A Thing Called "Hope"

The stigma attached to mental illness is beginning to fade. People understand that our brains can be injured just as easily as our bodies. People are quick to offer support to veterans suffering from physical injuries or PTSD, or both. They are also quick to assume that the service dog by my side means that I am a military vet with a war injury, either physical or PTSD, or both.

I do have a physical injury. And I also have PTSD. But I am not a veteran. I did not serve overseas protecting the borders and ideals of our country. I'm a medically retired police officer. I served here in the US, protecting the streets and homes of our citizens.

Several years into my career as a police officer, I began experiencing depression, nightmares, and mood swings. My level of awareness swung between irrationally heightened and frighteningly numb. I felt threatened when people were too close to me. My work suffered. Where I used to be proactive and busy with traffic stops, encounters, and building checks, over time I became reactive, just taking dispatched calls and rarely initiating anything.  I no longer took overtime shifts, stopped caring how my uniform looked, and used all my sick time. My personal life began unraveling, too. I lost interest in things I'd always enjoyed, gave up on working out, refused to socialize, and rarely left my home except for work. To avoid being labeled "weak" at work, I secretly sought medical help but none of my doctors or therapists associated PTSD with police work so I was diagnosed with depression and prescribed medications that actually made things worse. In desperation, I called our "confidential" Employee Assistance Program. The EAP accused me of exaggerating my symptoms and said they'd have to alert my Chief if I admitted to taking antidepressants.

At a police training course in the mid 1990s, an instructor asked us to complete a "test" on police stress. The officer seated closest to me had attended the police academy with me. After catching site of my score, he leaned over and whispered, jokingly, "You should be dead."  He was joking because it was the 1990s. Cops were supposed to be too tough to have emotional reactions to the things they experienced at work. Off-color jokes, drinking, and, most of all, silence were the only acceptable responses to burned bodies, mayhem, and dead babies. So, I sucked it up, managing to keep it together for most of my shifts and then falling apart at home alone.

Years later, a psychologist told me the development of PTSD is like trying to hold a beach ball under water – you struggle to keep it down and when you inevitably lose your grip, the ball explodes up and practically takes your head off. To maintain my social mask, I'd been struggling to stuff a beach ball full of emotions and memories and symptoms under the surface. I finally lost my grip when a cherished police friend was killed in the line of duty (https://uneflic.blogspot.com/2007/05/lost-friend.html). 

The resulting explosion did almost take my head off.

I felt like I was falling down a hill backwards. I was having flashbacks, avoiding public places, waking up a dozen times a night from violent, terrifying dreams, and isolating for days or weeks at a time. Even though I often felt completely numb inside, I could be sparked to irrational anger or to wallowing anguish for no reason, often in the same hour. I was fearful and hypervigilant. I had to carefully censor what I watched, listened to, and read to avoid being "triggered" to a flood of tears, or to unwanted memories, or to the depths of despair, or into a flashback. I turned into a hybrid of a sloth, a snarling rabid wolf, and Eeyore, the donkey from Winnie the Pooh.

When I did leave my house, I engaged in risky behaviors like driving too fast and tempting fate where a rational person wouldn't. Even my core beliefs began to change. I developed trust issues, felt any betrayal viscerally, and laughed or smiled so infrequently that even strangers commented on it. I began to see people in two categories; they were either a threat or they were blocking my view of a threat. I was angry too often – wrap rage, apple core rage, coffee cup sipping lid rage – and I started filling my sentences with profanities. One of my brothers joked that I needed a DEFCON-type T-shirt to warn friends and relatives about my mood levels.

I finally asked my police supervisors for help, telling them that work stress was getting the better of me. They listened impatiently, and then accused me of shirking my duties and looking for unwarranted time off. Feeling lost and abandoned, I poured my feelings into three essays that were published locally and then nationally. Still, except for a note from a supervisor acknowledging my writings and suggesting I call our EAP, no one reached out to me, not even coworkers who were members of our regional police stress team.

In the midst of struggling with the "depression," I was physically injured on patrol. When my Chief insisted on an involuntary disability retirement, the career I loved was terminated against my will.  I was unceremoniously shoved out of "the brotherhood" where I'd spent my entire adult life. My years of service to my community were not recognized with a party or even an official farewell, just a call telling me I didn't "need to bother" coming to work anymore.

The "depression," coupled with forced retirement at age 37 and the physical pain from injuries that wouldn't heal, swamped me. Because of my career, my past contained nothing but monsters and without my career, my future contained nothing, period. My soul felt empty while my head and heart were overflowing with filthy trash that bubbled up from a brimming cauldron. My super power became a total lack of affect and I shielded everyone from my deepest thoughts. I spent a lot of time seesawing between figuring out how to commit suicide and figuring out how to stop myself from committing suicide.  Many friends suggested that I was "just depressed" and needed to "stop thinking about it" because "people are as happy as they choose to be" and when I didn't "just shake it off", they stopped coming around. Other friends, along with family, watched me withdraw from the world – the woman they'd known for years was disappearing. I let them think it was entirely due to the relentless physical pain. Only my dog knew the truth, and when things were at their worst, I hugged her tightly to me while I sat on the floor with a loaded gun and a 3-minute egg timer, tangling my fingers deep into her fur and letting her lick the tears from my face while I told myself that I could pull the trigger when the egg timer went off if I still felt the need.

"Hope" was no longer in my vocabulary.

A few months after retiring, I was finally diagnosed with PTSD. My police department hadn't been supportive when I was a cop, and even though my now former department was aware of my PTSD diagnosis, I didn't receive any support when I was a civilian either. I used my personal insurance and my personal savings for treatment. I attended week-long residential workshops for First Responders at On-Site Academy (https://onsiteacademy.org/) in Massachusetts – twice – and at The West Coast Post-trauma Retreat (https://www.frsn.org/west-coast-post-trauma-retreat.html) in California.  I spent many hours on the phone with Dr. Bobby Smith (http://www.visionsofcourage.com/). I practically memorized Allen Kates's book CopShock (http://www.copshock.com/). I embraced treatments like EMDR, more medications, more therapy, meditation, and a service dog. Those tools helped me better understand and accommodate the PTSD but I came to realize that unless getting hit by a bus could be considered a cure, PTSD can't be cured – it can only be managed.

But living with PTSD is not the same thing as having a life. It's a battle to maintain real courage under fake danger. And being torn between wanting to enjoy memories and being tormented by them is maddening. Sadly, though, when you stuff down the bad memories, you stuff down the good ones, too. When you dull the emotional pain, you dull the joyful moments, too. So, I become an empty shell of the person I used to be.

In recent years, police PTSD has received more attention and more respect. Officers are receiving mental health care from their departments. Organizations are sending officers on cruises and to retreats so they can bond with other First Responders with similar diagnoses. And PTSD is now being treated as a line-of-duty injury. While it's heartening to witness the positive changes, it's been difficult to be excluded from the benefits that seem to be reserved for the newer generation. Recently, when a Massachusetts officer retired from PTSD with an exclusive pension that generously exceeds the statutory standard, I met with the politician who had spearheaded that special pension exception. He said "ALL cops have some level of PTSD," and since I "didn't have your best friend's brains splashed across your face," my PTSD is not remarkable or worth compensation. I left the meeting in tears, chastising myself for thinking that the State would support me when my Town and police department never had.

A year later, a friend sent me information about a new PTSD treatment developed by Dr. Sean Mulvaney in Annapolis.  

(https://drseanmulvaney.com/stellate-ganglion-block-for-ptsd)  After some reassuring research, I was able to get an appointment and a hotel reservation. I drove 9 hours clutching a credit card to pay for Dr. Mulvaney's Stellate Ganglion Block (SGB) for PTSD procedure.

Dr. Mulvaney's professional, direct, and friendly manner cultivated the trust I needed to allow him to stick a long needle into my neck.  After a short period of rest and a couple of evaluations, I was released. I was too distracted until later to notice that my service dog greeted me very differently when I returned to the car but I would have seen it as a good omen. Within an hour of the procedure, I felt different. It was as though my head had been a noisy, bustling, overcrowded room and suddenly the people left, leaving an open, clear, quiet sensation. I felt lighter - not physically but mentally - the way I used to feel when I finally arrived home and dumped the day's events (as well as my duty belt and bulletproof vest) after a long shift. I even felt spiritually taller because the weight my shoulders had carried for so long was lessened.

There were a few minor side effects that lasted a few hours but the changes were extraordinary and immediate. I caught myself smiling for no reason, which was startling. Although I normally went to bed early to escape the chaos in my head, that night I stayed up until I was physically tired. In the morning, I was shocked that I felt rested and that I hadn't had a single nightmare or been startled wake from a single insignificant noise. As I prepared for the journey home, I had a persistent, strange, elusive feeling I couldn't shake. I finally identified it as a thing called "hope," something I hadn't felt in two decades. That's when I realized that my service dog had been treating me differently since I'd had the procedure. He'd recognized the transformation instantly.

At home, I surprised myself by readily accepting the first social engagement that was offered. Friends said they could hear a difference in my voice. I slept through the night again, and again, and again. I continually smiled without provocation. The clear-headed feeling remained; the chaos in my head had settled, replaced by a quiet composure. I no longer lost my temper over trivial things and the sensation of being constantly emotionally overwhelmed was gone. My dogs were confused, and delighted, when I started singing, even when there was no music playing.

But the procedure did not take away the PTSD. It only quieted it. Whereas most of the symptoms used to strike many times a day, they now only occur once or twice a week, some only once or twice a month. And I am still susceptible to the triggers that used to overwhelm me but now my reactions are muted and they pass when I acknowledge them. It's disconcerting but there's peace in knowing the symptoms won't last and there's power in realizing I can better control my reactions to them.

Continual hope has replaced constant thoughts of suicide. I am rested and more focused because I sleep through the night; the few times my Service Dog has awakened me, I assume he sensed a nightmare but I have no memory of one – a far cry from waking almost every night covered in sweat with tense muscles and clenched teeth, unable to fall back to sleep with the nightmare spinning through my head like a movie reel.  In public, I am situationally aware – like a cop – rather than paranoid and hypervigilant, and when my service dog steps between me and others, instead of feeling relief that I have a safety barrier, I feel relief that now I can actually breathe in the midst of other people.

I'm still figuring out which behaviors are continuing from habit rather than from the PTSD symptoms that linger. And I still have to deal with the daily physical pain from the physical injuries that forced my retirement. Discovering how tangled the PTSD and physical pain were is staggering. In some ways, the PTSD masked the pain by upstaging it but in other ways, it magnified the pain by heaping more stress onto my body. Unfortunately, since the procedure, there have been times when I've longed for the numb emptiness of PTSD that veiled the physical pain.

I have always thought that having some control over the PTSD would make me the person I used to be but now I know that I am no longer who I was and that I will never be what I was going to be. And now that there's space in my head and a desire to move forward, I'm starting to build a new me. It is a struggle to figure out who I am, what I will enjoy, what makes me happy, how I will live, and how I will love.

Prince Harry, the Duke of Sussex who is a military veteran and founder of the Invictus Games once said, "You do not have to be defined by your injury or your disability. You may not realize or appreciate it but do not underestimate the incredible impact you are having on those around you, by simply being yourself."

Having the PTSD under control means I can be myself again, whoever that may be, and I have begun waking up for my life rather than to my life. I, not the PTSD, can dictate how I move through the world.

So, six months after the SGB procedure I am still unraveling the snarled knots that muddled the PTSD and the physical pain, and trying to accept the pain as its own entity. In that endeavor, I have posted a single quote on my normally blank refrigerator door from a quadriplegic man named Chad Hymas, "Let go of the illusion that it could have been any different."

There's something to be gained from living through what Dr. Mulvaney's procedure erased. When I find out what it is, I'll be able to let go of the illusion.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Jill Wragg

Yarmouth Police Department 

Chief Frank Frederickson

Christopher Van Ness

Steven Xiarhos

@yarmouthpolice

http://www.yarmouth.ma.us/

Service Dogs

Paxil Josephine Wragg

When I retired from the Police Department in 2001 after a line-of-duty injury that left me with severe chronic pain and a diagnosis of PTSD, I decided to train a dog to help me adjust to my new life. I was given a black Lab puppy by a local breeder and named her “Paxil” because I knew she would make me happy.

Paxil provides physical assistance by picking up items I drop, fetching phones, helping me climb stairs, telling me when to take my pain medications, opening and closing doors, tugging off jackets and shoes, operating light switches, and even taking the clothes out of the dryer and putting them on the counter for me to fold.

She provides psychiatric assistance by alerting me to people approaching from behind, waking me from nightmares, creating a furry comfort zone in crowds, and distracting me with a paw in my lap or a nose in my face. 

When we first began working together, people were surprised to see us in the mall and at restaurants. Almost every time we went out in public, a manager or security guard would ask us to leave because “dogs aren't allowed.” I carried copies of the Americans with Disabilities Act regulations that gave us the right to be in public places and patiently handed them out to everyone who confronted us. As the years have passed, it's gotten a little easier. If we are approached now, it's usually by a curious stranger who has seen something about service dogs on television. 

HISTORY OF SERVICE 

The first service dogs as we know them were trained in New Jersey at The Seeing Eye. In 1928, an American named Morris Frank and his Swiss-trained guide dog, “Buddy,” campaigned tirelessly for federal recognition of guide dogs and earned the right for guide-dog teams to enter facilities that had been traditionally, and legally, off-limits to dogs.

In the 1970s and 1980s, dogs, monkeys, and miniature horses were trained to assist with other disabilities, but they didn't enjoy the same federal rights of access as guide dogs. In the 1990s, the Americans with Disabilites Act (ADA) officially gave people the right to use animals to mitigate the effects of disabilities other than sight loss.

It was a breakthrough, and a problem.

Although the ADA distinguished between “therapy” animals that visited nursing homes and hospitals to comfort patients and “service” animals that made life with disabilities easier, it didn't actually define what a service animal was. As the 2000s evolved, the ADA's vague regulation led to an inundation of animals, both wild and domesticated, being touted as service animals.

The Internet and media were rife with stories about people shopping, dining at restaurants ,and riding buses with parrots on their shoulders, ferrets in their pockets, snakes wrapped around their necks, pigs on leashes, and badly behaved dogs at their sides - one woman even rode a full-sized horse into supermarkets – while declaring that their animal was necessary because of their now federally recognized disability. The ambiguity in the ADA regulation made it illegal to ask someone to refrain from bringing his 9-foot boa constrictor or her snarling Great Dane into public places. The flood of bizarre amateur “helpers” was making it difficult for well-trained service animals to gain respect. Disabled Americans with legitimate service animals, fed-up business owners, and confused law enforcement agencies clamored for some clarity.

On March 15, 2011, the ADA, which takes priority over local or state laws and regulations, revised its definition of service animals. It officially excluded all animals except dogs and miniature horses (defined as ranging in height from 24 inches to 34 inches at the shoulders and weighing between 70 and 100 pounds) from having public access and stated that the dogs and miniature horses must be individually trained to do work or perform tasks for people with disabilities.

Disabled people may still use other animals (goats, gerbils, cats, etc.) to assist them but only in places where those animals would normally be allowed to go, such as within the confines of their own homes and private vehicles, and friends' homes with permission.

The ADA also tightened another loophole by outlining the difference between “psychiatric service dogs” and “emotional support animals."

Psychiatric service dogs are trained to recognize the onset of psychiatric episodes and actively respond by performing tasks directly related to the person's disability, such as reminding the handler to take medicine, interrupting self-mutilation, and removing disoriented handlers from dangerous situations.

An emotional support animal's sole function is to provide comfort or emotional support. The animal may or may not be able to discern that its owner is in distress, but it is not trained to do anything specific in response to this awareness. It merely provides comfort by being present. Emotional support animals are considered pets and do not have public-access rights. 

FOLLOWING THE LAW
But just because someone enters a public place with a dog or miniature horse doesn't mean the animal is a legitimate service animal. Last summer, a woman was asked to leave a Yarmouth consignment shop because the manager did not believe her dog was a real service dog. When she refused, police settled the dispute by verifying the woman's claim.

But there are people who want to take their pets everywhere they go and are willing to exploit any ignorance of the law to get their way. Most states have laws against misrepresenting an animal as a service animal. Managers of public facilities and police officers need to know how to identify a service animal.

There's a YouTube video of a man in a wheelchair bullying police officers who responded to a beach after complaints about his dog. The dog was not wearing any service dog equipment and had clearly been swimming. The man repeatedly admonishes the officers telling them, “If I say it's a service dog then you have to let it stay!”

That is not true, but identifying a service animal is not always simple. There are no national identification cards or certification programs; service dogs trained in any state or country are recognized by the ADA. Some states issue their own cards and certification letters, but since the federal regulations take precedence, state certification is not proof and cannot be required. Most service animals wear special vests or harnesses, but they are not mandated because they could interfere with the service animal's work or a person's disability could prevent their use. The size of the animal does not matter, except when classifying a miniature horse.

Basically, a service animal team consists of a disabled person and a dog or miniature horse trained to mitigate that disability, and the ADA provides simple tools for anyone questioning the legitimacy of a team.

When it isn't evident that a dog or miniature horse assists someone with an obvious disability, the ADA allows only two questions. The answers must be taken at face value. Only a federal judge can decide if a person is actually disabled or substantiate that an animal meets performance requirements.

The first question is, “Is the animal required because of a disability?” Follow-up questions about the nature of the disability are not allowed.

The second is, “What work or task has the animal been trained to perform?” Asking for a demonstration of the animal's training is not permitted.

It is a service animal only if a disability exists and the answer to the second question describes an active, trained response or legitimate work performed on the disabled person's behalf. If not, the animal can be removed and excluded from future access to public areas.

ACCESS IS KEY 

So what is public access?

Federal regulations state that service animals are medical equipment that must be accommodated in the manner of crutches, wheelchairs, and oxygen tanks. Therefore, state and local governments, and businesses and nonprofit organizations that serve the public, must allow disabled people with service animals access to all areas where the public is normally allowed to go, even if health codes prohibit animals. In many states, Massachusetts included, trainers of service animals have the same rights as service animal teams as long as the animal is well-behaved and housebroken. The rule of thumb is that access rights belong to the person, not to the service animal. If the person has a right to be there, an animal that meets the definition of a service animal has a right to be there.

Service animals are allowed at pools, beaches and playgrounds, but they are there to work, not play, so if the animal is running loose, swimming freely, chasing balls or playing with children, then it is not on duty and can be removed.

Of course, everyone needs a break from work once in a while, so an occasional visit to the woods, game of fetch, or dip in the water isn't in violation of any rules, but if the animal's leisure activities interfere with other people it can be removed. If the animal is under control and at its handler's side, waiting at the water's edge to assist its handler in entering and exiting the water, or assisting the handler in the water because of a specific medical requirement, it must be accommodated.

Service animal teams visiting a person living in no-pet housing are not required to give notice to management and are permitted by invitation of the tenant to stay as long as necessary, even if the disabled person leaves the animal at the residence during an outing. Motels, hotels, and inns cannot require prior arrangements or force a service dog team into a room normally reserved for guests with pets.

Enrolled students with a service animal must be allowed to attend school unless the school obtains a court injunction banning it and anyone who would normally be admitted to enter a school as a guest must be allowed if accompanied by a service animal.

Service animals cannot be denied access to public transportation and no operator of a public conveyance can refuse to transport them. Devout Muslim taxi drivers who refuse to pick up service dogs for religious reasons are in violation of federal and Massachusetts laws and in conflict with the Shariah Council, which has ruled that Muslims worldwide must accept, and may even use, dogs that are trained to assist disabled people.

Service animals cannot be excluded from movie theaters, concerts, or auditoriums, but if a service animal makes noise during a performance it can be asked to leave unless the noise was an attempt to communicate with or alert its handler, the animal was deliberately provoked, or the noise was consistent with noises made by humans, such as barking during applause. If an animal is removed because of noise, that behavior cannot be used to restrict its admission to future events. 

HEALTH AND SERVICE 

Regardless of health codes or departmental regulations restricting pets, service animals are allowed in ambulances, police cars, and other state and town vehicles. A service animal team cannot be denied transportation under any circumstance in which any other civilian would be transported.

Exceptions could occur if the presence of a service animal in the ambulance might interfere with patient care; jeopardize the safety of the crew, the patient or others, or cause damage to the ambulance or equipment. In such circumstances, personnel are expected to make every effort to reunite the patient with the service animal at the time of the patient's arrival at the hospital by arranging for simultaneous transport of the animal by the police department, animal control, or the patient's family.

The ADA has determined that police departments have an obligation to accommodate a service animal in the same way as any other medical equipment unless the animal's presence would cause an alteration in the environment that would disrupt normal operations.
 

The ADA prohibits segregating or isolating service dog teams from other patrons, treating them less favorably than other patrons, and charging fees that are not charged to other patrons without animals. A business that normally requires a deposit or fee to be paid by patrons with pets must waive the charge for service animals, but any business that normally charges patrons for damage that they cause can charge a disabled customer for damage caused by his service animal. Staff members at public facilities are not required to provide care or food for a service animal, but they are not prohibited from doing so voluntarily.

The ADA allows, but does not mandate, exclusion of a service animal when the animal poses a direct threat to the health or safety of others.

Health issues could arise in areas such as sterile operating rooms, some intensive-care units and areas where food is prepared, such as kitchens, freezers, and walk-in refrigerators. Allergies are not valid reasons for denying access or refusing service to people with service animals. When a person who is allergic and a person with a service animal must spend time in the same room or facility, they both should be accommodated by assigning them, if possible, to different locations within the room or different rooms in the facility. If an animal is not housebroken, it can be removed. However, an indoor “accident” cannot be used as a reason to refuse entry the next time. Unless there is a specific medical reason necessitating it, a service animal can be restricted from using apparatus, chairs, and other items provided for the use of humans. A miniature horse can be excluded if a facility cannot accommodate its type, size or weight; if its presence will compromise legitimate safety requirements necessary for safe operation of the facility; if it isn't housebroken, or if it isn't under the handler's control.

Safety exclusions could result if a service animal displays vicious behavior. Viciousness must be an overt display of aggression that is unprovoked. Barking and jumping should first be investigated as a medical emergency since a service dog could be trained to bark, jump, or tug at its handler's clothing to call attention to a medical condition. A PTSD service dog may seem confrontational when blocking strangers from approaching its handler, but this is a trained response, not aggression.

Safety concerns cannot be assumptions based on someone's past experience with animals or on his perception of aggression because of its breed's reputation. A person's fear of dogs or miniature horses is not a valid reason for denying access or refusing service to a service animal team.

Private homes and private clubs can exclude service animals if they choose, but if privately owned properties such as gyms and malls serve the public they also must serve patrons with service animals.

HUMAN BEHAVIOR

 When encountering a service animal team, do not distract the animal with whistles, calls, or by petting it. The animal has a job to do and its handler could be injured if the animal doesn't remain focused. Some service animals are able to interact with strangers, but look carefully for any tags or patches that read something like, “Do Not Pet” or “Working Dog, Please Don't Distract” before asking its handler if you may pet it or speak to it. Never touch the disabled person without an invitation and never touch the service animal or its harness or leash, period.

Do not separate the service animal from its handler. Service dogs are specifically trained to remain calm in excitable situations, but they are animals and might show aggression or fear if their handler is startled or injured.

If you want to assist a service dog team, ask the person what to do. Some mobility service animals are trained to step aside and allow humans to help their handlers. Animals that guide the blind are trained to “follow” on command a specific sighted person while still guiding their handlers. If your offer to help is turned down, don't be insulted; the purpose of a service animal is to lessen its handler's dependence on other people. If a disabled person doesn't need your help, her service animal is doing its job.

If you believe a handler is abusing or neglecting his service animal, report the incident to your police department or animal control officer. Generally, service animal training facilities retain ownership of the animals and recall them from handlers who fail to meet their expectations of care.

For more information 

To speak with an ADA specialist about service animals and access rights, call 800-514-0301 between 9:30 a.m. and 5:30 p.m. Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays or Fridays or 12:30 and 5:30 p.m. Thursdays.

(originally published Cape Cod Times 2013.04.03)
(and @ https://www.southcoasttoday.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20130404/LIFE/304040311 ) 

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

.

Steven Xiarhos

Yarmouth Police Department 

Chief Frank Frederickson

@yarmouthpolice

http://www.yarmouth.ma.us/

Apollo's Gift

A friend called the other morning. His voice was hoarse. He explained that his vocal cords needed to be warmed up because he hadn’t spoken yet. I told him to get a dog. I’m always telling him to get a dog. Everyone needs a good dog. But this time I had a great angle. A dog is the perfect tool for keeping your vocal cords flexible. The last thing you utter before sleep is, “you can’t possibly have to pee again, just go lie down” and the first words you scream in the morning are, “it’s only 6 o’clock, leave me alone, puh-lease!” He was amused but he passed on the offer to borrow one of my dogs for practice.

My roommate doesn’t have my vocal flexibility. She has no need of screaming or even talking. Her dog, Apollo, a white Boxer, is deaf.

People are fascinated when they first learn about Apollo. We humor their silly questions. One of my nephews was so surprised that he asked, “Does he walk into walls?”. My cousin was pleased that Apollo can bark. She wanted to know if he sounds to other dogs the way a deaf person who’s learning to talk sounds to us.

Other people ask if it’s difficult caring for a dog that’s abnormal. We don’t humor those people. Apollo is a constant reminder to us that “normal” is not the same thing as “average” or “typical”. He’s not an aberration. He was just born with something that most other dogs don’t have – adorable little pig ears that are decorative instead of functional.

A handicap? I don’t think so. While Kevvie, the old lady, is shaking in terror during a thunderstorm, Apollo is sleeping like a rock. While Ripley, the fireball, is trying to dodge and kill the monster inside the vacuum cleaner, Apollo is waiting patiently for a really good suction massage. And he has an advantage when we interrupt an incident of doggie malicious destruction. While everyone else runs for cover hoping we’re not really yelling at them, Apollo just turns his head away - the deaf dog equivalent of putting his hands over his ears and humming – because if he can’t see the anger on our faces, then it’s not there.

Unlike people, other dogs don’t seem to care that Apollo is deaf. Most dog communication is silent anyway. Have you ever been in a room with three fiercely possessive dogs who have gone off to three separate corners with their bones and suddenly, without any detectable signal, they swap bones and corners? How eerie is that? And just how difficult could it be for Apollo to interpret Ripley’s “read my lips” message of bared teeth when she’s tired of playing? Or the out-of-the-corner-of-her-eye glare that Kevvie gives him when he gets too close to her dish? Even the cat’s raised, hooked paw speaks a thousand words.

Apollo doesn’t know that he’s deaf so it doesn’t affect him. He cruises the communication super highway with ease. If he’s not interested in obeying our hand signals for obedience commands, he looks away with a devilish gleam in his eye. If he wants to go through a closed door, he readies his nails and cocks his eyebrow, daring us to ignore him. When he’s upset, he snorts. When he’s happy, he squirms. And it’s no more difficult for us. To get his attention, we stomp on the floor to send a vibration his way. To show our displeasure, we point at him and scowl. To praise him, we smile and mime applause.

He may sleep through a few raucous renditions of “there’s someone at the door” or be a few seconds late for lunch because he didn’t hear the dog food cabinet open but that doesn’t mean he isn’t like everyone else. He sheds. He chews. He has bad breath. He sleeps on the sofa when we’re not home. He licks himself in front of company. And he understands the power of sound - that funny vibration he can make in his throat. He knows when to use his amusing, chortling growl to enliven a wrestling match. He even climbs onto the bench of our deck and stands surveying his territory, barking in single, well-spaced woofs to proclaim himself “king of the world”.

Apollo is no different from other dogs. Well, with his pig ears, stub tail and smashed-in face, he’s very different from the German Shepherd with pointed ears, a long tail and a tapered muzzle but inside, he’s a regular, everyday Fido. Just a dog. A sweet, kind, wiggly (and usually pleasingly quiet) dog.

Maybe I should change my strategy and sell my friend on a deaf dog.

Jill Wragg is a retired police officer in Massachusetts.
She can be reached at JKWragg@yahoo.com

Brady Meigs Alden  Melissa Alden