The softer (and furrier) side of oncology

Abstract

K was 54 years old and terminally ill with an advanced gastrointestinal malignancy. The social work team asked me if Mochi could visit. At the time, Mochi was 7 years old, recently rescued from euthanasia, and hypothesized to be an oversized Bichon Frise or a poodle mix but with floppier ears. She was (and has remained) fairly indifferent to the regulatory fact of being an official member of an animal-assisted therapy (AAT) team, but she does like sitting on people’s beds, something she is not allowed to do at home. When we entered K’s room, it was clear that she was severely depressed. She was bloated and apathetic. Her skin had a dull hue and she lay inert, with several brightly colored, variously sized stuffed animals arranged around the head of the bed. When she first saw me, a suspicious look flashed across her face, but as her eyes stopped on Mochi, I saw a clear and sudden spark of interest. Like other experienced therapy dogs, Mochi senses when a person is hurt and she will often approach that person and invite contact. In this case, after I placed Mochi on the bed, she gingerly curled up next to K in the crook of her arm, against her distended abdomen, and laid her head down on K’s chest. K, who had reportedly been near mute since her hospital admission, started murmuring in a low voice to Mochi: “You like lying down here, don’t you? You just want to take a nap, don’t you?”