It’s 3am and I lay awake. I feel the warmth from a body on one side and the same on the other. I know who is who. The one breathing heavily is Gus, the pug and the other with a smooth silky coat and no excess of skin or hair is Pik, aka Big boy.
This might read like a script from a steamy movie but no. Just a usual night with the “boys”. I find myself being pinned down when they lay each side of me on the doona and I’m underneath it; rather like being in a straight jacket. I guess I’ve had a few bad dreams where I’ve been a prisoner, pinned down, unable to breathe or move. At night, however, I lay wide awake worried by the present status of COVID-19 in Fiji. Then I realise just how important our dogs are to us at this time.
I can snuggle up to them both. They can stay absolutely still all night; I’m the restless one. I kiss the Big Boy’s handsome face many times in a day, and he responds with a quick and decisive lick-kiss that’s inescapable. I worry about hurting his feelings when I wipe off his ‘kiss’ so I wait until he isn’t looking to do it.
You might think I’m crazy, but I’ve been living with these two for a few years. Its been very interesting to observe their behaviour, towards each other and towards me. Big Boy is a local dog picked up off the gutter as a small sickly pup. He had no hair on his body. It turned out this was due to poor nutrition. If you’ve heard of the story of the ugly duckling, well that’s Pik’s story too.
The little one, The Pug, has visited the Children’s Hospital, the Home of Compassion, Suva Christian School and on a less formal (off the record visit) both popped their heads in to say hello to patients in the TB and leprosy wards at the PJ Twomey Hospital, Tamavua. I stayed out, relying on their good judgement to affect a brief meet and greet. I heard that a visit from the duo was not only a surprise for the patients, but put smiles of delight on the patients’ faces.
On an earlier occasion, I took Gus alone with me into the rehabilitation ward. He was put in a wheelchair, so he could be wheeled up alongside the patients laying in their beds. Some had only very little movement. I put a small snack into their hand and Gus managed as always to find the snack and rudely gobble it down. He is incapable of biting anything other than food; all that the patients would feel would be Gus’ whiskers and soft lips.
Gus is a self-ordained therapy dog while Pik is in perpetual training to follow in the paw prints of his step-brother from another mother. Pik’s problem is seeing something that resembles a tree trunk and the rest is history. I can’t risk this in hospitals or restaurants. Health inspectors would be on all of us. But dogs will be dogs and I believe one has to make concessions for all the good they do.
Take the therapy dogs who have brought so much comfort and relief to front-line workers during the COVID-19 pandemic. A feeling of total exhaustion can be remedied through a simple hug of a warm and responsive dog. Therapy dogs know exactly how to respond. They’re not all over the person; they know to remain still so their warmth and love can be transferred through contact to the one needing it. They can reduce stress, anxiety and depression.
In hospitals overseas, one can see therapy dogs everywhere: in elevators, trotting along corridors and at bedsides, and they’re not necessarily small dogs. The bigger breeds such as golden retrievers, Labradors and German shepherds are most suitable as patients can simply reach out a hand to pat them from their beds. Gus, on the other hand, while not a small pug, needs, at times, to be in a wheelchair to enable bedridden patients to pat him. Sometimes that’s not close enough for him, and he will end up jumping onto the bed just to be closer to the patient. I recall this happened when he visited Frank Hilton at the Home of Compassion. Gus ended up falling asleep on the bed beside Mr Hilton. While few words were exchanged, the beam on Mr Hilton’s face said it all as he lay his hand on the sleeping, snoring pug.
The night when I experienced body aches after having the first COVID-19 vaccination earlier that day, while I knew it was a good sign, the warmth from not one but two living, breathing furry hot water bottles brought much relief.
We should never underestimate the value and potential of a dog. It is nothing less than a living, breathing, highly sophisticated sniffing detection device.
There is a belief that while we view the world through our eyes, a dog views it through its nose.
For a long time dogs’ noses have been used to detect a plethora of scents ranging from explosives, to prohibited food to the tracking of a criminal’s movement to narcotics; even sadly, dead bodies. Now dogs are being trained to identify the scent of someone who is COVID-19 positive or more specifically to detect metabolic changes in the human body caused by the pathological activities of the SARS-Cov-2 virus.
There is merit in the utilisation of dogs to detect COVID-19, especially where other methods of testing can be costly or slow.
According to the recommendations of the World Health Organization (WHO), the most critical issue in adopting strategies and policies to mitigate the spread of the disease is the ability to screen large number of people, which is either impossible or difficult to do using hi-tech devices, especially in low-resource countries and settings. So it may be hypothesised that a defined population or environment can be quickly screened at a lower cost by using trained dogs.
The next time you go past a skinny and sickly dog, spare a thought for its potential to help, heal and love.
- Julie Sutherland is a regular writer to this newspaper and social commentator. The views and opinions expressed are those of the author and not necessarily of this newspaper
