Don't Pet Me, I'm Working

Arya Stark and Jon Snow. And their dire wolves. And oh my God I'm getting more ashamed the more I write.

2012-01-13T16:30:00.000-08:00

Sometimes we dress up like characters from George R.R. Martin's A Game of Thrones.

Modern Dog (gets me to the church on time)

2011-09-07T21:51:00.000-07:00

Vote Phoebe for President! And by President I mean dog winner of this dog contest!

I Dig Your Dog Blog

2011-08-27T18:08:00.000-07:00

My nice friend over at Exiled from Contentment has honored me with an award! An award, I tell you! Hooray! Many thanks, E.F. Contentment, for the "I Dig Your Blog" Award! Phoebe extends her gratitude and best wishes, as well. Also, she requests an in-depth review of the 1993 dogudrama, Beethoven.

The conditions of my shiny new award stipulate that I must share three facts about myself and then pass the torch of honor (let's go ahead and call it an honor torch) to five other people. Since this blog is as much Phoebe's as it is mine, it's only fair that I share three things about the both of us. So, here are our three things, followed by the passing of the honor torch.

Three Lauren Things:

1.) I don't like soup. I feel a soup is more a chunky beverage than it is a meal, and frankly, I don't appreciate it. "Hi, I'm soup. I'm totally a food." No, soup, you're not. You're nothing but a warm, savory beverage filled with floating chunks of soggy vegetable medley. I can't drink you because your chunks would choke me. I can't eat you because your liquid gets in the way of your chunks. I believe your mind games are a symptom of a bigger problem, soup; one rooted in your inability to get close to people and be yourself.

2.) I love history. I think it's so neat that right now, I am sitting on the exact spot that someone once sat like eighty years ago. I mean, not on this couch, but in this apartment. Sometimes, I google old photographs of places that still exist, today, and I drive to those places and take pictures and put the old picture and the new picture side by side. Sometimes I think I believe in reincarnation and wonder if I was alive in another time.

3.) Johnny Cash is my hero.

Three Phoebe Things:

1.) An Aquarius, Phoebe was born on February 15th, 2007 to Maddie and Dura Max Diesel.

2.) Her ideal man: Barry, the great and noble St. Bernard dog of the North. Also, Hugh Jackman.

3.) She likes to hold hands.

And now, what we've all been waiting for... I get to say honor torch again! And present awards to the following blogs! Hells yes, boi! (Sorry.)

Hidden Los Angeles
Ghosts and shadows and stories.

Confessions of a CF Husband
A miracle family.

Very Short Novels
Less is more.

Shutter Sisters
Camera toting women, unite!

One Girl, One Novel
Wanda Shapiro: Author/indie publisher extraordinaire.

Fist bumps and secret handshakes to all!

Dear Phoebe

2011-08-16T12:46:00.000-07:00

Ed. Note: I host a chat room on Starbright World, an online community for children with chronic medical problems. Each month, I hold a special workshop for kids who like to write. We share poems, essays, songs and stories, often intimate glimpses into the lives and times of some of the strongest people I know. At the end of each chat, I assign the kids a topic and a writing exercise to complete before our next meeting. Recently, I asked them to write a letter to their hero. This is Rebecca's letter.

A letter to one of my heroes ☺

The word "hero" is defined as, "a person who, in the opinion of others, has heroic qualities or has performed a heroic act and is regarded as a model or ideal." So when asked most people would probably say their hero is someone close to them in their life or even a superhero or celebrity that may seem like they are indestructible. But when I think about a hero I think about someone who is the opposite, someone that has seen or experienced things others have not. When I think about who my hero might be it’s a tough call, I could say my hero is a family member, a friend or even a movie star. But in all honesty I think I would have to say one of my many heroes has to be Phoebe the service dog. Here is a letter I wrote to Phoebe.

Dear Phoebe,

I know you probably don’t get many letters since you are a dog, but I thought I would write you one even though you won’t be able to write back. When I looked at the definition of a hero online I was thinking of all the people who I could write a letter to but you came to mind because you are a true hero. You are not just an ordinary dog or even just a really good dog, you are a service dog and you are trained to help people. Although you help Lauren mostly, you are able to help people that you come across while you do something as simple as help Lauren walk to the store. You can spread joy, hope and happiness to everyone you meet even if it might seem like they don’t need it. More importantly you help Lauren walk after not being able to for many years. I am not sure that I have ever seen a human so dedicated to helping someone as much as you are to helping Lauren, so that is a truly special quality. In my eyes as well as many others you are the definition of hero. You work hard in order to help others, perform selfless acts everyday and spread joy to everyone you meet. I know most people just look at service dogs as regular dogs that are trained to do above and beyond but I look at you as a true hero and an equal. You may be a dog but you are one heck of a boss! I would like to thank you for all of your heroic work and dedication.

<3,
Becca

Old familiar places

2011-08-11T19:32:00.000-07:00

"Don’t take any wooden nickels, young lady,” my grandfather reminds me as I hug him goodbye. I remember the smell of Waffle Crisp cereal in the kitchen and spending nights with my sister in a room that’s now used as an office. They store my grandfather’s oxygen tanks where I used to stand and spy on the grownups through a shuttered door after bedtime. There was a bed next to the window overlooking the lake and a doll collection that reminded me of Chucky and scared me to death.

My grandmother paints. I’ve always admired her artistic talent, (I can’t draw or paint to save my life) and once I asked her why she chooses to use watercolor over oil. She told me that watercolor changes. It starts off looking one way and it transforms into something else. You never know how it will turn out, the colors, the shapes, and that it’s a lovely surprise.

This trip feels important, special, like a good part of the story you don't want left out. We're here because my grandparents were married sixty years ago, today, and because their life together was a starting point for all of us. She was a schoolteacher; he was a high school band director. They raised four children, and later, they became Nana and Baboo.

I’ve always felt a special bond with my extended family. Though we don’t see one another very often and our lives have taken us in a million different directions, I’ve always liked them and I enjoy picking up where we left off. When we were kids, us cousins played together and ate yellow popsicles that melted faster than anyone could eat them. We pointed and laughed when our dads almost blew themselves up trying to light a cluster of fireworks in the front yard of our rental in Hot Springs. One year, we had a babysitter that wrote skits and commercials for us to perform in front of our parents. I adored my younger cousins and I thought my big cousins were the coolest people in the world. I remember vividly the time I read my much older cousin’s copy of The Death of Superman. I was traumatized, and I remember thinking, “If SUPERMAN can die, the rest of us don’t have a chance….”

When my illness was at its worst, one of the last trips we took as a family was to my grandparent’s house in Arkansas for Thanksgiving. Everyone was there, even my beautiful great-grandmother Ruth. Things were on a downward spiral and I was mostly bedridden, by then, but I was glad to be there. At the time, I wasn’t sure what the future held and being close to loved ones felt important. When I was sick, I always wanted everyone to sing to me, in the hospital, at home, in the car, everywhere. It comforted me and served as a gentle reminder that I was still here.

I wasn’t able to join my family in the dining room for Thanksgiving dinner, that year, but they all piled into my room afterwards and we sang and talked and told stories. Looking back, I think that though the experience of losing control over my body was terrible, it was also the greatest blessing of my life. It shined a light on what really matters so that I’ll never forget, forever etched into my mind like names on tree bark.

Standing in the kitchen with my aunts and my sister and cousins, eating watermelon and shooting the breeze, I feel lucky; lucky to be here; lucky to be a part of things and to have memories, both good and bad, that remind me to be grateful; lucky to have people who sang to me.

Today, I believe that God and love and energy are all around us. I believe we are angels to each other. I believe that we are made up of stardust and cells and atoms and science and magic and we will always be a part of everything. I believe in brains and chemicals and flesh and shadows. I believe in souls. I believe our role in the universe is ever changing, that what we are today is different from what we were yesterday and what we will be tomorrow. I believe that to live is to love and to wonder and to go away forever but never really leave. I believe that we are a fierce and delicate balance. I believe this is our time and we are lucky to have a turn.

Laying Down the Paw

2011-05-30T19:51:00.000-07:00

For those of you finding it difficult to decipher Phoebe's words, here is her Special Comment in writing:

"It has been brought to my attention, on numerous occasions, America, that there are those that will, for their own selfish reasons, claim their pet is a service dog in order to gain public access. Your dishonesty, no matter your motivation, undermines the legitimacy of my job. I am putting my paw down and saying to those who purchase a red vest and call a pet a service dog: you make my job, and my human's life, more challenging. Your actions give business owners a reason to question my presence in their establishments because they have been fooled by people who selfishly throw out the term "service dog" as if it has no consequences. Pets are not trained in the same way as service dogs. We have completed thousands of hours of specialized training in order to responsibly share public space with humans. We are trained to know immediately when our vests are put on that it is time for work, for good behavior, and we take our jobs very seriously. From restaurants, to schools, to hospitals, we understand that upon request from our humans, we immediately sit, lie down, or complete whatever task is required of us. We are the real deal, we are certified working animals, and when you throw a vest on your pet and drag him or her into a grocery store or a movie theatre, there is a real possibility of disruptive or inappropriate behavior. If that happens, employes are under the impression that your dog is a service animal, thus, they think less of service dogs, or they look upon me with doubt the next time I enter their business with my human. It is not far, it is not right, and it is not legal. To those of you who have attempted to pass off your pet as a service dog, I ask only that you think about the potential consequences of your actions. I ask you to consider how you would feel if your friend, your mother, your sister had a service dog and was hassled and treated poorly due to a stranger's choice to break the rules. I ask that you respect the men and women who have dedicated their time, their money, their energy and their love to training service dogs. I ask that the next time you are faced with a choice, you choose to regard service animals with the respect we deserve. Good night, and good luck."

Stability and Balance

2011-05-25T14:01:00.001-07:00

People are often curious about the process of traveling with a service animal. Since Phoebe is a working dog as opposed to a pet, The Americans with Disabilities Act allows her to accompany me in the cabin and sit on the floor by my feet. We travel often, and so far, flying with Phoebe has been pleasant and, at times, kind of wonderful.

Phoebe’s first flight was in June of 2008. After training together at CARES in Kansas for two weeks, I took my bear-dog home to Los Angeles where we would start our lives together as woman and dog. She didn’t know what to make of the whole mess, at first, but soon, after being showered with kisses from flight attendants and delicious treats of the rawhide persuasion, she quickly warmed up to the strange metal tube in the sky. Every time we fly, I reward her good behavior with the holy grail of dog treats: The CET chew. Judging by the abundance of preflight tail wagging, I'm fairly certain Phoebe thinks that planes are magical CET chew factories built for the delight of good dogs.

Traveling with Phoebe, I imagine, is a lot like traveling with a baby. You need a system when traveling with a dependent, a plan of action that allows you to keep your sanity and sail through the process as quickly and as painlessly as possible. Here is our system. I call our system, “Our Great Travel System.” I like to come up with creative names sometimes.

Our Great Travel System

1) When traveling with a service dog, one must always allow time for a preflight bathroom break. No one wants a St. Bernard taking a dump in the aisle of an aircraft due entirely to poor planning.
2) Keep your service dog ID handy.
3) When making your way through security, request a pat down for both human and dog. It’s faster and easier than walking through the scanner a bunch of times, only to be told you need a pat down because your port-a-cath and your dog’s vest are ringing off. Timesuck City, USA.
4) Carry Greenies Pill Pockets at all times; a couple of Benadryl right before boarding help keep puppy’s ears comfortable during takeoff and landing.
5) Allow other passengers to deplane before exiting the aircraft. It’s less stressful to gather your things and collect your dog and schlep out the door with ten pounds of crap when you don’t have a long line of people trying to squeeze by you.
6) And finally, make sure that dogface drinks plenty of water post-flight, as airplanes are just as dehydrating for dogs as they are for us. Also, run/hobble like the wind and locate a dog bathroom.

Speaking of airport things, Phoebe loves her some pat down. The last time we were at LAX, the TSA agent looked at her and very seriously explained the procedure. “I’m going to go ahead and pat you down, now,” she said, before before gently lifting one floppy ear at a time and using the backs of her hands to pat her belly. Phoebe stood there like a Berenstain Bear, blissfully grunting as agents commenced full doggy pat down. She ended up rolling completely over onto her back, arms and legs in the air like a great big old whore. She was their happiest customer that day.

A few months ago, as Phoebe and I settled in for a long flight, a man boarded the plane and asked if he could sit next to us in the bulkhead. It wasn’t a full flight, so I suggested he might be more comfortable in a seat that wouldn’t require him to share his foot space with my bearpony, since he didn’t have to. He said that he had never flown on an airplane before and he was a little nervous, and it would really help him to sit next to Phoebe and talk to her. I told him that was just fine. And so he sat, nervously twiddling his thumbs and sweating like an overheated Top Chef contestant as the flight attendant went over emergency protocol. Right before takeoff, without any prompting from the man, Phoebe reached up and put her hand on his knee, as if to say, “There, there, fella. It’ll be okay.” He held her hand for the majority of that flight, talking to her, petting her, projecting messages of reassurance meant for himself. When we landed, the man patted Phoebe on the head and let out a sigh of relief. “We made it,” he said with a smile. That day, Phoebe helped a weary traveler learn to fly. It occurred to me that she is a stability and balance dog in more ways than one.

My mom was a flight attendant for seventeen years, back in the day when flying was a pleasant experience, a special occasion. In those days, for the most part, terrorists were bad guys in movies, elderly people in wheelchairs weren't subjected to body searches and wide-eyed children were given wings and invited to visit the cockpit before takeoff. Nowadays, you show up to the airport two hours early and are immediately greeted at the curb by airport police who expect you to tuck and roll out of your moving car like a freaking ninja because “OMG NO STOPPING.” After escorting your own checked bags to the checked bag island of bags, you stand in a line that stretches ten city blocks and wait your turn to be groped and radiated and finally packed into a crowded plane like a nameless sardine. People dress like dirty laundry baskets and paranoia takes hold every time a passenger walks toward the cockpit door en route to the restroom. If I had been alive in the good old days, I would miss the good old days. That said, it’s not all bad. Phoebe makes the whole process of flying a lot more bearable. I love to watch grumpy, sleep deprived businessmen light up when they see her. She acts as a catalyst for human connection and after a few minutes at our gate, strangers become friends and frustrated travelers slow down, if only for a moment, and smile. Times like that, I feel lucky. Like I’m witness to some kind of magic.

Ask a Service Dog: Very Special Bath Edition

2011-04-03T20:30:00.000-07:00

Reunion

2011-03-30T17:55:00.000-07:00

Years ago, Phoebe and I were approached by an old homeless man outside a movie theatre. He knelt down and looked into Phoebe's eyes for the longest time. She looked right back at him, strange, as she usually goes to great lengths to avoid eye contact.

"I remember you, girl," he said, his eyes wide with recognition. "From back home. We were good friends, a long time ago."

Phoebe nudged him as he leaned forward and whispered something in her ear. She listened, and before the man got up to leave, she rested her paw on his wrinkled hand and let out a long sigh. He smiled and looked up and me.

"She remembers."

He struggled onto his feet and made his way down the sidewalk, turning back once or twice to wave to his old friend. Phoebe watched him until he disappeared around the corner. I couldn't help but feel I had witnessed a magical reunion of old souls, lost friends from another time coming together at long last. Maybe he really did know Phoebe in another life, or maybe he was confused, lost in an imaginary world that none of us could see. Maybe it doesn't matter. In that moment, he believed, and he was happy.

Dr. Dog: An American Hero

2011-03-11T06:46:00.000-08:00

Dog Food

2011-02-04T05:52:00.000-08:00

I couldn't sleep last night, so I ate a pint of Haagen-Dazs and watched Bad Girls Club reruns. Around the time someone threw something in a pool after accusing someone of "not being here for the right reasons," I had an idea: I will start reviewing restaurants in Los Angeles based on service dog friendliness and accessibility! Yes! And I will share our experiences with each restaurant! Yes! And I will have a rating system! Holy shit yes! The rating system got me kind of excited.

So, stay tuned for my first review!

Ask a Service Dog, Vol. 5

2010-05-28T22:00:00.000-07:00

Phoebe reviews her favorite movie of all time, The International.

Ask a Service Dog, Episode 5 from Lauren Henderson on Vimeo.

Oma

2010-05-20T11:20:00.000-07:00

She wasn’t thrilled about Phoebe, at first. At 95-years-old she had things the way that she wanted them. Her house was immaculate, the carpets as white as the day they were installed. Every knick knack had a story in a house built on love and second chances.

I started working for Oma last year. I responded to a caregiver ad and a week later I found myself sitting at her dining room table, notepad in hand, jotting down medication schedules and hearing aid instructions. The responsibility was a little nerve-wracking and I found myself wondering if we were going to have much in common with one another. I soon learned that Oma and I were more alike than different and that this tiny woman with a German accent would turn out to be one of my dearest friends.

For the first few weeks we mainly worked around the house. I helped her with laundry and dishes and she taught me to sew. She was appalled when I told her I had never learned.

“When I was a child we learned sewing at age seven. In school! It was REQUIRED, you see. I shall teach you. You will make a wonderful headmistress of your household!”

She always offered me something to eat upon my arrival and sent me home every night with a can of 7up of a slice of microwave pizza. She became “grandma.” In fact, I never knew her name was Ruth until much later. She had asked me to call her Oma, which, come to find out, means “grandmother” in German.

In time she shared with me her incredible past. She and her husband fled Nazi-occupied Germany and lived in Cuba for two years while waiting to obtain American citizenship. Her husband went on to work as an international reporter, interviewing classic movie stars from Hollywood’s golden age. They created a beautiful life for themselves, carrying with them always the memories of those they had lost.

Recently, Oma suffered a terrible fall. She broke several bones and spent her 96th birthday, and the weeks that followed, in the hospital. I visited as often as I could and together we ate chocolate cupcakes and watched Gone With the Wind (her favorite movie.) She’s home, now, but requires around the clock nursing care. When I stopped by for a visit last week she was so happy to see Phoebe she started to cry. They sat together like old friends and held hands for the longest time.

I will forever cherish the memories of my time with Oma, the two of us zipping around Target on a motorized scooter with Phoebe by our side. It was all quite the adventure. I continue to be amazed, every day, by how much happiness and love Phoebe brings to everyone we encounter. It makes me feel lucky.

Oma and Phoebe from Lauren Henderson on Vimeo.

Happy Mother's Day

2010-05-09T12:16:00.000-07:00

Whether your baby has four legs or two <3

Ask a Service Dog, Vol. 4

2010-05-07T08:44:00.000-07:00

From one dog professor to another.

Ask a Service Dog, Vol. 4 from Lauren Henderson on Vimeo.

Ask a Service Dog, Vol. 3

2010-04-24T19:10:00.000-07:00

Phoebe politely responds to the inquiry of a rude and demanding viewer.

Ask a Service Dog, Vol. 3 from Lauren Henderson on Vimeo.

Ask a Service Dog, Vol. 2

2010-04-16T19:54:00.001-07:00

Phoebe helps a concerned mother navigate her way through the challenges of adolescence.

Ask a Service Dog, Vol.2 from Lauren Henderson on Vimeo.

Ask a Service Dog, Vol. 1

2010-04-13T01:52:00.000-07:00

Spring is here, and with it comes the promise of an advice segment featuring a talking Saint Bernard. You know, that old chestnut. Write to Phoebe at ServiceDogPhoebe@gmail.com and ask her your burning questions. She will respond and you will be enlightened.

Thanks.

2009-11-26T00:41:00.000-08:00

Every day I wake up next to a man who makes me smile. Every day I fall in love with him. Due to the selflessness and dedication of others I have a beautiful service dog to help me live a more independent life. She watches over my every step and I walk on.

After many years spent in darkness I have emerged into a world filled with magnificent light so blinding I sometimes pinch myself to make sure it's real. My family and friends are my heart. They gave me hope when there was none, strength when I needed it and love through the darkest of times.

Life is full of obstacles and hardships that often leave us reeling. We're scarred and changed, searching for a reason for it all. Not one of us will be spared the realities of life and the consequences of being. What I am thankful for, today, is the gift of now; the gift of embracing what we have and thanking God every day we have it. I am grateful for hardship. Without it we would never know the preciousness of life and the beauty that can be found in anything if you look at it hard enough. I am grateful for my challenges because they have brought me great strength. I have learned that life molds us into the people we are meant to be.

This Thanksgiving I hope you find yourselves in the presence of family and friends, happy and safe and loved. I hope that no matter your struggle, you, too, can walk on.

Thanks.

Word of Mouth

2009-10-31T19:17:00.000-07:00

We heard about her through a friend of a friend. A sick little girl, trapped inside a body that was tired and ravaged by a cruel illness. Her family was praying for a miracle, keeping hope at arm's length but holding on all the same. Her name was Guru Simran and she was 14-years-old. Through the grapevine I heard about her struggle and I wanted to do something to help. I asked my friend if Guru Simran liked dogs and if she would maybe like a visit from Phoebe. Indeed a dog lover, she said yes and asked us to stop by.

I spend my days chatting with teenagers suffering from chronic illness. Some of them have dealt with their affliction since birth and they have never known a life without treatments, medications and hospital stays. This is what they know and they don't question it or wish for anything different. Other children lived healthy, normal lives until one day they were suddenly stricken with cancer, or lupus, or muscular dystrophy, and - without warning- their lives are turned upside down, never to be the same again. Like me, Guru Simran fell into the second category. Like me, she was a happy, thriving child who loved sports and school and family, and, like me, her illness struck without warning; her life suddenly broken into two parts, "before" and "after."

Working with chronically ill kids and having a chronic illness, myself, I have seen people deal with their situations in all sorts of ways. Some of the children I work with are angry. Many are depressed, hopeless, wishing with all their might for a way to make the pain stop. Some of them act like jerks and they are pissed off for being dealt such a heavy hand. Nobody blames them.

One smoky Saturday a couple of months ago I drove to UCLA Medical Center with Phoebe in tow. On the drive over I prepared myself for what might await me once I arrived. In my mind I imagined a sad, angry kid- Depressed and reserved, giving the world the finger for being so cruel.

Don't take it personally if she doesn't smile at you. She's very sick and has probably had it up to here with people trying to cheer her up.

My friend and his girlfriend, whose teenage daughter attended school with Guru Simran, met me in the lobby and together we took the elevator up to the pediatric intensive care unit. Phoebe, fully dressed in her red vest and fancy service dog outfit, seemed excited. Like she knew we were going to visit someone important and special.

She was right.

Guru Simran's sister met us outside the unit and escorted us back to a room full of people standing around the bed of a glowing, smiling child. I was taken aback. If it hadn't been for all of the machines and tubes I never would have guessed she was sick. She shone, her smile radiant and strong. Her mother and sister welcomed and introduced me to Guru Simran. She waved at me. I waved back.

"It's nice to meet you," I said.

The tumor had made it nearly impossible for her to breathe on her own and she couldn’t speak because of her tracheotomy. She smiled and mouthed the words, "Nice to meet you."

She wasn't angry. She wasn't bitter. She wasn't any of the things I had prepared myself for on the drive over. She was the opposite of those things. This little girl who had gone from healthy to critically ill and bedridden in a matter of months was happy. She gave everyone in the room her complete and undivided attention when they spoke, even as a nurse entered to adjust her tubing and to apply suction. I got the feeling that she was taking care of us.

Her eyes lit up when she saw Phoebe, and Phoebe rushed over to the bed to greet her. They hit it off. So much, in fact, that we maneuvered the pumps and tubing so that Phoebe could jump up onto the bed and cuddle with her.

We spent the next couple of hours getting acquainted. Her mother told me they were using sign language to be able to more effectively communicate with Guru Simran. She told me about her daughter and how patient she was. How wise. How kind and caring, despite how trapped she must have felt inside her own body. I sat on her bed and she showed me pictures of her friends back at school. She showed me pictures of her boyfriend, of her birthday party just weeks before her hospitalization when things began to take a turn for the worse. She loved food, so when her boyfriend came to Los Angeles to visit she put together a list of her favorite eateries for him to enjoy. She showed me the list and we talked about cupcakes and bread and ice cream. I found myself drawn to her. I noticed Phoebe was, too.

As the weeks passed I visited the family as often as I could. I introduced my boyfriend, Steven, to Guru Simran a few days after our first encounter. He, too, fell in love with her. We brought her the Wizard of Oz; a film she had never seen. During our following visit she told me that she liked the cowardly lion the best. A while later, Steven and I took a trip up to Cayucos. Being a flea market/antique/thrift store addict I dragged him into a little place full of old movie memorabilia. As I fanned through a bunch of behind the scenes photos I came across a great shot of Bert Lahr dressed as the lion. We bought it for Guru Simran and her mom hung it up on the wall.

Once she had stabilized enough to be sent home from the hospital on life support we still came by to visit. I brought her a copy of To Kill A Mockingbird, one of my all time favorites. Steven and I read her almost the entire first chapter before she got tired.

The last time I saw her she shared with us some writing from her special folder. She was a beautiful writer. Her words and ideas were so far beyond her years it amazed me. Even as a little girl she was so insightful. I told her I wanted a copy of one of her poems. I wanted to frame it.

The following two weeks were busy and I wasn’t able to visit her like I’d wanted. I wanted to finish To Kill A Mockingbird. I wanted her to see Phoebe.

I received word one Thursday morning that Guru Simran had passed away. Steven and I knew she was very sick but I really believed in my heart that she would pull through. She lit up everything and everyone and I wanted her to stay.

When she was in the hospital I had made her a mixed CD with a bunch of random music on it. One of my favorite tracks was “Aeroplane Over the Sea” by Neutral Milk Hotel. It reminded me of her. I worried my indie rock weirdness would be too much for her to handle and she would hate it, but true to form, the kid had fantastic taste.

I only knew her for a short time but I will never, ever forget Guru Simran and her family. She reminded me how blessed I am to have made it through my illness, how blessed we all are, just to be. I never once heard her voice but she said so much. She was magic.

I wanted to share this story here because if it hadn’t been for Phoebe, I probably would never have met Guru Simran. I am grateful for Phoebe just as I am grateful for knowing Guru Simran. Their kindness and love humble me.

“What a beautiful face I have found in this place that is circling all ‘round the sun
When we meet on a cloud I’ll be laughing out loud I’ll be laughing at everyone I see
Can’t believe how strange it is to be anything at all.”

Dogumentary!

2009-06-12T19:56:00.000-07:00

After a year of crazy/awesome/bizarre/frustrating/hilar/stressful/eye-opening experences with Pheebmeister, I decided to make a documentary about service dogs to better inform the public about the work of these very special fur balls. I've spent the last two weeks filming in Kansas, shadowing with the CARES organization and talking with some truly amazing families. I'm excited about the film and its potential to educate and inform. Phoebe is excited, too, but mostly about her IMDB credit. The other day she was all, "Get me a dog latte." and I was like, "What does that mean?" and she was like, "A latte for me, a dog, because you have been filming me and I am famous and where is my dog latte?" It was really cute.

Stay tuned for lots of pics of Concordia, KS and lots of dogs.

Laurenzo

It Was All Up to Me to Decide

2009-05-17T17:43:00.000-07:00

Four years ago today I graduated from high school in Leawood, Kansas. I was still in a wheelchair, still ghostly pale from six years in the dark. I dyed my hair black and got a tattoo and tried with all my might to make up for lost time and to join my friends in their teen rebellion. I had seen so much and experienced things that most people never do, yet my naivety to the ways of the "real" world, the "healthy" world, became painfully obvious when I moved to Los Angeles. I knew how to access a port-a-cath yet I never learned how to parallel park. I could rattle off the unsafe list of medications for porphyria patients in my sleep but I didn't know how to pay a cable bill or use a coin laundry machine. I was determined to learn everything that everyone else knew as quickly as I could. To be normal. To pretend that they last six years had never happened. I was in such a rush to play catch up with myself that I missed the opportunity to sit back and enjoy being alive and mobile and to take it all in.

I used to have a website called We All Have Stories. It provided me with an outlet to vent about crappy nurses and bad stomach pain and missing out on things like prom and learning to drive and other teenage crap. Last fall I was reading over some of my old entries and I found some letters I had written to myself about my uncertain future. After reading them I decided to write a response to myself, four years older and maybe (?) a little bit wiser.

My old writing is in italics. Whoomp, here it is.

Dear Lauren,

It’s been four years and I have some things to tell you.

Two weeks ago I wiggled my toes. I've gotten better at it, too. At first it would take me ten minutes just to move a toe. Now it’s a matter of seconds. It's the craziest feeling ever. Crazy, awesome, amazing, mind-blowing. The other night I made my thigh and the top of my foot move. Not just the toes- the foot. I am going to walk again. There is no doubt in my mind.

First, you walked again. You went to therapy every day and you worked with Brendan and April and they helped you. You had lots of surgeries and injections and treatments and now you can walk pretty much like a normal person. Some days the Tiny Tim limp is worse than others, but it’s okay. You’re so much better than you ever thought you could be. Sometimes you have panic attacks because it all catches up with you. It hits you that you’re not in bed anymore and the world suddenly seems really big. It feels like you’ve tripped and you’re falling down really fast and no one’s there to catch you, like when you used to run up the stairs and you’d miss a step.

Sometimes I get scared that the past few months have been a dream and none of what has happened is real. It's an amazing feeling to know that you have a future. To know that you can be happy. I realize I see the world the way a child does. Like everything around me is a miracle. As ridiculous as it seems to marvel at a tree swaying in the wind or at a mother holding her little girl's hand in a grocery store parking lot, I can't help it. Everything old is new again.

After you learned to walk again you moved to Los Angeles. Remember when you were in the hospital and you’d make mom go to blockbuster and rent like 8 movies for you at once? You’d fall asleep to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and you memorized everything, every line, every shot, of Badlands. Now you make movies and you write stories and it’s the only thing that you want to do for the rest of your life. You’ve found your passion and for that, you are blessed.

A couple of weeks ago I ate my first meal at the first restaurant I had been to in over four years. If you ask me, taste is kind of a miracle. Even if you don't ask me, I'll tell you. It's a miracle. As I ate salmon and pie and partook in enjoyable conversation with my best friend, I thought to myself, "Oh, yeah... THIS is what it's like to be alive." I'd almost forgotten. Almost.

I think you should know that what you’ve been through with your illness is really hard and I know that you’ve suffered a lot. But here’s the thing that I think you should know: It only gets harder. Life. It’s not easy and you’re not exempt from the “regular person” hard stuff just because you’ve been through hell. I know a part of you thought that God was going to wave a wand and grant you a trouble-free existence, but that’s the Brothers Grimm version of your story. It isn’t real.

I'm real again. Not that I was fake before, but I didn't feel like a real person. I felt like a shell of the person I used to be. A shadow in the dark. It was like I was watching life on a 5", black and white television and nothing was on the screen but static. Now, I'm not watching life. I'm living it. I'm experiencing it. I'm tasting it.

There are a lot of things that you aren’t going to know how to do. The thing about missing ages 14-20 is that you miss a lot of experiences that help you to grow up. You learn how to say “no,” you learn how to fight with friends and stand up for yourself. You grown into your own skin and you learn to like it. To be comfortable with it. To own it. The thing that you missed out on was growing up. Overnight you went from healthy to sick, just as overnight you went from little girl to grown up. You fell asleep and you woke up different, like Rip Van Winkle. Sometimes you’ll get confused when the check out guy at Gelson’s calls you “ma’am.” You’ll look behind you, thinking he’s talking to someone else because who calls a 14 year old “ma’am?” But you’re not 14 anymore. You’re all grown up.

I believe in the existence of God. A higher power. Something bigger than us. I believe in fate/miraculous occurrences rather than coincidence. I believe that God, (he/she/it), provides us with the strength we need to survive difficult times in our lives.

The world is full of wonderful people. You’ve been fortunate enough to meet many of them since you’ve moved to los angeles. But there’s a lot of bad, too, and I want you to know that some people will hurt you if you let them. Don’t let them. Be strong. Be you. The wonderful thing about surviving what you have, about cheating death, is that no matter what you face in the future, you can face it with confidence because you know that you can do anything. You can beat anything.

But I also believe we have to be our own source of strength; our own "something bigger." Sometimes we have to take things into our own hands and say, "You know what? It doesn’t matter what doctors say. It doesn’t matter what anyone says. This is my life and the only one who is going to make it better is me." Sometimes we have to stop listening to other people and start listening to ourselves. Sometimes we have to make our own miracles.

That’s all I wanted to tell you. Don’t get so used to your good health that you take it for granted. Remember the fight. Remember the newness. And if you remember nothing else, remember the love.

Remember.

Remember.

Love,
Lauren

The Blind Leading the Way

2009-05-12T23:19:00.000-07:00

People are often surprised and confused when I explain the kind of work that Phoebe does for me.

"So... You're not blind?"

"No, I have leg problems. Phoebe helps me with my balance and muscle strength issues."

"Oh, so like a seeing eye dog?"

"Nope. Still not blind."

Most people don't know about the many different types of services animals that do amazing work for people with all kinds of disabilities, many of which are hidden. There are medical alert dogs that are trained to signal when their owner is about to have a seizure or a diabetic crisis. There are hearing dogs to help alert deaf people to unheard dangers, mobility assist dogs to pull wheelchairs and retrieve dropped items, psychiatric service dogs to help people suffering from mental disabilities go out into the world with a greater sense of security or to help people with post-traumatic stress syndrome get through their debilitating flashbacks and night terrors. And, of course, there are seeing eye dogs to help the blind. There are also service ponies and service monkeys. For real. Quite possibly the greatest thing ever.

Am I wrong?

Sometimes people look at me like, "... Really? A Saint Bernard?" The reason Saint Bernards and other extra large breed animals are used for stability and balance work (and for other types of service work) is because of their intelligence, patience and their size. The amount of tugging and bracing I do in a day requires that Phoebe be giant. Although most people usually associate golden retrievers, Labradors and German Shepherds with service work, all kinds of breeds are used in the world of service doggery. To name just a few, we have Great Danes, Great Pyrenees, King Charles Spaniels, Bernese Mountain Dogs, Standard and Teacup Poodles, Huskies and Newfoundlands. Pretty much every breed has been used for service dog work at some point. So, the next time you see a lab or a golden retriever, tell him how boring and unoriginal he is.

In closing, I'd like to say thank you to all of you seeing eye dawgs out there, keeping it real and reppin' the old school. You've lead the way.

That's it for now. More SD 411 to come. Sorry about that last sentence.

Henderson out,
Lauren

If You Don't Know, Now You Know.

2009-04-29T17:29:00.000-07:00

Dear Landlords,

Just so you know, you’re not allowed to deny me as a tenant because I own a service animal. It’s kind of a thing. You know, a federal law kind of thing. Also, for future reference, while discussing your property with a disabled potential tenant it might behoove you to leave certain comments out of the conversation. For example, you probably shouldn’t say things like, “So… there will be wheelchair wheels on the hardwood floor… ? Uh.” That’s probably not something you should say. Aside from breaking about fifteen federal ADA and fair housing laws, that’s just rude of you. In fact, sir, I believe it warrants a finger wag.

My service dog is not a pet. I’m going to repeat that one more time for you. MY SERVICE DOG IS NOT A PET. She is a highly trained working dog and a crucial part of my mobility, strength, balance and independence. She has the SAME RIGHTS as human beings when it comes to public access. Therefore, your “no pet” policy does not apply to me. Why? Say it with me, now… Because she is not a pet.
Read about it. Inform yourself.

My dog, like all service animals, does not bark. She does not go to the bathroom inside of the house. She does not chew on things, she does not bite people, she does not make messes or noise. The only time a service dog will make noise is when something is wrong with their owner. For example, if their owner has slipped and fallen and needs an ambulance. Or if they have a seizure or diabetic episode or fall down the stairs or out of their wheelchair and can’t move. These are all times when many service dogs have been trained to alert. This is a good thing for you because if the dog didn’t do his or her job, his or her owner might die and then you would have a dead tenant on your hands and you would be out that month’s rent. I know you wouldn’t like that. One other thing about my service dog: She is immaculately groomed and frankly, is probably cleaner than some of your human tenants.

“I wasn’t aware of the rules” is no longer an acceptable excuse. The internet is a magical thing, full of exciting information on the Americans with Disabilities Act and Fair Housing laws relating to disabled people and service animals. Please, read up. Let’s make this experience more pleasant for the both of us.

If you don’t know, now you know, landlords.

Lauren Henderson and Phoebe the Freaking Service Dog

Domo Arigato, Mrs. Henderson.

2009-04-21T09:21:00.000-07:00

Just a little something to start your day off right.

Just Another Year in the Life of a Saint Bernard Service Dog (D-D-Dog, D-D-Dog...)

2009-04-20T18:11:00.000-07:00

Phoebe the dog has had quite a year exploring Los Angeles. She made friends with Spider-Man and Marilyn Monroe on Hollywood Boulevard, took a ride on a double decker tour bus and played in the dog park underneath the Hollywood sign. She even went to a Cirque Du Soleil show in Las Vegas and was called up on stage and swung from a trapeze and landed in a pool of cake and fire! That last part wasn't "true" in the sense that I was "lying." She really went to the show, though. She has met so many people and given me so many stories to tell that I hardly know where to start. So, I'll open with pictures. Everyone loves pictures. Horray, pictures!

This boss has a pretty great life. Then again, so do I.

Love,
Laurenzo

P.S. The rest is still unwritten.

My Life as a (Service) Dog (Owner)

2009-04-20T11:03:00.007-07:00

I feel the need to apologize for the title of this post. Like I kind of want to change it but I'm not going to.

Moving on.

... But I still might change it.

Hi! I'm Lauren, and I used to be paralyzed. My teen years were spent in bed, fighting for my life, and later unexpectedly learning to walk again. Ah, adolescence. Nowadays I live in sunny Los Angeles, the natural choice for a pale, sun-sensitive porphyia patient like moi. I moved here from Kansas City after I learned to walk again to pursue my dreams of caregiving for an elderly woman... Er, directing and screenwriting. What a funny slip of the tongue! Anyway, even though I can walk now, which is great, I still deal with a lot of health stuff. Last September I had a big leg surgery that used metal rods to straighten/strengthen/correctly align my bone and put my hip joint into a better posish. That's short for position, only it sounds cooler because I abbreviated it. I go to physical therapy four times a week and to my hematologist once a month for blood treatments. I have a great deal of arthritis in my joints and I lack cartilage, making walking often painful and always difficult. Because of my differently-abledness, I have a mean limp. Think Carrie Weaver in E.R. meets Tiny Tim in the version of A Christmas Carol where he limps the most. I think the one with George C. Scott. Now, I know what you're probably thinking: "Blah, blah, blahhh, my deformed legs don't work and I talk about medicine a lot. Could this diseased freak just arrive at her POINT already? GOD." Well, to that I say the following: First, ouch. Secondly, here is the condensed version of my story.

Last year I applied for a service dog to help me with my assortment of post-paralysis leg problems. I was accepted into a program in Kansas run by CARES, inc. and I travelled to good old Concordia to meet my new omg bff. And meet her, I did. We were introduced to our dogs on the second day of class. One by one, fifteen people from all different walks of life, afflicted with all sorts of illnesses/injuries/disabilities were introduced to their dogs, and one by one their lives were changed for the better. When it was my turn, one of the head CARES honchos brought out my Phoebe dog, a long-legged Saint Bernard with the sweetest face since sliced bread. We just kind of got each other immediately and I soon realized how much Phoebe and I had in common. We both enjoy tummy rubs and plain yogurt with our breakfast. We both nap a lot and hate hot weather. We both roll around in poop. Ha ha, just kidding. I don't nap that much.

Being a certified assistance dog, Phoebe specializes in stability and balance work. She heels on my weaker side (my left) and allows me to lean on her for support, sort of the way I used my forearm crutches, before. She is trained to help me up and down stairs (a big issue for me,) to pull my wheelchair when I'm in it and to do what is called "bracing," a move that allows me to use Phoebe for support as I transition from sitting to standing. She goes with me everywhere and is allowed full public access under the ADA (Americans with Disabilities Act.) Having a service dog of any kind can sometimes attract a certain amount of special attention, but having a breed that people don't see very often and nostalgically associate with the movie Beethoven... Well, let's just say I have some stories.

That's why I decided to start this blog. Every day with Phoebe is a new adventure, a new story, a new chance to educate and explain to someone why they should never, ever pet a working dog. Our stories are just too absurd not to share. I mean, really.

Just wait.

Just. Wait.

xo,
Lauren