Sometime last year, because I still had forty seconds in my day that were not overscheduled, I decided to enroll my dog Lulabell in obedience training, with the eventual goal of taking her to agility competitions. In agility, dogs maneuver speedily through, over, and onto a variety of obstacles, like a winding, collapsible tube, bars of differing heights, and a seesaw that descends as they reach the apex.

In training, Lulabell learned to sit, lie down, and stay on command, and to heel, jump onto a designated platform, and weave, all off leash. None of this did she learn to execute with anything resembling speed. In fact, she often fell asleep between commands.

I began to think Lulabell might be better suited to another profession, one that did not require her to be nimble or speedy. Perhaps, I thought excitedly, she could be a service animal. I pictured her confidently leading the blind through busy intersections, barking a warning at someone about to have a seizure, thoughtfully opening doors and switching on lights for those confined to wheelchairs.

But then I looked at her, asleep beside a treat she had been too lazy to finish, and reality set in. Lulabell was not going to lead, save, or help anyone do anything. What Lulabell was going to do was what Lulabell did best: sit around blinking her impossibly long eyelashes and inviting people to admire her beauty. Preferably as she lay with her head in their lap.

Which was when it hit me: Lulabell would be the perfect therapy dog. She was calm, impervious to drama, and gave the illusion of unconditional positive regard. In these respects she was already a more accomplished therapist than I ever was, and I practiced for fifteen years.

Of course, “therapy dog” is a bit of a misnomer. Once certified, Lulabell wouldn’t be delving into anyone’s childhood, asking searching questions about past regrets or accomplishments, or dispensing bits of wisdom in a room outfitted with a box of Keenex and a candle that smells like forgiveness. That said, I could argue that what she would be offering is on a higher plane than therapy: a quiet, meditative space where all kinds of thoughts can bloom unopposed, and be sorted through in their own best time, without the pushing and prodding of a “real” therapist who understands that life, like time, is finite.

Nope. Lulabell would just be there for you, her client, to project upon her whatever negativity or disapproval you have felt from significant others in the past. She will never judge. She will never challenge. Because who is she to know what you should do, about anything? She can’t even cross the street without falling asleep.

So yes, I thought, Lulabell would make a perfect therapy dog. We took the requisite obedience test, which she passed easily. And then we began going out into the “field”—senior centers and children’s hospitals and schools—to earn our ten hours of supervised visits, after which we would be an officially designated therapy team. So great! So perfect! So easy. All she had to do was let people pet her.

It turns out Lulabell doesn’t always love it when people pet her. Which is unfortunate, as a therapy dog. Sometimes I have the uncomfortable feeling I am pimping her out, inviting strangers to fondle her even as she implores me to take her home and return her to her beloved sofa with the other dog, whose sole job is to unabashedly hate people.

But I wouldn’t go so far as to say she is bad at therapy. That would imply her mind wanders in the presence of her clients, or that she makes terrible judgments, or imparts wisdom that possibly serves her life better than theirs, none of which I am saying I did or did not do when I was a fledgling therapist.

Eventually, I think, Lulabell will see the beauty of giving of herself in service to others, even if it means shouldering a little discomfort. She will never know what human therapists know, of course, which is that lifetimes are finite, and that whatever we are going to do we must make haste about. But without knowledge there is no expectation, and only without expectation can we help others attain their best, most realized self. Which is exactly what will make her the finest practitioner of her kind.

So Lulabell is in therapy training, and already I’m feeling much better. 

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Dana Shavin is an award-winning humor columnist for the Chattanooga Times Free Press, the author of a memoir, The Body Tourist, and of Finding the World: Thoughts on Life, Love, Home and Dogs, a collection of her most popular columns spanning twenty years. She is the Literary Arts Program Coordinator for the Dalton Creative Arts Guild. Publication history and more at Danashavin.com. Email her at [email protected].