Our therapy dog Otto, passed away unexpectedly on January 6th, 2025. We were left with a huge hole in our lives and hearts. Our amazing veterinarian team at Vista Vet in Kennewick helped us through this traumatic time with incredible grace, care, and understanding. Their donation to WSU's Pet Memorial Program helps to keep Otto's memory alive. This is a story I wrote a while back, documenting the life of a therapy dog. This includes visits to WSU's Pullman campus to bring comfort and love to students, faculty, and staff.

Sit, stay, walk by... and go say hi: Snapshots from a therapy dog journey

We worked our way down the hall, clicking nails to my soft-soled shoes. Bright, sterile lights lit our path, the air heavy with the sharp smell of bleach and disinfectant with undertones of sadness and fear. The list of those requesting time with a therapy dog included floor and room numbers, but we moved slowly so that Otto could make his own assessment. His method was to slow briefly at a door, cock his head to the side slightly, and then sniff with a gentle huff. If the door was completely closed or if it bore a sign marking it as a quarantine room, we moved on regardless of Otto’s opinion. There were times when he responded to a closed door with a soft whine but in general, he accepted the decision of others and moved along willingly.

We rounded a corner and Otto perked, aiming straight for a door that was only slightly open. I looked to the nurses’ station, hoping for some indication if we should enter. The room was not on our list and the door seemed more closed than I like to push through. A woman, decked out in cheerful scrubs, gave me a nod so we moved forward with Otto leading the way.

The room was dark and quiet, save for the hissing and beeping that provided the hospital soundtrack. I almost didn’t see the elderly gentleman hunched on the side of the bed amongst the wires and tubes that attached him to various machines telling his stories. His hospital gown was tied loosely at the top but otherwise, I could see his exhausted spine protruding under paper thin skin. His head hung heavily over hunched shoulders and boney knees bent sharply over the loose hospital-issue socks that trailed several inches above the cold floor. The room was bare of any personal items: No flowers, no cards wishing him well, no balloons. Only a tray of food, barely touched, sitting on the rolling table. He was utterly defeated.

Otto assessed the situation quickly and then began the arduous challenge of snaking his 70-pound furry body through the maze, careful to not step on or snag anything that might hurt the man. I lowered myself quietly onto the hard plastic of the bedside chair. I was an intruder in this moment but had no choice but to hold the end of the leash attached to Otto’s collar. I understood the requirement but still, hated the reality of disturbing the dog’s focused work.

Gently, Otto nosed his head under the man’s still hands and slowly the man raised his reddened eyes to meet the deep brown calm that the dog offered. The man very slowly ran his fingers deep into the thick fur behind Otto’s velvet ears, splaying his fingers out, letting them sink into the warmth the tangle of curls provided. Without breaking eye contact, he dropped his head to Otto’s, bending at an impossible angle to rest against the dog’s willing forehead. He shuddered slightly and then succumbed to his feelings, Otto’s fur absorbing the torrent of quiet tears. Beneath sobs, I could hear his broken voice saying, “There you are ol’ boy. I knew you’d come.”

Later, as the door closed on the now sleeping man’s room, the nurse pulled me aside. “He’s been here almost two weeks and you’re his first visitors.” She paused, fighting back the emotion that nurses generally succeed at covering. “No one should be alone when they are told they’re going to die.”

I’m often asked how does one train a therapy dog. To me, the answer is simple. Certain dogs are born to this work. We, as their fortunate owners, must learn how to help them be successful and safe. Otto came into our lives as a rescue. One of my lifetime best friends contacted me one day, saying she found my dog. Mind you, I hadn’t had a dog since our old Shepard, Maggie (also a rescue) passed away 15 years before. She was one of those dogs that left a hole in our lives that was so big, so deep, that no “new” dog would fit and we didn’t try.

I had developed a bit of an infatuation with her dog, Summit. The suggestion of my own dog might have been intended as a deflection to prevent me from stealing hers in the middle of the night. We were living five hours away from where “my” dog lived and I begged my friend to go meet him for me. She and her daughter took on the task and reported back: “I looked in to his soul and he would definitely be happy with you.” Enough said, we would be bringing Otto home.

We realized soon after Otto came home, that his damaged, rescue soul sought out others who needed him and we set about to register him as a therapy dog. I learned that there really isn’t a protocol per se to “train” a therapy dog but rather, a process to prove to the world that they’re a fit. He completed his Canine Good Citizen (CGC) certification with flying colors.

Others in our group struggled a bit more and commented that “we” had done a good job training him. I felt a bit guilty with the reality that we had done nothing more than recognize his spirit. I learned how to focus that in a way that would keep him safe. Sit, stay, down, all came easily. Leave it provided a bit more challenging as his puppy exuberance still shone through, but he learned. Teaching a rescue that he should stay with strangers when told to stay when his owner, the leader of his pack, walked out of the room also took a bit of work, but he quickly mastered it. He learned to “walk by” other dogs without saying hello and picked up “go say hi” as his permission to follow his heart to talk to a stranger. He graduated from the program with both the regular and advanced CGC certificates on the same day.

Our next step required that he pass a test with Pet Partners – one of several nationwide groups that provide certification, training, and liability coverage for therapy dogs working in the field. I was nervous the day of the test but he was ready – more so than me. During the exam, he was confronted with actors, loudly slinging medical equipment, approaching him in wheelchairs, other dogs, the dreaded stay while I left the room, and temptations that challenged his leave it skills.

He took it all in calmly and passed, earning qualification status of “Complex,” allowing him to work in “highly complex environments with low staff involvement” meaning the two of us could work alone in facilities where unpredictable people could do unpredictable things at any time and he (we) would stay calm. I wasn’t as confident in my own “complex” certification but knew Otto would take the lead. We were a team.

Next up, his interview and badging at the hospital where we would do the much of his therapy work. Another hurdle that he approached calmly, making friends wherever he went and gaining an official badge granting him more access than the Pet Partners badge I carried. He was the team leader. I was just on for the ride.

Our requirements in these facilities included remaining on a six-foot leash (meaning he accompanied me into the bathroom on multiple occasions), knowing the emergency codes and what to do, recognizing the hospital’s security dog, Colonel, and leaving the floor as quickly as possible (Colonel was decidedly not dog-friendly and had a specific job to do), and what doors and floors were open to visits. The first time we walked through the entry doors I caught my breath, having no idea how Otto would interact with this new environment. I badged him in (again, me as just his human leash-holder), met the therapy dog coordinator, and we were off.

Otto worked his magic beautifully on that first day and then proceeded to sleep the whole way to McDonalds where he enjoyed his first of many “burger-no-bun” treat. I was mentally exhausted but he bounded through the rest of the day at home without a care in the world while I wearily looked back on our experience. He had touched so many lives, brightened otherwise ugly situations, shared his unconditional, quiet-love with those in need, and provided his furry shoulder to cry on to complete strangers. A job well done. We would be back.

And we did go back, week after week, each visit different from the last but all including hugs, pets, a few tears, and a toe-touch into the multitude of lives that somehow end up centered around one place, at one time based on life’s sicknesses, injuries, births, and deaths. We wandered the OR waiting room, trying to ease the anxiety of the pause, the ICU, the Medical/Surgery floors, Rehab, the Birthing Center, and Otto’s favorite, Pediatrics. Our “clients” included patients, families, staff, doctors, nurses, really anyone who wandered by and needed a few minutes to share their troubles, concerns, fears, and triumphs with a sympathetic dog.

We never have the benefit of a back-story, a chart, or even a name as we walked into the microcosms of people’s worst days but I knew, as we stepped into the room, that this one was different. There were no machines loudly documenting life forces, no bustle of family, awkwardly trying to move their lives into a tiny hospital room to be there for a loved one, no flowers or cards. Just a quiet room with a woman engulfed in an oversized hospital gown wearing loose, blue socks and a transfer band tied loosely around her waist, sitting in a nest of rumpled sheets. A badged older woman sat in a corner engulfed in a book, a “sitter,” quietly performing a job that no machine could emulate.

Otto quickly overrode my indecision and walked to the bedside where he sat and patiently watched the woman in the bed. I noticed crisp, white bandages on her wrists but Otto didn’t care. I crouched down, trying to make myself as small as possible to make this moment one for her and Otto. Her eyes widened as she turned her head. He perked up and moved closer, giving a small whine of hello. She rolled from the bed, causing the sitter to glance up and note what was going on. She paused but held back from interfering. She, like me, seemed to want that moment to be theirs.

The woman slid to the floor and held out her damaged arms, drawing Otto in, and the two sunk to the floor. As she touched the soft fur on Otto’s chest, he reached a paw up and placed it on her shoulder. Her voice began as a whisper, the notes of a song quavering into the space between them, her hand stroking, her body calming, their eyes locked together.

We never have the benefit of a story or a name when we enter and sadly, we also are left without an ending. The pages of the book Otto flings open with his presence are left, fluttering in the wind, the “happily ever after” part torn away. We leave and just hope that our time was healing and that we left the person in a better place than when we arrived. This story was especially difficult to leave open. I desperately wanted to know that she walked out of the hospital and went on with life, her time there providing the wound care her soul needed. I’m not sure that Otto cared. He doesn’t need the promise of a happy ending to provide his presence. His sense of peace comes from the moment and then he moves on.

We could all learn a lot about providing healing space and caregiving from a dog.

A year and a half later, we added Duke to the team. If you haven’t had the chance to lose yourself in the deep, soulful eyes of a Golden Retriever, you’ve missed out. Put it on your bucket list as “self-care.”

Covid closed our door to the hospital temporarily and yet the boys continued to follow their noses and soft brown eyes into the hearts of people’s lives wherever they traveled. “Can I pet the dogs?”

“They’d love that.” I thanked the student for asking, recognizing that the vests reminded people to ask about approaching working dogs, a practice I wholeheartedly encourage. She dropped her backpack to the floor and sank down with the dogs, hugging and petting them. The Cub at WSU was teeming with students, wandering about alone and in groups, intent on fully experiencing every aspect of college life. Soon she was joined by other students, the pile of discarded backpacks growing. It was dead week on campus and the air was thick with the stress of upcoming exams. I backed further down the leashes, trying to give the students room with the boys.

A flock of chattering girls streamed by and they stopped with a collective “Ooooo, they’re so cute! Can we pet them?” I gave up on the leashes (shhh, don’t tell Pet Partners) and backed away as the swarm grew. Soon, I could no longer see the dogs but the look of sheer joy on their faces as they disappeared into the melee of arms, faces, and love confirmed that they were just fine. This continued for some time as some students moved on and others joined, eager for puppy time. These were kids, masquerading as adults, swirling in an unfamiliar world, but their masks were thin and I could see the vulnerable children beneath. They were stressed, missing their families and fur-friends at home, enjoying a moment where they could just be their true selves again. The boys were giving them that authentic space.

I smiled as one voice lifted above the crowd, “I’m not crying, you’re crying!”

Extended campus visits became a staple in our therapy journey and the dogs lapped it up, receiving just as much from their time as those who found them on campus. One of my son’s friends noted the flocking, the overall gender breakdown of the flock-ees, and casually suggested that he’d like to take the boys for a walk past the sororities on Greek row. “You know… for exercise.”

Hmmm, yeah, I see where you’re going with that.

I should point out that life with therapy dogs isn’t all profound moments or life changing events. They’re dogs after all. Just like we’re all human. Otto and Duke often share a brain when focused on the little things like mice or rabbits or a hot dog. They forget their training and manners regularly. Despite knowing that they are supposed to wait to go out the door, I’m often pushed aside as two 80-pound balls of muscled fur vie for the same two feet of door space.

They eat their weight in food… daily. They enjoy spa days with their Fairy Godmothers and the best veterinarian care with a doctor who seeks them out when they come in the door, accusing me of cheating if I am forced to schedule with someone else. They travel in style and although they take treats from others with great appreciation, they follow it by gently spitting it back out onto the floor once backs are turned. Dog treats are somehow beneath these two.

They will sleep on the floor – though they consider it beneath their dignity – but sneak up on the bed where they feel they belong, heads on pillows, pushing the human interlopers to sleep elsewhere. They ignore the 16-year old white cat David but insist on wheelbarrowing the calico, Ginger across the room with snouts planted in her behind – just because they know it annoys her. They erupt with unbounded enthusiasm when anyone grabs the car keys and then sulk, heads dripping to the floor when told they need to stay home.

They’ve eaten steaks off the counter, butter from the dish, a loaf of bread, and unmentionables from the trash. When confronted, Duke falls to the floor, offering his belly and grinning. Aloof Otto suggests that you might have worked a tad harder at making these treats more readily available if they were the intended recipients. After all, stretching up to the counter, the stovetop, the cabinet, was a bit beneath his sensibilities.

Otto has appointed himself Fierce Guard Dog and puts on quite a show. Showing up at our place can be a harrowing experience when faced with the Cujo version of his usual lovely, adoring, therapy-dog-self. He loves the USPS mailwoman, has deep, soulful conversations with the UPS guy, and has threatened to disembowel anyone from FedEx. We often find packages, chucked willy-nilly in the driveway with skid marks demonstrating the hasty retreat of the white and purple truck. For the record, we tried to rectify the situation by teaming up with the postwoman and UPS guy to introduce Otto to the FedEx guy, but to no avail. Slights run deep… apparently. No clue what that slight was. Perhaps, it’s the color purple?

And if you’ve ever had a bad day in the presence of your best friend, the therapist, you will understand my common conversation with each:

“Are U sad? I halp.”

“Nope. Feeling pretty good today.”

“I think UR sad.”

“I’m good. Really, I’m fine. I’m not sad.”

“Hmmm… I think U sad.” [Rests chin on my chest and stares deeply into my eyes.] “See… U sad.”

“Okay, maybe I’m just a little sad,” balling hysterically.

“Thought so. I halp.”