My Second Interview

Sugar Pi's attempt to be a therapy dog

You may remember this sad story: My Interview that happened last February. If not, you may want to read it first before you move on to this post.

My Interview chronicled the whims, hopes and ego-centered desire on Cheri’s part for me—Sugar Pi—to join the ranks of WOOF, a group of calm and loving therapy dogs at Washington Hospital.

Alas, my acceptance into the esteemed program was not to be. Russ—the coordinator—deemed me well, immature. He told me that he ought to know because he owned three Portuguese Water Dogs. And that statement lent him tremendous credibility, I thought.

I was happy with the rejection because clearly an office without treats is an office without motivation.

Cheri is not used to failure, so seemed a bit disappointed on the way home. She looked over at me, sleeping on the back seat—exhausted by the energy I had thrown around the halls of the hospital—and told me to be patient. Good things come to those who wait.

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Yesterday, Cheri emailed Russ for an entirely different reason: to see if he knew of a pet sitter. Instead, Russ inquired about me, my personal growth and self-control now that I was two years old.

Cheri told him that I was somewhat calmer unless I was in Montana, where the bears, deer, antelope, mountain lions and rattlesnakes send me into zoomie frenzies on the upper and lower lawns, where just grabbing a cottonwood branch in my filthy teeth is enough to spin me like a top, where the thought of a thin corn chip dipped in salmon pate throttles my energy into a Portie tornado named Joaquin.

He said, rather spontaneously, why don’t you come down tomorrow at 1:00?

Without checking with me about how I might feel about such a spontaneous re-entry into a hospital environment, she said, Sure!

Then she strategized.

Ron had suggested that since I have natural white spats on all four paws, my Halloween costume this year should be a tuxedo.

Before I knew it this morning, I was being fitted with a tuxedo and brushed with a slicker brush.

Needless to say, I was mobbed at the hospital. It was so overwhelming that I just accepted all of the petting and oohing and awhhhhing that went on and on and on for at least an hour.

Funny, I passed the test.