Ferris is paralyzed. Three months ago he was in a car accident, which was entirely my fault. He does not blame me for his condition, nor does he blame anyone else. Ferris excels at living in the moment and is as happy now as he was before the accident. Ferris is my five-year-old Border Collie.
He is paralyzed in his lower back and can no longer use his rear legs. That does not stop him from getting around. Imagine a person with paralyzed legs doing handstands, and walking around on their hands all day long. By using his strong back muscles he can lift his rear legs clear off the ground and then hop around on his front legs. It is a remarkable adaptation to a very serious disability, which he has taught himself without the benefits of physiotherapy that a human with a disability would receive. I investigated getting Ferris a doggie wheelchair but I concluded that it would only slow him down and hinder his movements in tight quarters and his vet agreed.
On land, Ferris is a dog pretending to be a kangaroo, but in the water, he completely reverts to his canine self. He still loves swimming in the ocean where his useless rear legs don't matter. Fortunately, we live right across from the beach, and we go there almost daily. We have a new routine, which I refer to as his doggie hydrotherapy.
Technically speaking, hydrotherapy is a branch of alternative medicine encompassing techniques that take advantage of the physical properties of water, such as temperature and pressure, for therapeutic purposes. It is colloquially referred to as "water cure". Water's curative properties go beyond utilizing its physical properties though. Wallace J. Nichols in Blue Mind describes the health benefits of simply being in, on, under the water. Surprisingly, just being near the water confers similar benefits. Nichols demonstrates how proximity to water improves performance, increases calm, and diminishes anxiety, resulting in greater personal wellbeing and professional success. I did not need to read Blue Mind to know that. I grew up near the beach, and as a child, my mother called me a "water rat" because there seemed to be no limit to the amount of time that I could spend in, on, or under the water. This is an inter-species bond that Ferris and I share.
It is winter here in Australia and the water temperature in Adelaide is a chilly 15°C (59°F). Ferris has his luxurious fur coat to keep him warm whereas I have minimal fat. Our routine, therefore, starts with me donning a short wetsuit. Between visits to the beach, I usually drape my wetsuit over a chair in a sunny spot in my courtyard so it can dry out, as getting into a clammy wetsuit is unpleasant. The instant Ferris sees me grabbing my wetsuit, he hops over and parks himself at my feet. He has quickly learned that this signifies that a beach trip is imminent, and he knows I'm about to strap a bright-red life jacket onto him. Merely picking up his life jacket is another such cue. Ferris is so perceptive, that if I intend to go to the beach for any other reason, such as windsurfing, I must discreetly retrieve my wetsuit and put it on where he can't observe me. If he deduces that I'm going to the beach without him he stares at me with piercingly sorrowful eyes that communicate only one thing, "I can't believe you're going to THE BEACH without me!"
Although we live only thirty meters (100 feet) from the beach, the ground is uneven and there is a road to cross as well as stairs to descend. Asking Ferris to hop all the way would be unreasonable, so I carry him instead. Border Collies generally dislike being carried by humans and will squirm, but not Ferris. I am the "big dog" in our family, and he accepts his fate with equanimity. A dog's-eye view of the world is low, one of bushes - places to pee - and human legs to avoid. In contrast, he now soars through the air at my chest height, and he can see a great deal more from this elevated position. Ferris constantly scans his head from side to side to soak up the lofty view denied most of his kind.
Today, Saturday, is a beautiful sunny day. Apricity, the warmth of the sun in winter, has brought people outdoors in numbers rarely seen in Adelaide at this time of the year. Ferris and I invariably attract attention. A mutual love of dogs gives complete strangers permission to strike up a conversation.
It starts with a little girl playing in the park opposite my house as we walk past. "Mummy, mummy, that man is holding his dog", she shouts, oblivious to the fact that the whole park can hear. Her mother turns to me and silently gives me a forced smile, hinting that her daughter was only shouting what everyone else was thinking.
Our next conversation occurs at the top of the stairs that lead down to the beach. Two middle-aged women are engaged in banter beside a tap from which their dogs are drinking. I try to sneak by without eavesdropping, but they both stop talking and stare at us, offering curious, inviting smiles. They want to know but are too polite to ask.
I break the ice, "His back legs don't work anymore, but he still loves to swim."
Their responses were gushing, "Ooh, such a good Daddy" and "He must love it."
I confess that I didn't mind the attention and I was starting to think, "Well, if I'd wanted to meet women, this would be a great way to do it". Ferris seems to enjoy being noticed even more than me though. Even though he is paralyzed, he can still force his tail to wag.
Finally, I get down to the water's edge without further distractions. I carry Ferris out into waist-deep water which is where his therapy begins. For the next ten to fifteen minutes, I throw a tennis ball out to sea which Ferris fetches unflinchingly. His love of fetching has not diminished one skerrick by his disability. On the final throw, I always let him swim all the way back to the beach by himself. Sometimes Ferris does not want to go ashore right away as he likes to play in the shallows, where the water's buoyancy supports his rear legs.
At the end of our session, Ferris is waterlogged so I'm keen to get him home quickly and dry him off. I notice two elderly ladies who have been watching us from the top of the stairs. Avoiding the lovely old biddies would be impossible and, sure enough, one of them approaches us. Her words are directed at Ferris, not me, "Isn't he silly. He keeps throwing the ball away so you have to get it back every time." The other giggles at the joke they had no doubt been planning for several minutes. I was half frozen and could not match their wit, so I simply smile back at them. Ferris, as usual, loves the attention and understands the woman's intent, if not the exact words, wagging his tail out of appreciation.
Here is a paralyzed dog, enjoying life to his fullest, and bringing joy to strangers, young and old alike. The water is not just a cure for Ferris. It is a cure for all of us.
PS On July 8th Ferris succumbed to his injuries and passed away.
[Originally published in The Writers and Readers Magazine]