Life With McDuff

The Book

LIFE WITH MCDUFF: LESSONS LEARNED FROM A THERAPY DOG

CHAPTER 1 – Spirit Dog Beginning

CHAPTER 2 – Obedience Class Valedictorian 

CHAPTER 3 – Scottie with Attitude 

CHAPTER 4 – Therapy Dog McDuff 

CHAPTER 5 – The Bright Light 

CHAPTER 6 – Home Invasion 

CHAPTER 7 – Through the Storm 

CHAPTER 8 – Trial by Jury 

CHAPTER 9 – Go West Young Scottie 

CHAPTER 10 – Project PRIDE at Opportunity Village 

CHAPTER 11 – Reading with McDuff 

CHAPTER 12 – The Other Side 

CHAPTER 13 – McDuff Loved Them All 

CHAPTER 14 – Beginning of the End 

CHAPTER 15 – Never Again

CHAPTER 16 – Good-Byes for McDuff 

CHAPTER 17 – Still on the Job 

Epilogue 

Contacts 

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CHAPTER 10

Project PRIDE at Opportunity Village

Judge not according to the appearance,
but judge righteous judgment.
John 7:24 (King James Version)

Opening the door by the Project PRIDE sign, I entered the room with McDuff trotting at my side.   Oh my God!  My heart beat faster as I looked around the room.  What have you gotten yourself into? I thought, and almost stopped in my tracks.  Don’t panic.  Be calm and hang around for a little while.  Then, you can get out of here.  You can’t just turn around and leave now.

The caretakers’ eyes watched my reaction with veiled interest.  They’d seen therapy dog volunteers like me come and go before.  McDuff pranced around my feet, tail wagging, while tugging on the leash anxious to meet potential new admirers.  He dragged me over to the nearest person for attention.

“Is he a Scottish terrier?” one of them asked while petting him.  After the initial distraction caused by our intrusion, everyone proceeded with their activities before the interruption.

Moving to an out-of-the-way spot, I looked closer at the boys and girls in the large, bright room with floor to ceiling windows on one side.  A kitchen area against the wall contained a sink, refrigerator, countertop with small appliances, and stove.  I noticed a rocking chair, dinette set, video, and medical equipment.  Toys were scattered throughout the room.  The brightly colored walls contained cartoon characters and other things designed to stimulate the attention of children.

One boy strapped upright to a high tilted board ate baby food spooned to him by a caretaker.  A small blonde girl about three or four years-old scooted around on the floor behind an enclosed area in one corner of the room.   Suspended above the floor in a swing-like device, a slender, dark-haired boy hung with a tube to a food pump connected to his stomach.

Another girl I estimated to be a teenager with short black hair sat at a table in a wheelchair.  Her large eyes followed us with growing apprehension.  A tiny boy lay motionless on his back on an elevated bed placed against the wall.

Then, it hit me — the total silence in the room.  Except for the girl on the floor, none of the others moved around or made a sound.  How in the world am I expected to perform therapy dog work with this group?  I grew more anxious to leave with every passing moment.

Since no one seemed to pay me any attention, I began to walk around the room to get a closer look.  I took care to keep McDuff and his leash out of the way.  He glanced from one kid to the other, puzzled by their lack of attention to him.  The eyes of some of them were unfocused and unseeing.  I later learned they were described as individuals having the most severe mental and physical disabilities in the state of Nevada.  And, to my surprise, they were not boys and girls, but young adults in their early to mid-twenties.

Completely unnerved, at a loss at what to do next, I checked out McDuff and observed him glancing from one person to the next.  He pulled on his leash and guided me around the room.  I followed him over to the young man strapped to the tilt table and started a conversation with the woman feeding him.

“His name is Chris.  He can’t walk, talk, see, or use his arms.  He wears diapers,” she told me.

Since Chris was so far off the floor, I picked McDuff up to bring him closer.  Not knowing what to expect next, I watched McDuff‘s unwavering stare at Chris — that same strange stare he gave me at the kennel when I first picked him up.  After several minutes, McDuff bent over, and tenderly began licking Chris on the face.

Something unusual about the licking struck me right away.  It wasn’t the typical way I’d seen him lick others.  Soft, deliberate, focused, and much slower, his tongue stroked Chris’s cheek.  That’s when something unexpected happened that shocked us all — Chris smiled.

“Come here, quick!  Chris is smiling!” the woman shouted out to her colleagues, almost dropping the jar of baby food in her hand.  They rushed over to us amazed, eyes wide in astonishment, as they watched Chris and McDuff in their own private world.  They told me that Chris never reacted to anything by smiling before.

Perhaps, the way McDuff licked Chris’ cheek with his soft, warm tongue conveyed an entirely different sensation, one that he had never experienced before.  Or, maybe, it was something else — McDuff’s acceptance and unconditional love coming through.

I realized, perhaps, I didn’t know what to do here, or how to react, but McDuff did.  He saw beyond outer appearances and didn’t hesitate to offer unconditional acceptance.  I knew then we would return to Project PRIDE for him to provide more comfort and joy in his own special way.

That’s how we discovered Opportunity Village’s Project PRIDE (People’s Rights to Independence, Dignity and Equality).  It’s a nationally recognized program that offers parents relief from the stress of round-the-clock medical and personal care for family members who need constant attention.  Opportunity Village is Nevada’s largest private, nonprofit community rehabilitation program, and is well known in Sin City as “Las Vegas’ Favorite Charity.”

After the initial shock of my first visit to Project PRIDE, we began once a week morning visits for a couple of hours.  That didn’t last.  Before long, we were going two and three times a week and staying until the last person left in the early afternoon.   Afterward, I had to literally drag McDuff, his four paws stubbornly planted on the pavement, across the parking lot to the car.  Once there, he refused to get in.  I had to lift that stiff, stocky canine into the car.  His disapproving glare made it clear to me he wasn’t ready to go as I drove home.  And, this happened after every visit.

Charlotte, the supervisor, and Angela, Maria, and Eric were the best caretakers in the world.  The love and attention they gave the clients, as they were called, warmed my heart.  As I watched them provide care dipped in tenderness and love, I realized what a special breed of people they were.

I tried to keep out of the way with McDuff as they moved around taking care of everyone, but it proved difficult.  One therapy dog volunteer rule is that your dog must be kept on a leash at all times.  That rule soon fell by the wayside by mutual agreement after the first few visits.  It was too awkward getting around everyone, the equipment, and furniture in the room.  I felt confident taking him off leash wouldn’t cause a problem.  He savored his new-found freedom.  He could hang out around the kitchen on his own and get goodies at lunch time.  Still, the separate room used to change diapers and perform clean ups remained off limits.

I brought some of McDuff’s toys from home so he would leave the toys that belonged to the clients alone.  He complied for the most part.  But, even a well-trained therapy dog couldn’t resist temptation when it came to Kathy’s Elmo.

Little Kathy couldn’t walk or talk, and wore diapers.  But, she had use of her arms, limited vision, and wasn’t connected to a feeding pump.  Scooting on the floor in a partitioned-off corner of the room gave her mobility.   She looked like a little girl, but looks were deceiving.   All of the residents there appeared to be children, because their infirmities prevented them from developing normally.

Kathy loved being held and rocked in the rocking chair while she snuggled in someone’s arms and held Elmo.  Playing in her little corner of the world made her happy and content, too.

McDuff jumped into her cordoned-off area to play with her, but he had an ulterior motive.  Sure, she had neat things to play with in there that caught his eye.   And, something else he desired in the worst way — big-eyed, bright-red Elmo from Sesame Street.

Kathy had to hold her favorite toy a few inches from her eyes to see him, but Elmo touched something in her.  He touched something in McDuff too — greed and envy.  That dog tried to steal Elmo from her every chance he got.

At first he simply took it.   “McDuff, drop it!” I’d shout out from across the room.  After the first few unsuccessful attempts, he realized stealing Elmo wouldn’t be easy.  That’s when the buried criminal instinct kicked in.  “Slick” McDuff came out like Mr. Hyde; Dr. Jekyll, the heroic, dedicated therapy dog, receded into the background.  At least once a visit he launched a clandestine raid to sneak off with Elmo.

He had a strike against him, though.  That “walk” I came to know after he stole something tipped me off every time.  Even with his back to me, and when I couldn’t see Elmo in his mouth, I’d command, “Drop it, Duff,” as he tried to slink out of sight.  Out tumbled Elmo, to be returned to a bewildered and grateful Kathy once more.

I know Kathy never figured out what that short, black, hairy thing was that occupied her space at times.  But never mind that.  She soon learned to protect Elmo from it. 

While talking to Charlotte one day, I failed to keep an eye on what transpired in Kathy’s corner of the room.  I heard a commotion and looked up just in time to see McDuff latched onto Elmo, and poor Kathy holding on for dear life.  A fierce tug of war ensued.  From all appearances, McDuff was gaining ground.

“McDuff, No!”  He let go right away and directed his attention elsewhere as though he couldn’t understand how Elmo got into his mouth.  I knew it was an act.  That Scottie burglar didn’t fool me for one minute.  He had no intention of giving up.

When Christmas arrived that year, Santa put a big, red Elmo under the tree for McDuff.  Now, he had an Elmo all his own.  Oh, he still launched raids to get Elmo from Kathy, but the intensity diminished.  He concentrated on the relationship he developed with Nathaniel.

Nathaniel, though mostly confined to the hanging device, sometimes lay on a floor mat, or sat in a wheelchair.  Unlike the other clients, Nathaniel had limited communication skills and could raise his arms to indicate “yes” or “no.”   I must admit he became my favorite client.  His face lit up like afternoon sunshine on a desert landscape whenever he spotted us walking toward him.

McDuff and Nathaniel played a game that they both loved, fetch the ball.  While Nathaniel lay on the floor, I’d place a ball in his hand, and with a slight flutter of his wrist, the ball crawled across the floor.  McDuff retrieved the ball and dropped it by his hand to repeat the toss.  Quite often there wasn’t enough oomph on the ball to propel it forward, and it rolled behind Nathaniel’s head instead of in front of him.  That didn’t matter.  McDuff raced behind him and picked it up.

Things really got lively when Nathaniel sat in his wheelchair and “threw” the ball.  Throwing meant letting the ball roll down the front of his body which caused it to go faster and roll further across the floor.  Nathaniel couldn’t hide his excitement and delight.  He didn’t get tired of throwing the ball, and his buddy, McDuff, didn’t get tired of retrieving it.  They made a perfect match.

Here’s the kicker about McDuff and playing fetch.  With me on our walks in the park, I’d throw his tennis ball as far as I could and tell him to fetch it. Off he streaked on those low-to-the-ground legs, chase down the ball, and return it to me to throw again.  After he brought it back three or four times, I’d throw it and say, “Fetch.”

McDuff sat down on the grass and looked up at me without budging.  I’m finished.  Now, you fetch it.  “McDuff, fetch the ball!” I ordered, pointing and stomping my foot for emphasis.  You must be out of your mind.  I’m tired, get it yourself.

No threat or command from me compelled him to retrieve it once he had enough.  Of course, it was an entirely different story with his friend, Nathaniel.  But then, he didn’t have to go as far to retrieve it.  Guess that made the difference.  Nathaniel enjoyed playing with McDuff, but Naomi wanted no part of him.

We frightened Naomi on our first visit to the program.  She knew we were strangers, and it intimidated her.  I pulled up a chair beside her wheelchair with McDuff sitting on my lap.  She stiffened and turned her back to us, glancing over her shoulder in short intervals to see if McDuff was still there.  But, curiosity overcame her.  What kind of black, furry thing is this beside me? she wondered.

Her glances away became fewer, her posture softened, and she began to smile at him.  Once more, I observed the eerie stare from McDuff as he watched her.  He didn’t try to lick her as he had the others.  Without moving, he just sat there with those dark eyes never leaving her face.

I began talking to Naomi, telling her about McDuff in an attempt to put her at ease.  She jerked around and faced him.  With an ornery smile, her thumb and forefinger darted out and grasped and pulled one of those protruding Scottish terrier eyebrows.  Since I held him on my lap with both hands, I was unable to intervene.

He sat unmoving and unflinching as her fingers came closer and closer to his eye.  I’d seen him do the same thing another time when a three year-old child darted up to him, stooped over, and pulled both his eyebrows.  Naomi pulled McDuff’s eyebrows, beard, and long pointed ears with glee every time she saw him.  Unfortunately, not all the clients were able to interact with him.

Other than Chris, Matthew exhibited the most severe disabilities.  I wish we could have connected with him.  He lay on his bed not moving most of the time, although he followed us with his eyes.   Watching videos seemed to pacify him.  McDuff provided generous licks to the cheek when we visited, even though Matthew didn’t react to them.  However, McDuff had another place to go in the building and be the center of attention.

A warehouse in the back of the building called the Work Center provided employment for about seventy individuals with intellectual disabilities, many with Down’s syndrome.  They shredded documents, assembled condiment packets, and performed other contracted jobs.  Everyone worked while sitting in folding chairs at long tables.

McDuff visited the Work Center to the delight and amusement of the clients there.  It became a momentous event for them, and brought an air of excitement to their daily routine.  Whenever we arrived, cheers rang out.  A chorus of “I want to pet the dog,” and “Bring him over here by me,” erupted throughout the warehouse.

They weren’t permitted to get out of their chairs, so McDuff went around the entire room and sat for each client to pet and talk to him.  It took quite a while.  Joy and delight shone on every face as hands reached out to pat McDuff’s head and rub his back.  It made their day and ours, too.

We didn’t get to the Work Center during every visit to Project PRIDE because of the amount of time it took, but we relished our visits there.  Every facet of therapy dog work at Opportunity Village flowed like a calm mountain stream.   But, rapids raged ahead.

Maybe I was naïve, but it never entered my mind that not all of our special friends would be there when McDuff and I visited each week.  Sure, I knew of their life-threatening medical problems requiring around-the-clock attention, and how fragile they were.  Still, their fighting spirits enabled them to bounce back from a crisis time after time.  Seeing how they struggled and persevered every moment of their lives made them strong in my sight.  How could I let something like a head cold or sinus problems get me down?  By the very act of breathing, they became my inspiration.  One day the inevitable happened, and it caught me completely off guard.

I noticed Chris’ absence and the different atmosphere the moment we entered the room.  No one made eye contact with me as I greeted everyone.  Sadness filled the air like dense smoke.

“Where’s Chris?” I asked, looking around the room for him.  No one answered at first.  I looked at Maria, then Angela, and finally, Eric as they made themselves busy attending to the others.  A sinking feeling crept into the pit of my stomach.

“Judy, Chris’ mom didn’t bring him earlier this week because of complications,” Charlotte finally answered.  “She called and told us yesterday that he didn’t make it this time.”

My heart skipped a beat.  Chris didn’t make it?  Tears burned my eyes.   My mind went blank.  Charlotte saw how hard it hit me.

“Just let it out,” she said taking me in her arms.  When I finally pulled myself together, she explained what happened to Chris, and gave me details of the funeral arrangements.  Everyone hugged me before I left.  In their profession, they learn how to deal with death and protect themselves.  My emotions tossed and turned like a canoe shooting over a waterfall.  I needed to take a lesson from them, and fast, if I wanted to stay afloat at Project PRIDE.

I had no idea how deeply Chris’ death would affect me.  It may be hard for those with no experience with the disabled to understand.  After all, how could someone as horribly impaired as Chris get to you?  Well, I can tell you this:  There was a light deep inside of him that sparkled and shined through all the damage.  Even his smallest achievement became everyone’s victory.  His sweet, courageous, and accepting demeanor made you jump up and root for him.  Most of all, his life made you aware of how fortunate and blessed you were; you could not take anything in your life for granted.  Yes, something in Chris touched us all.  His funeral testified to that.

I drove around the parking lot Bunkers Mortuary amazed by all the cars packed in every available parking space.  There must be another funeral being held at the same time, I thought.  It took me a while to find a place to park.  Walking into the funeral home, I encountered wall-to-wall people.   I spotted Charlotte and the group from the Program.  Moving through the crowd with difficulty, I inched my way over to them.

“This place is really packed.  Who are all these people?” I asked.

“They’re Chris’ family, friends, co-workers of the family, and members of his church,” Charlotte answered.

We filed into the chapel for the funeral service.  What I experienced there will remain with me for a lifetime.  Person after person walked to the front of the chapel and talked about Chris and the devotion, and tender, loving care shown to him by his mother.  How she cared for him day after day, uncomplaining and positive, even after it adversely affected her health.  They told of the way Chris’ spirit touched them and somehow made them better people.

Chris’ brother shared how one day everything went wrong on his job.  He fought the bumper-to-bumper, slow moving traffic to get home afterward.  By the time he pulled into the driveway, frazzled, frustrated, and in a rotten mood, he stormed into the house.  The first person he saw was his brother.

“Hi, Chris,” he said.  As he watched his brother’s face light up at his greeting, it hit him hard.  Nothing he had endured that day mattered at all.  Seeing Chris made him ashamed of his pity party; seeing Chris made him thankful and aware of his blessings.

Crying so hard when I left the funeral home, and too emotionally distressed to drive on the freeway, I took the side streets home.  When I arrived, McDuff rushed up to greet me.  I sat down on the floor with him to tell him all about the funeral of his buddy, and that he wouldn’t see Chris on his next visit to Project PRIDE.  With each mention of Chris’ name, McDuff’s long, pointed ears flickered.  He sat in front of me with his eyes burning deep into mine as I spoke.

I thanked him for coming into my life and teaching me how to love, accept, and look to the inside of people.  Not to judge by what I saw on the outside.  I told him he helped me become a better person.  That he saw beyond appearances and accepted Chris, Kathy, Nathaniel, Naomi, Matthew, and all the clients in the Work Center, unconditionally from the first moment.  I let him know that he had detected in them what I’d been unable to see.

Although McDuff was way ahead of me, I came to see, accept, and love them in the same way; another one of the life lessons I learned from McDuff on our journey together.

Somehow, McDuff’s therapy dog work at Project PRIDE came to the attention of the media.  KVBC Channel 3 TV News in Las Vegas sent a reporter and crew to do a special feature on him.  Opportunity Village’s switchboard at its headquarters jammed from the large volume of calls received the day it played.

An operator called for permission to give my telephone number to callers who wanted information about McDuff and the therapy dog program.  I talked to many people informing them how to get involved with their dogs.

The Anthem View newspaper featured him on the front page with the caption, “MCDUFF IS ON THE JOB.”  Articles ran in other Henderson newspapers and on the Internet.  On walks in the park, at the veterinarian’s office, or anywhere I took him, people approached and asked, “Is his name McDuff?”   He became a celebrity, and he enjoyed every minute.  However, circumstances beyond my control would separate us from the clients at Project PRIDE and leave a hole in our lives.

It pained me to make the decision to accept a job offer.  I hadn’t worked since I arrived in September, 2000.   At some point I knew that I’d have to find a full-time job.  I knew the work schedule would probably conflict with Project PRIDE’s hours, making it impossible to continue going there week days with McDuff.

The staff had become my friends.  We went to the Opportunity Village Christmas party, birthday parties, and shows on the Las Vegas Strip together.

“Guys, you know that job I told you I interviewed for at the Clark County Courthouse in Las Vegas?  Well, I got it.  I start next week,” I said, enveloped in sadness instead of joy.

We sat silent for a while.  One by one, they assured me they understood, but we all knew deep down inside something special was coming to an end.  McDuff and I went back to visit whenever I had a day off from work during the week, which seldom occurred.

Now, we concentrated on evening nursing home visits and weekend rounds at St. Rose Dominican Hospitals.  We also went to assisted living facilities.   I sensed McDuff’s bewilderment when we stopped going to Project PRIDE.   I knew he missed Nathaniel, Kathy, Naomi, and Matthew just as much as I did.

Our journey had not ended.  It came to a fork in the road.  Opportunities lay ahead for McDuff to teach me more of his valuable life lessons.  A boy named Steven would meet McDuff on the path, and that meeting would change his life forever.