PAPI GETS A JOB

I signed up Papi

our little dog

as a therapy dog

in our local nursing home.

I did it because he's a friendly

mannerly

laid-back

dog

who I thought could bring pleasure

to pet-loving people

who no longer had pets of their own.

I didn't like some of the rules I had to follow

like waking people up to look at Papi

and then noting it on a tablet

that the patient had had a visit from a dog

so that their relatives would assume

that they had visited with the dog

when, in actuality, they were crabby

about being awakened

and only wanted to be left alone.

Papi was gentle with everybody

and sat in some people's laps

and laid in beds beside others

snuggling his little body next to theirs

for a minute or two

before he tried to get at the tissues

scattered across bedspreads.

I was proud of him

but not myself.

The overall dankness

and hopelessness

of the place got me down.

One day I went to the nurse's station

(always surrounded by patients in wheelchairs

who had nothing to do but watch the nurses

from morning to night)

to let them know that Mrs. Dixon

had pulled down her pajama bottoms

and urinated on the tile floor again

and she was hollering for her daughter

Stella

who was at work and unavailable

to come and help her

clean herself up.

While I was waiting my turn

a little lady next to me

all done up in high heels

and a pretty brown dress

dotted with tiny rosebuds

said

"I have to get out of here.

It's pure chaos.

I can't live like this."

I looked into her crumpled face

with eyes so sweet

looking back at me

and I hugged her.

There was nothing I could say

or do

for her.

Another day, a patient in bed

unable to sit up any more

petted Papi who was lying next to her

tears running down her cheeks

and into her hair

and she said to me

"I can't believe something this beautiful

is alive

but he doesn't know yet

that life comes to a sad sad end."

We visited the "Judge"

as he was called by the nurses

and wound up over-staying our alloted 5 minutes

because he opened his mouth to talk

and out poured stories of his goats

pigs a donkey 3 cats 11 dogs

and his wife's canary

called "Baby".

I got in trouble

but I didn't care.

People should have a chance

to talk their heads off

now and then.

Then there was Ellen

one of my favorites.

The first day we visited her

she was sitting on the edge of her bed

a new patient.

She paid no attention to Papi

because she had much more important

things on her mind.

"My daughter specifically told them

to put me in a room with somebody who was awake

someone who could talk

and not with someone like her!"

She gestured at the lady next to her

asleep with her mouth hanging open

toothless

obviously way beyond talking.

"You'll have to tell them," I said

and she shook her head

and said

"Oh I already did.

They don't care.

They think I'm a babbling idiot

like everybody else in here."

She told me that she had been a librarian

who had travelled widely

and had a rich life

but now she was frightened

at the betrayal of her body

and the future she saw ahead

was lonely and unfulfilling

and she needed someone to talk to

to keep her mind off herself

and her fate

because as she said

if she didn't

she would lose her mind.

Little Mrs. Wilson suffered from the loss

of her cat named Pretty.

She didn't know what happened to it.

She asked me over and over

to go to her house

and check on the cat.

"Everybody's lying to me"

she whispered,

taking my hand in her paper-thin trembly one

and I know they are.

But I know you would find out

and tell me the truth."

I already knew the truth.

Pretty had been taken to the pound

her house sold

her furniture auctioned off

and there was nothing left of hers

for her to worry about.

She had been divested

of everything that mattered.

In the end

Papi and I quit.

We were always in trouble

for overstaying our time

for forgetting to note his visit on the tablet

plus, I am ashamed to say

the sadness of the place

and my own fear of winding up there

made me scared.

Music Playing: I'm Sorry
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©2001

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