A good friend recently gave notice that he wanted to retire from a job he’s had since he was just a tiny puppy. My dog Woody’s best friend Samson, who has never weighed as much as five pounds, has been going to work with my friend Leonora since he was a 3-week-old foster puppy—and recently, he started telling Leonora that he doesn’t want to go to work any more.
Leonora is an instructional assistant at the school in our county’s Juvenile Hall; she helps the kids there with their school work, which is no small feat in such a stressful environment. All of the students in this school have been in trouble with the law, and what’s more, most of them have come from extremely troubled families and are far, far behind in their grades’ educational standards (think high-school kids reading at the third-grade level).
When Leonora was fostering Samson and his five brothers for our local animal shelter, she asked her boss if she could bring the tiny puppies to work a few times, to have the kids help socialize the puppies. If this sounds scary to you, let me assure you that it was not; these tough kids, from hard-knock lives, took exquisite care of the pups—and early on, started rooting for Leonora to keep the tiniest one of the already small puppies. Leonora herself was also falling for the smallest pup; she didn’t need a lot of convincing that perhaps the fragile but determined puppy might be a special guy. I think that Samson was only about 8 weeks old when she decided that she was going to adopt him.
Impressed with the calming influence that the puppies had exerted on the students, Leonora’s bosses agreed with her request to bring Samson to work every day once she had adopted him. He had small beds in several locations, including in the staff office and on her desk in the classroom, but he also spent tons of time walking through the classroom and choosing students to spend time with. Before he was five months old, he was already showing great skill at finding the lap of students who were in a particularly emotionally vulnerable state and refusing to leave them.
Guards who worked in the housing section of juvenile hall sometimes came to the school wing to ask Leonora if Samson could come to visit a student who refused to leave their cell in the morning. Leonora would go with the guard and sit on the floor outside the kid’s room and ask how they were doing; would they like Samson to come and sit with them for a bit? She’d sit quietly as Samson would wag his way into the kid’s cell. He instinctively seemed to know whether scampering or approaching quietly was called for. Usually, after a time with Samson in their lap—this tiny infusion of nonjudgmental love and acceptance—the kid would feel up to facing his or her day in captivity and come out of their room for a meal or to join the other kids back in the school wing.
Leonora also used Samson as an instructional tool; she used him as an introduction to dozens of classroom lessons on topics from psychology and learning theory (she would demonstrate how to teach new behaviors with positive reinforcement, and let the students teach Samson new tricks) to what is required to responsibly care for others—rather pertinent for kids who had seldom received responsible care themselves, and even more so for the teens who are themselves already parents.
It wasn’t just the kids that Samson provided comfort and affection to; many of the staff members looked forward to interacting with the cheerful little dog when they crossed his path in the labyrinthine halls between the housing units, the exercise areas, and the school sections of Juvenile Hall. Samson had short daily visits with many of his friends and fans, from the jail guards in their heavy boots and stiff uniforms, to the teachers and counselors in the school, to the administrative staff in the office. Some would just say hi and give him a smile; others were compelled to pick him up and allow him to lick their beards or hands; others would ask him to perform his “tricks.” He is just so tiny and vulnerable, and so relentlessly good-natured and friendly, that few could resist responding to and interacting with him.
Though Samson is a naturally friendly guy, Leonora also invested in his “professional development,” taking him to group classes for puppies, adults, agility, and therapy dog training. She and Samson also became and maintained their status as certified Pet Partners—a registered therapy dog/handler team.
I have gotten to hear about all of this first-hand, because Leonora and I frequently walk our dogs together and my dogs often stay with her when I am out of town. But I’ve also gotten to see it for myself, because Leonora has invited me to come to Juvenile Hall as a guest speaker several times to talk to the kids about dog training. I took Otto, a couple of times. The Hall leadership has had a longstanding rule that disallows visits from any type of dog that is popular with gangs, so until very recently, my block-headed mixed-breed Woody was not allowed to come and be a demonstration dog, but scruffy Boone—who, according to the DNA tests, has more bully-breed representation in his genetic makeup than Woody, has been allowed in several times. Only a chance meeting between Leonora, me, my dogs, and the administrator of the Juvenile Hall school in the Hall parking lot got the administrator to say that Boone and Woody could come in for a visit. Boone and Woody both loved hanging out with and doing tricks for the kids—but Woody was not particularly comfortable with the sound of distant slamming doors; he would growl and his hair would stand up when he heard the booming and clanging sounds, and so I won’t bring him back again.
In contrast, for nine years, Samson has been happily working in this environment.
But very recently, Samson’s behavior has started to change. On some days, he started remaining in his bed as Leonora was getting ready for work, instead of running to and standing by the door, ready to jump in the car, like he’s done all previous nine years of his life; on those days, Leonora would let him stay home. But then, on some of the days when he had asked to go to work, Samson started standing by the door that leads to the employee parking lot long before the day was over, and refusing to come to her when Leonora called him back to the classroom or even the staff office.
After just a few iterations of this, Leonora told me, as well as her fellow staff members, that she was going to retire Samson. Several of them objected! But on one of Samson’s final days at Juvenile Hall, the school administrator also witnessed Samson’s refusal to come back to the classroom after a break outdoors, and he sadly backed Leonora’s decision to stop bringing Samson to work.
In a beautiful event, the staff threw Samson a retirement party. Leonora was stunned, teary and speechless, when they presented her with a plaque and certificate of appreciation for Samson’s contributions to the school.
Samson is still a happy, healthy guy. He still snuggles with his lifelong best friend Woody when Woody stays at Leonora’s house. He and Leonora still join me and my dogs on walks in our local wildlife area, and he still loves to meet and greet people when Leonora takes him with her on errands around town. He’s just dialed his social calendar down in favor of more time in his heated bed at home—and I have the utmost of respect and love for my friend Leonora for paying such close attention to and meeting that and every one of Samson’s other needs. I’m sure that the kids and staff—and Leonora herself—miss him during the weekdays. But as she told me, he’s earned his retirement a million times his tiny bodyweight.
Happy retirement, Samson!
