Chapter 1
NELL JORDAN was used to people bursting into tears when
they saw her, but this particular woman rivaled the
floodgates at Hoover Dam. But of course, the woman's
overflowing eyes fastened not on Nell in her clean white
tennies, Wal-Mart khakis, and green polo shirt, but on
Piggy in her freshly brushed reddish-brown fur, pointy
ears, liquid-brown eyes, and the green doggie vest that
announced she was a registered therapy dog.
An older gent across the room from the weeper nudged his
wife. "Look, Ethel! It's a dog! Right here in the surgery
waiting room! Don't that beat all?"
"My word! Isn't he cute?" Ethel made a clucking noise to
get Piggy's attention, and others seated in the
uncomfortable waiting room chairs also made bids to be
noticed, but Piggy focused on the woman sitting in the
corner--the one suffering the waterworks.
A younger version of the distraught woman--a daughter,
Nell speculated--tried to comfort her. "Mom, it's okay."
But Piggy knew better what the woman needed. The corgi
paddled forward on abbreviated legs, stuck a wet nose
beneath the woman's hand, and settled firmly against her
leg.
Soft comments from a rapt audience:
"Oh, isn't that just darling!"
"Don't that beat all!"
"What a good dog!"
"What'd they do, cut her legs off at the knee?"
Everyone in the room had the courtesy to stare at the dog,
not at the woman making such an emotional scene. People
waiting for a loved one in surgery or waiting for their
own turn under the knife knew about tears, and they didn't
begrudge the distressed woman her release.
"Her name is Piggy," Nell said.
"Piggy," the tearful onequavered, and didn't take her eyes
from the dog. Piggy sighed in contentment as the woman
found just the right spot behind one of her big
ears. "You're a wonderful little dog, Piggy." The tears
eased a bit as she dabbed at her face with a
handkerchief. "A wonderful dog. I just . . . just, well,
you know, there's something about a dog." She sighed and
bit her lip, then said in a quiet, broken voice, "Since my
mother's accident two days ago I haven't been able to cry.
It stayed inside me and just burned and hurt, you know?
But I couldn't cry. Until I saw the dog. There's just
something about a dog." She shook her head. "And now I
can't stop crying. But it almost feels good. I'm sorry to
be such a blubberer."
"Not a problem." Nell gave her a warm smile. "It doesn't
bother Piggy a bit."
The daughter gave her mother's hand a comforting
squeeze. "Gran's going to be just fine, Mom. I know she
is." Then she smiled up at Nell. "Is she a guide dog or
something?"
"Piggy's a therapy dog who visits here at the hospital."
"Do you take her into patient rooms?" someone across the
waiting room asked.
"We go everywhere but obstetrics." Nell smiled. "They
don't need our help in there."
That earned a laugh.
"Show them your trick, Piggy." Nell waggled an index
finger at the dog.
Piggy gave Nell a disgusted look, but she lifted her
stubby front leg in the semblance of a wave. The trick
earned her a round of applause and a few chortles, then
another ovation when she caught the tiny treat that Nell
tossed her way.
"She's a mercenary little soul," Nell explained. "Works
for food."
"Don't we all?" said a youngish man in worn cowboy boots
and a battered Stetson.
Everyone wanted Piggy's attention, reaching out to touch
her and tell her what an extraordinary dog she was. Piggy
took the attention with queenly condescension while
occasionally darting beneath a chair to grab a cracker
crumb or peanut that the housekeeping staff had missed.
People in the waiting room often munched on vending
machine food, and sometimes they weren't too neat about
it. The occasional leavings made the surgery waiting room
Piggy's favorite stop in the hospital. Nell had supposedly
trained her not to take anything off the floor during
their visits, but Piggy had become expert at darting after
crumbs when Nell wasn't watching.
"She's a hungry little dude," the guy in the Stetson
commented.
"You're right, but she's supposed to be on a diet."
"You mean, she's not supposed to look like a basketball
with legs?"
Piggy halted her crumb search long enough to glare at him,
but the opening of a door distracted her. From the inner
surgery sanctum a nurse wheeled out a teenage girl with a
huge bandage on her arm. "Hi there, Piggy," the nurse said
in a cheery voice.
Nearly all the staff knew Piggy's name. Few knew Nell's.
But that was fine with Nell. Piggy did most of the work
during their visits, anyway.
"Hey, dog!" The teenager dropped her good arm beside the
chair and wriggled her fingers. Piggy condescended to let
her scratch an ear. "I didn't know they let dogs in the
hospital."
The nurse laughed. "Only because Piggy's a very special
dog. And there's a few other special creatures we let
visit."
"Like Dr. Tolliver?"
"Don't let Dr. Tolliver hear you call him a creature." The
girl's mother had gathered up the afghan she'd been
knitting and joined them. "Not after he fixed you up like
new." She gave the nurse an anxious look.
"Good as new," the nurse confirmed. "The doctor will talk
to you while I wheel Tiffany out to the entrance. I'll
stay with her until you bring up your car."
"Wait!" Tiffany objected as the nurse pushed the
wheelchair toward the door. "I have to say 'bye to . . .
what's the dog's name?"
"Piggy," Nell supplied.
"Piggy! Oh, man! She looks like one, too. 'Bye,
Piggy! 'Bye, Piggy!"
Piggy huffed out an indignant snort as the waiting room
door closed behind the girl.
"She's sensitive about her figure," Nell explained with a
grin.
Most of the waiting room chuckled, including the woman who
had wept so on Piggy's entrance.
"Never seen such a thing," one man observed with a
snort. "Next thing you know, they'll be bringing in a
whole petting zoo."
OKAY. THIS requires a bit of clarification. Me, Piggy, a
therapy dog. I can almost hear you laughing. Just don't
get carried away with that snorting and snickering,
people, because it's not that funny. I'll admit I'm hardly
the type to bring comfort to the sick and distressed. I'm
a heartbreaker, not a heart-warmer. At least, Lydia Keane
was a heartbreaker, and proud of it. Piggy, on the other
hand . . .
Well, let's just say I had trouble ignoring all those dog
instincts that came with the fat furry body. Dogs
genuinely like people. It's one of their greatest
weaknesses. They're born chumps. A friendly word or a pat
on the head sends their little canine hearts into
somersaults of joy, and they're only too eager to repay
the attention by cuddling, kissing, and generally making
themselves look foolish.
Of course, as Lydia Keane I did a bit of cuddling and
kissing in my time, but Lydia required more foreplay than
a pat on the head.
But back to the point. The longer I stayed in the dog
suit, the more I found my nature changing to incorporate
Dog. Stanley no doubt thought the change was a positive
one. He would. In the beginning, losing my sharp edge
bothered me. Not to mention the total embarrassment of
occasionally getting an urge to sniff dog butts or pounce
on anything that resembles a ball. But by the time I
arrived in Arizona, I had come to accept my fate with good
grace, or what passed for good grace with me. Lydia Keane
would have laughed at the idea of spreading a little
comfort in a hospital, and the first sight of a bedpan
would have sent her running. But Piggy found that bedpans
have a certain allure--to the point that Nell had to work
hard to keep my nose away from them. And bringing a smile
to someone who needed a bit of cheer warmed the doggy part
of my heart.
I don't want you to think I had turned into some kind of
lame Pollyanna, though. I may have lost some of my edge,
but not my smarts. Prancing around the hospital as a
therapy dog had certain rewards, especially for a dog on a
diet. For instance, in the surgery waiting room is a table
generally piled high with Danish rolls. Not that Nell
would ever let me grab one (I tried once when I thought
she wasn't paying attention. Turns out she was paying
attention.) But the people in the waiting room munch on
the Danishes and drop crumbs on the chairs and floor. Very
enticing. My short little legs place my nose close enough
to the carpet that grabbing a crumb or two takes only half
a second. The crumbs are in my stomach and I'm looking as
innocent as a newborn puppy by the time Nell notices I've
even moved.
And the surgery waiting room isn't the only area where an
alert corgi can earn a bonus. Patients are always trying
to coddle me with crackers from their lunch or maybe a
Jell-O cup. (I especially like raspberry.) Nell asks them
not to feed me--she can be a real killjoy--but some of the
patients are sneaky enough to rival a corgi. Occasionally
a piece of breakfast roll finds its way beneath the
bedcovers just an inch away from my nose, or a Jell-O cup
drifts within reach of my tongue when Nell's eyes are
turned somewhere else. People commonly turn up their noses
at hospital food, but a corgi doesn't turn a nose up at
anything edible.
But, lest you think I don't work hard for these perks, let
me clue you in that the hospital is not all fun and games
for a therapy dog. We are sensitive creatures--yes, even
me. A dog picks up on emotion much faster than a person.
And a hospital has emotions ricocheting off the walls like
balls in a squash court. Anxiety, love, sadness, grief,
joy, boredom--they come at you from all directions. The
dog part of me always wants to respond, but the part of me
that is still Lydia tries to duck like a kid playing dodge
ball. My internal battles get quite interesting, let me
tell you. So don't think I didn't earn all those ear
scratches, Danish crumbs, and Jell-O cups as I did my
Florence Nightingale act. I hope Stanley took note of how
hard I worked to bring such special attention to those in
need.
For instance, take the day that I did my little tricks in
the surgery waiting room (Nell thought they were funny; I
found them totally embarrassing) and won the heart of that
teenager in the wheelchair. That day I was called upon to
rise above and beyond the usual role of a therapy dog, and
the reward I got is pretty much what this whole story is
about.
There I was in the surgery waiting room, innocently going
about the business of being entertaining, when the nurse
from CCU walks through the door. For those of you who
aren't hospital professionals like me, CCU stands for
Critical Care Unit. Yes, we dogs do visit there. Even
though most of the patients have inconvenient tubes
running from various body parts to beeping and blinking
machines, they enjoy a friendly dog as much as anyone else.
As I was saying, though, in walked Stephanie Combs from
CCU to give Nell an anxious look.
"I thought you two might be here this time of morning,"
she said. "Were you planning on coming over to CCU?"
"Our next stop," Nell told her.
"That's good. I wanted to be sure you stopped by, because
we have a patient in there who really wants to see you."
"Oh?"
I was a little surprised myself. We had many fans in the
hospital, but not often did they want a command
performance.
"I'd make it real soon," Stephanie said, which sounded a
bit ominous to me.
Nell took Stephanie at her word and waved a friendly so
long to the people in the surgery waiting
room. "Wave 'bye, Piggy."
Stupid dog tricks. Everyone was amused but me.
CCU was busy that morning. A couple of doctors in green
scrubs sat at the nurses' station scribbling on charts. A
team of three emergency medical techs in their snappy
uniforms were talking to a patient being hooked into a
heart monitor. (Yes, even as a dog, I still have an acute
eye for fashion, and let me assure you, the EMTs have it
all over the docs.) And every room was full. Stephanie
escorted us into a room that was dim and stuffy. The
drapes were pulled against the bright February sunshine,
and the lights were off. Though the air-conditioning
busily pumped in fresh air, the room smelled of things you
don't want to hear about. Probably no one noticed it but
me, but dog noses have a gift for detecting such things.
Stephanie greeted the man in the bed with her
professionally cheery voice. "Mr. Cramer, look who's come
to see you. It's Piggy."
Frank Cramer. What do you know? I'd barely recognized his
scent through all the other odors. I was always glad to
see Frank. He was a crotchety old devil, but he had class.
In a whispered aside to Nell, Stephanie explained: "He's
in a bad way, and ordinarily we wouldn't allow any
visitors but family, but he's been asking specifically to
see Piggy and you."
Notice how she put my name first? As it should be.
"Piggy?"
The wispy voice from the bed didn't sound like Frank's
usual bellow. But it was him, all right. When Nell lifted
me up to the bed I recognized him right off, though he
didn't look too good. Once I got settled beside him where
I wouldn't step on any important tubes or body parts, I
looked in his watery eyes and sensed he was very close to
leaving, closer maybe than the medical people knew. I know
things like that, because I've been there, done that, and
won't soon forget the journey. Dying isn't a bad thing,
really, but it's something you remember for a while.
"Piggy." He put his gnarled old hand on my head. "How the
hell are you, old girl?"
I laid my head carefully on his chest as he made a feeble
effort to pet me. Poor Frank. I'd been visiting him for
the last six months in a swank nursing home. As I said,
Frank was a crotchety old so-and-so, and I don't think
family and friends, if he had any, paid him much mind.
Probably because he complained about everything and
anything, yelled at people just for the pleasure of
yelling, tried to boss everyone around, and generally made
himself unpleasant to anyone who ventured near.