Last Thursday, my beloved speech-pathology colleagues, my wife, Susan, and our dog, Lilly, gathered on the west lawn of the VA Hospital in West Los Angeles to honor my years of service that will end next week.
I presented each person I’ve sweated, endured, learned and laughed with a piece of art I made years ago. Back then, I had no idea how fitting each of the individual pieces would be. My joy in giving a part of myself to every person in my family of choice was equal to (if not greater than) hearing the echos of their praise and affection. In receiving each others’ gifts, my team and I rounded the circle of love.
As I sat in my folding chair, donning a garish gold mylar sash that read Retired, Not Expired, Lilly breezed over and sat on my foot, eliciting a collective “Aw.” Until that moment, she’d been working the crowd like a pro, brushing up against calves, weaving between ankles and hiking up her tushie to do a hind-leg tap dance whenever someone scratched her sweet spot.
Lilly shares in her daddy’s special moment.
I beamed with pride in our girl. She’s come so far toward socializing with people, but especially with other people’s pets. Lilly reminded me that it is possible to re-wire the reactivity in one’s brain. My wife and I had a hand in Lilly’s progress thanks to B.F. Skinner and operant conditioning. Fortunately, our girl had the neuroplasticity and temperament to adapt and often now acts well even when no extrinsic reward is offered.
Perhaps it’s an anthropomorphic stretch to say that Lilly “chooses” to stay calm simply because it feels good. Whatever Lilly’s proportion of intrinsic and extrinsic motivation, the net result of our conditioning of her is that — more often than not — she taps the high behavioral bar we’ve set.
When I was a (relatively) young clinical fellow, I sometimes clashed with providers over test results and treatment rationales or fumed when I saw slackers in other disciplines not pulling their weight. Once or twice I acted out at work just like Lilly used to when she spotted a loathed canine down the street.
Over my first 13 years as a medical provider, I’d made some progress toward quelling my inner turmoil, but often felt weighted to it. After Lilly came into our lives and we began desensitizing her, I felt my own sense of calm lift off the ground like The Kitty Hawk’s maiden flight. As Lilly gradually rose to the behavioral occasion, I also gained altitude.
We both nose-dived now and then. Late last year, Lilly lunged toward a neighbor’s dog and nipped his nose. At about the same time, I reacted to my colleagues’ innocent question by flinging a consult against the wall. I was appropriately taken aback by Lilly’s outburst as my colleagues were by mine. On both accounts, I wanted to make amends.
But through the tumults and my contrite apologies, I never stopped believing in Lilly and my colleagues never stopped believing in me. Lilly’s and my lives didn’t crash. Ensconced in empathy and understanding — and our willingness to keep learning — they took off like a jet.
Both Lilly and I still have a little ways to go toward becoming reaction-free. But, we’re winning. I may be physically leaving my colleagues behind, but their gifts of the soul will walk with me always. My wife and I may be moving Lilly from one environment to another, but the gains she’s made will travel and land with her in our new home.
With both humans and pets, it sometimes takes sound training to fly toward your better self.