St Boniface Hospital

Day 1 as told by Noodle the Poodle

            When Friday, a two year old apricot standard poodle, and I, a four year old cream standard poodle, applied to work at St Boniface hospital, we did not know what to expect. At orientation, we learned the courses we would have to complete before joining the other seven working dogs. The first was confidentiality and hospital codes. Having been a proven Keeper of Secrets, we did not have to attend. The babbler mouth Handlers did. The next course was hand washing and bacteria control. Here again, only the Handlers were forced to scrub in. The blood-workup, checking for a variety of diseases and current inoculations, was done at the lab. Putting out my paw, I saw my handler’s role up their sleeve. The lab technician shook my paw. At that moment, I knew I was going to like this place. I only needed to show my vet check record. Lastly, Friday and I had to take the St Boniface Hospital Canine Good Citizen test. I was not worried. Friday and I were Elite K-9. Dressed in on our MSAR jackets, we were readied for the test.

            "Don't I know you from somewhere," the tester asked. "Of course," she said, twirling her long hair. "Of course, I do. You two work at the Children's rehab. I saw your children's canine camp show. Very impressive! There is no need for you to take the test," she said. "Go down to security on the main floor and get your ID and work clothes."

            Work outfit? I was pleased. At security, they took my picture and Fridays. The Handlers got lanyards with laminated badges as well. The blue scarf with the St Boniface hospital emblem on it and the word 'volunteer' written in English and French was exquisite. I was to report to the sixth floor on Monday at one o'clock in my new outfit. My handler was given a parking pass and the code to the volunteer lounge.

            On Monday, I reported to work half an hour early, hoping to make a good first impression. Pressing the code lock to my office, we entered. It was impressive, not that I had any other office to compare it to. There was a desk model HP touch screen sign-in computer, three snack trays (from left to right, potato chips, chocolate mint patties and cherry nib packages ), locker keys, dining table with four chairs, and a floor model CQE-WC-00900 by Crystal Quest - 2 temperature ultra-filtration hybrid, hot and cold, in white with four filters water dispenser. Pressing the blue lever on the cooler, one of the handlers filled a paper cup with cold water. Friday watched. Sniffing at the garbage can, the next thing I know is that my feet are soaked. Looking up, I see that Friday is holding the blue lever down with his paw, causing cold water to stream on to the floor. Ten seconds into my first shift and he was going to get me fired. I just knew it. His handler pulled him away before he flooded the place. He pawed us in on the computer touch screen.  

            The sixth floor is for medium stay patients. The hallways are bustling with wheelchairs, walkers and moving beds. There are no traffic lights or stop signs. I listened for bicycles. Not hearing any, I proceeded down the long hallway. I planned to start at the far end and work my way back to the nurse's desk. The smells in a hospital are very different than the dog park. At first, it smells like paper and ink, due to all the paper wrappers, pens, files and documents everywhere on the nurse's desk. Soon I picked up the lovely smell of body eliminations (poop, urine and vomit) coming from the first room. What can I say, I like the smell of poop. I am a dog. The next room had the metallic smell of blood, which can render the strongest stomachs like mine nauseous. Friday was holding his breath. We moved on. At the end of the hall, we entered the last room. The smell of newly cleaned sheets and hospital gowns assaulted my nose. Lemon fresh detergent, I think?  All of these layered smells are masked by a heavy cloud of antiseptic lotions that float around mid-high. Hospital smell like the way sterilized plastic cups look to my eyes, dull and uninviting, but also efficient and clean.

            At each room, the handler asks if the patient would like a visit from the dogs. We are invited in. I go first and Friday follows. The room has two beds separated by a curtain. I was surprised as to how compact the room was. Everything I had learned at Elite K-9 was put to the test. Sharp turns and staying tucked in tight at all times, back-back and get around were common commands. Up-sit, which means to move up a few inches and then sit, my Handler's favourite, allowing me to inch closer to the bed. Hospital beds have metal rails and with thirty inch frames, they are higher than most beds which creates a problem for me. I have to extend my head to be patted. Looking over at bed two, I see Friday has found his own solution. No longer threatened by the rails, he backs in nicely. Standing on his hind legs with his front paws on the bed rail, he smiles at the bed two patient. He never ceases to amaze me. I try it and it works. We go room to room visiting with patients. Each one has a dog or cat story to tell. In some of the rooms, there are visitors glad not to be talking about the cold weather. We were about halfway down the hall when something unfamiliar happened.

            "Do you want a visit from the dogs," my handler asked. The middle aged guy in the bed turns around sharply and says, "Get those stupid disease carries out of here. Dogs are not allowed in the hospital. I am calling the police." He pressed his emergency button and bells rang. The light outside his room flashed. I was confused. I did not know what to do.

            The nurse came running down hall. "What's the problem," she asked.

            "Dam dogs,"  he said. "I pay taxes and I pay your salary. And, you have savage beasts running around. I am Mr So-N-So. What do you think my name in this town means," he asked?

            'Poophead?,' I answered without thinking. The Nurse, who luckily did not speak dog, looked over at me and said, "It's okay sweetie, not to worry. He is having an off day." Friday and I moved on. 

            In the next room was the sweetest lady I ever met. Her name was Mildred. She was 92 or more. And, she knew a dog school word, hup. At agility class, I was put on leash and sat next to my handler. When ready, he walked me quickly to the high bar, giving the command, hup. I hesitated and he gently helped me over the very low bar. Once my confidence built, the bar was raised and each time he said, hup, I cleared  a new height, getting my treat or words of praise. Now, hearing the command, and wanting to please, I leaped over the bed rail on to the bed. Landing perfectly, straddling the frail women, she looked up at my furry white belly and clapped in joy. I could feel the Handler's heavy eyes on me. He lifted me off the bed. When we were leaving, the tear filled lady told us that of all the things she missed, not being in company of dogs was the hardest. Mildred thanked us for coming and released the water in her eyes.  

            In the next room, there was a welcome mat laid out for me. Actually, it was chicken, apple sauce and muffin crumbs on the floor. 'Finally, snack time,' I thought.

            "Leave it," the Handler said. Being at work, I obeyed. We had a nice visit with the young girl. Exiting the room, I thought I caught a glimpse of something in Friday's mouth. To him the command, leave it, meant anything on the floor was out of bounds. Moving closer, I realized that the little stuffed dog in his mouth had been on the chair and therefore fair game. Everyone turned right except Friday, who bolted left. His Handler caught up with him in Mildred's room where he had dropped off the stuffed dog. That was the last time we were off leash in the hospital.

            The rest of the floor went well. The second half of our shift was on the eighth floor.

            Palliative care is a form of medical care that concentrates on reducing the severity of disease symptoms, rather than striving to halt, delay, or reverse progression of the disease itself or provide a cure. The goals of palliative treatment are concrete: relief from suffering, treatment of pain, psychological and spiritual care, a support system to help the individual live as actively as possible, and a support system to sustain and rehabilitate the individual's family. Getting off the elevator, the first thing I noticed was the smell. When you walk by a room, there is a distinct smell; I don't know quite how to explain it. It is not like urine or stool. It is unique. Sometimes, on the eighth floor, sniffing at a room I know that a patient will not live long.  I wonder if I am the only one who notices this. No one has been able to explain to me this odour. It does not seem to matter if the patient has cancer, heart disease or is dying from debility related to old age. It comes off the skin in the form of a gas. It was a sweet rather heavy odour, not unpleasant.

             The wall colours are not neutral like the lower floors, grays mixing with pinks and greens are everywhere. The floor is carpet, not vinyl, and the lighting is brighter. My Handler takes me down a long, wide hallway. Friday follows. There are no wheelchairs, walkers or moving beds. It is quiet, like the muted sounds of The Woods at night. I notice there are signs on the semi closed doors of the patient rooms. And then, it occurs to me, we are playing Rally-O. A canine game where I do what it says on a card.  

            "This one says, Stick Your Nose in the Door," my Handler said.  Had I of known that it said, Immediate Family Only, I may have acted differently. Sticking my nose in the door, I saw a large room with a big bed, two lounge chairs and a river view. It was charming. The lone occupant, an elderly male, spotted me, his frail arm waving me forward. Dull brown eyes watched me as my pack advanced. Friday and I got close enough to be patted. He had a gentle touch and a warming smile. The brightness in his eyes had returned and for that patting moment, he was free from his disease, running leashless in The Woods. At least, in his mind if not in his body. If you have never felt that you have found you place in life then I encourage you to sniff further. I had found mine. In all the rooms we visited on the palliative floor, we were welcomed like long lost relatives. Some Handlers believe that the quiet stroking of a pet, can significantly change your body's physiology, lowering your blood pressure and heart rate. The release of calming chemicals promotes a longer life. I do not know anything about that. But, I can tell you that on this floor, I get much more than I give. The sweet, heavy odour was strongest in this last room. The patient, Dorothy, feeding me a vanilla cookie, said I reminded her of a childhood Corgi, not in looks, but in attitude. Rainbow was her name. At her bedside was her seven year old great granddaughter. Sensing my sadness, the child patted me. With upturned lips, she said, "I love you doggie! My mom says Grandma is going on a very long, wonderful car ride later tonight. I think her  head will be out out the window the whole way!"

            I understood!

            Shift completed, we signed out and went home.

St Boniface Hospital is continuing to break ground in quality of patient care, operational efficiency, and research discovery, improving the quality of life for all within reach of its open arms. It is in that spirit that they developed the canine program. Canines who have proven their skills, are welcome to visit patients. The program is run by the Director of Volunteers, Karen. Many hospitals have yet to embrace the healing power of canines. If doing right means taking a different path, St Boniface Hospital is prepared to walk alone.