(Jeffrey Pohn) - Over the years, service dogs have become an increasingly familiar sight on trains, planes and buses; in restaurants, nail salons and shopping malls, and even at the beach, diligently escorting and protecting their human charges through blindness, hearing loss, ambulatory limitations and even mental-health challenges—there are now half a million service dogs at work in this country. I’ve come to marvel at these fantastic beasts, the organizations and volunteers who train them and the Americans with Disabilities Act that provides a protective infrastructure. These four-legged friends are heroes. Heroes, one and all.

This week, I discovered that September is National Service Dog Month, and it occurred to me that I have been living with one of these heroes - albeit a non-credentialed one - for the past eight years. 

When my wife and I rescued Baby, a fifteen-pound terry-poo with a rasta-like coat and a slight underbite, she had been found on the streets of Tijuana, emaciated, and obviously abused. Baby immediately bonded with my wife, but every time I entered the room, she would shake violently. I finally suggested to my wife that we should take Baby back, it was hard living with someone who hated me. After my wife nixed that idea, I found myself tiptoeing around our home, in the most unthreatening way possible. Eventually, Baby came to at least tolerate me.

Then came Covid. My wife, Baby’s north star, decided to travel to England, to wait it out with her family. She never returned. Suddenly, it was just me and Baby, who was shattered by the disappearance of her ‘mommy’. Baby went on a hunger strike, and constantly gave me the stink-eye, blaming me for her heartbreaking loss. It destroyed my appetite, too, and ruined my sleep. I became a wreck. As a recovering alcoholic with bipolar disorder, and now utterly isolated and wifeless, with my only personal contact a dog who actively resented me, I was not exactly a ‘vision for you’. 

Over time, Baby mellowed and began to display affection for me. Perhaps that’s because she realized I was the sole provider of her food and walks, but I like to think it was more than that. We became inseparable, velcroed together. On the rare occasion that I left our house, Baby welcomed me home as if I was returning from the war. She started to sleep on the pillow next to mine, and the moment my eyes opened, I was the recipient of a thorough tongue bath. 

Baby became my own personal, emotional service dog; a daily calming presence, a reliable rock of support who demanded my attention 24/7, effectively yanking me out of myself by encouraging me to stroke, scratch, massage, and play with her. She was a nonstop source of activity, humor, and love, a furry anti-depressant, instrumental in my struggle to maintain my sanity. Having to focus on Baby’s care, feeding and happiness, I became largely freed from the bondage of crippling self-concern.

Even before Covid, I had been experiencing debilitating panic attacks, mostly in public, and, I was on the verge of becoming agoraphobic. But Baby coerced her couch potato master into taking her on walks more adventurous than our usual spin around the block. On these outings, she walked me. During a time when everyone else was retreating into their homes, my dog was leading me back into the world I had fled from; she took me to dog parks where she networked, and I got to enjoy distanced interactions with other humans. We became regulars at a nearby beach where she chased birds she would never catch, and insisted I join her, running on the sand, and frolicking in the surf. I think I became her new (less incandescent) north star.

Suffering from Covid Brain, I began talking to Baby all day long. My ridiculous longing for her to respond verbally was, of course, never requited. At the time, I was dying to write my second novel, but was unable to find a subject matter compelling enough to sustain the few years it would take to write. One night, when Baby and I were lying in bed, I leaned over to give her a goodnight kiss on the nose. She sneezed into my face, and it hit me, the idea for a new book to write - a tale about an isolated man and his talking dog. A couple of years later, fueled by love for and from a dog, and wish fulfillment, I published the book, HOUNDED: A LOVE STORY.

My rescue dog rescued me.

Having had the profound privilege of being serviced and saved by a dog, now, during National Service Dog Month, I salute all service dogs, credentialed and non-credentialed. I acknowledge their noble and necessary service to us humans. And to all of our heroic service dogs, with love and gratitude, I proclaim…Thank you for your service.

Purchase the book at amzn.to/4e0LyBv

Jeffrey Pohn, a screenwriter, published author, and avid dog-lover, lives with his beloved pooch, Baby, in Oxnard Shores, California. As of now, Baby has not uttered a single word.