the week and count how many more days until Bob Day.
We follow Bob and Ira back to the living room. Bob lies down on the parquet floor, and Ira tucks herself on the ground facing him. She holds his paws in her hands.
“She is so peaceful with him,” her mother says. Tears well up again. “He is the perfect dog.”
As we talk, Ira and Bob get up together and she starts skipping around the small apartment. Bob follows, with what seems to be a little smile. In that moment, Ira looks like any happy child, without a trouble in the world, flanked by her loyal, happy dog.
Kosjenka hopes it’s just the beginning of a newfound confidence and joy for Ira, and a lighter load for her daughter to carry. Because now she can share it.
After three hours of talking with the family, Damir has to get going. He has a guide dog to train. He has left Renato with everything he’ll need for continuing Bob’s training until Damir’s return in a few days.
Damir suggests Ira and her dad take Bob for a walk. Since Renato is the one who will be learning obedience with Bob, he takes the leash. We say our good-byes to Kosjenka, who hugs Damir extra hard and thanks him for bringing them the best gift they’ve ever had. (Dogs are placed free of charge.)
“It is my joy,” Damir tells her.
We walk to the Fiat. Damir gives Renato a couple more training tips, and there are hugs all the way around. Damir and I stand and watch as father, daughter, and dog walk down the road. She is swinging her father’s hand and checking in with Bob. Bob bounces along, wagging. He gives Ira’s hand a lick. She giggles.
In a couple of blocks, they turn a corner and disappear from view.
A few months after my visit, I got the good news that Renato and Bob passed the equivalent of a public-access test for service dogs. About ten months after my visit, Kosjenka wrote me. Here’s a portion of her note:
Ira and I also started studying and writing homework with Bob, especially maths which she struggles with. He patiently sits by her side and takes part in our “classes” and learning activities at home.
Her teacher says Bob made big difference and everything about Ira changed since she got him—she says Ira finally opened up and started communicating both with her and with her classmates. At school she used to mask and pretend to understand everything, to be on top of everything and then when we would come home, she’d completely fall apart and it was hard to get on with the day for her. Things are better now because she looks forward coming home to him, taking him out, the whole environment is different. And she behaves more freely at school because many kids like to talk and listen about Bobby . . .
Greetings from Zagreb,
Kosi, Ira, Renato and Bob