Callie is my
big black dog. My big, black, mixed-breed,
shelter dog.
Six years
ago, my grad students and I started the first-of-its-kind comprehensive support
program for fully-academically-qualified college students with Autism Spectrum
Disorders (ASDs). The university gave us a house on campus and scholarship
money for the peer mentors who would work with our students with ASDs.
When we
accepted our first student, her mom told me, “She needs a dog. She can’t go to sleep at night unless she
spends time grooming her dog first.”
“Okay,” I
said. I knew I’d never get permission to
have a dog living on campus, so I forged ahead.
Easier to get forgiveness than ask permission.
I called The
Clay County Animal Shelter in Henrietta, Texas.
I told Annie Boddy McClintock, “I need a big black dog to live in a
house on campus with four college students who have ASDs and their three nondisabled
peer mentors. It’s now March 15. I need the dog August 15. Pick me out the right dog for the job.” I hung up.
Annie got to
work.
I called her
August 14. Said, “It’s time.”
She said, “Come
to the shelter tomorrow. My staff and I’ve
been studying the dogs all summer. We
have five big black dogs for you to choose from. One has risen to the top of all of our lists,
but we want you to make the final choice.”
I asked which dog had risen to the top of their lists.
“I’m not going
to tell you,” she said.
My husband,
Don, went to the shelter with me the next day.
We sat down in the dirt, and the staff gathered to watch. I could tell they were nervous. One staff member brought us the first big
black dog. He sniffed us in greeting and then ran off to dig a hole. “Nope,”
I said. “I’m gonna be in enough trouble
for bringing a dog to live on campus.
Can’t have a hole-digging dog.”
Second dog
sniffed us in greeting and then hunched up and pooped right in front of
us. “Bad manners,” I said. “We need a dog who will housetrain immediately. This does not portend well for that.”
I don’t
remember what the third dog did, but I eliminated it.
The fourth
dog sniffed us a greeting and then ran off to talk to other dogs. “Nope,” I said. “Our dog has to be more interested in people
than other dogs.” Four down, one to go.
The fifth
dog was Callie. Six months earlier, three
cowboys had found her trotting along a dusty road, dirty, emaciated, and dehydrated. And VERY pregnant. They picked her up and brought her to the
shelter where she delivered four babies three days later. The shelter staff named her Calamity Jane in
honor of the cowboys. They called her
Callie for short.
When the
handler turned Callie loose for us, she ran right up to us, sniffed at us, gave
us a nice lick… and then turned her back to me, sat down, and scootched up to
me to push her back full-length up against my side. She sat quietly, attached to my side like a
second skin. I looked up at the
assembled staff. Their faces lit up like
dawn on the Texas desert.
“This is the
dog,” I said. The staff cheered.
Callie moved
into the campus house. The students continued calling her Callie but changed
her formal name to Calliope, the Greek muse of music. They didn’t think Calamity Jane fit such an
elegant dog.
We enrolled
her in obedience class. She finished top
of her class. Then we enrolled her in
intermediate obedience. Top of her class
again. Big, black, mixed-breed, shelter dog. Best in class at sitting, staying, shaking
hands, downing, coming, releasing, and perhaps most important, “leaving-it”
alone, whether a dead bird, a kid on a bike, or another dog.
Callie
became famous. The university newspaper published
a front-page article on her. Ditto our university magazine. I got in trouble for bringing her on campus,
but I expected that. Armed with the
research about the effects of dogs on students who have ASDs, I was able to
convince the housing administrator to let her stay. Bad PR and all that, you
know.
Callie read
our students with ASDs like an open book.
When someone began to escalate ("melt down" for people who use that term),
she sensed it, trotted over, sat down, and offered them her paw to shake. Alternatively, she turned her back to them, scootched
up against them, and sat on their feet.
Either way, she derailed the escalation and restored the peace.
The boys in
residence slept in the bedroom upstairs, the girls downstairs; Callie slept
with the girls. The only time she aggressed
was one Saturday morning. The father of
one of our girls had come to take her home for the weekend. He knocked and knocked on the front door, but
nobody answered. He tried the knob, and
it was unlocked. He tiptoed down the
hall and opened the door to the girls’ room.
Callie bolted upright, roared like a lion, and sprung at the intruder. This man was NOT going to touch HER girls!
Scared the poor dad to death, but reassured us all that she was going to take
care of her family.
Three years
later, when Callie was six, the university closed our program. No fault of Callie’s. She missed her college students, but she came
to live with Don and me, so now she takes care of us. She’s an old lady, seventy in dog years, but she
still has the shiny, sleek coat of a young dog.
Callie, my big, black, mixed-breed shelter dog who went from being Calamity Jane
to Calliope, the Greek muse of music. First
in her obedience class. Autism
specialist. Changer of lives.
Thank you,
God, for Callie. Thank you for the gift
of big, black, mixed-breed, shelter dogs. Alleulia and Amen.
.
