The Comfort of the Most Loyal Dog

It is often said that dog is man’s best friend. And it’s a maxim that true best friends will stick by you through thick and thin, no matter what. I could definitely say this for one of my family’s dogs, Woody.

Woody is a ruby Cavalier King Charles Spaniel. He is the youngest of three Cavalier King Charles Spaniel dogs my parents have, with an older sister (a Tri-Color Cavalier King Charles Spaniel) and an older brother (a Blenheim Cavalier King Charles Spaniel). Since my family first got him as a puppy, Woody has been a rambunctious sweetheart of a dog, his penchant for mischief only exceeded by his penchant for expressing love and affection.

Since coming to the family, Woody had always attempted to be my favorite of the three, seemingly considering it a personal mission. Whenever I visit my parents, he comes to greet me at the door like clockwork. In his younger days, whenever I would sit down, Woody would come take a running jump onto where I was sitting. Even more incredibly, he often ignores food that I am dining on when it is left in a precarious position for him to get (KFC and an occasional glass of milk have proven to be the only exceptions) and has never once eaten any oral appliance I have had when thoughtlessly left out (things that dogs often like to eat…..even the most beloved dogs).

While I have many cherished memories of Woody, the memory of Woody I cherish the most is of one of the less fond memories of my life. Specifically, when Woody helped take care of me when I contracted the Norovirus in December 2015, ultimately requiring a brief hospitalization.

I was wrapping up a busy month and looking forward to a much needed vacation as the election year approached (I am a campaign finance and election law attorney, so general election years are my busiest). I had been overdoing it, not giving my body enough sleep or hydration, even as I worked long hours and engaged in hard cardiovascular exercise every single day.

That Thursday evening, I looked forward to a dinner with my father at one of our favorite restaurants. As I drove to my parents’ house, I felt indescribably odd, with some mild heartburn and stomach indigestion. I assumed it had been from the late lunch I had (hurriedly shoveled down in the late afternoon in between a workout and a conference call with a client). But after arriving at my parents’ house, I began to deteriorate. The first family member to notice was Woody, who came to excitedly greet me, his usual habit. He normally jumps up, wrapping his paws around me as though to give me a big hug. This time, though, he refrained. Instead of excitement, he had a look of quiet concern. It was as if he knew something was wrong with me before even I did.

But it wouldn’t be long before I would know something was wrong with me, too. As I set down my briefcase, I started to feel slightly dizzy. I dismissed it. I was just tired and needed a rest. Perhaps just a ten to fifteen minute lie down before dinner. But as I sat down on the den couch (normally the domain of the three dogs), things only grew worse. The mild heartburn and stomach indigestion grew into nausea and stomach pain. My body began to ache. Even as I called out to my father in the next room over that I still planned to join him for dinner (one that would soon be cancelled), the realization that I had come down with stomach flu began to set in.  

In less than twenty minutes, I had collapsed on the den couch from horrible body aches, some of the worst I have ever experienced in my life. My body alternated between shivering chills and profuse sweats. For the next few hours, the only energy I could muster to get off the couch was to drag myself a few feet to the bathroom. Even when my mother brought me symptom relief, I could barely muster the strength to sip water.

But the one thing about this illness I will never forget was the compassionate intuition of Woody.

Instead of excitedly jumping up onto the couch, as per his usual habit whenever he saw me, he used the stairs (normally used by the other two dogs), and gently lay down next to me. Writhing in absolute agony from the muscle and body aches, the only relief I found was occasionally dozing off. These snoozes didn’t last long. But whenever I awoke, I opened my eyes to Woody, watching over me intently, never once letting me out of his watch.

At one point, though, Woody did something I never expected. He began gently massaging my stomach with his head. Woody could not get me Extra Strength Tylenol, a heating pad, or even a glass of water. He couldn’t take me to the hospital (where I went through two saline bags and several milligrams of high strength painkillers given to me intravenously).

Although I like to think of dogs as having advanced societies and possessing advanced knowledge that we humans just don’t know about (yes, the 1961 101 Dalmatians was my favorite Disney movie as a kid), I recognize that dogs probably lack that level of sophistication and understanding. Despite imagining dogs having careers as doctors in their own right (knowing about the human body as well as my younger sister, an actual emergency room doctor, does), I realize that’s unlikely. Woody is very smart, but he probably doesn’t know what the Norovirus is. He probably doesn’t know what treatments I required. And perhaps even if he does, he lacks thumbs to hook me up to an IV line in an emergency room or dial the phone to call the hospital. And while I think he understands every word I say, especially my analysis of constitutional law and electoral politics, he can’t seem to speak any human languages himself. He probably could not tell the ER doctors what was wrong with me.

But in that moment, Woody demonstrated a knowledge born of true canine love and loyalty. He intuitively understood that I was sick to my stomach. He knew that a human who he considered a member of his pack was seriously ill. And he did the only thing that he, as a dog, instinctively knew he could do to heal me. While his gentle massaging did not make my Norovirus go away, it comforted me. It helped give me the soundness of mind to realize that I needed medical treatment.

Woody could not go with me to the hospital, of course. But he was waiting for me when I returned to my parents’ home. And for the next day, as I recovered on my family’s couch, he sat watching me round the clock, never once letting me out of his sight. Normally fed in the kitchen, Woody (never one to miss a meal) refused to join his siblings for his daily meals. Instead, my mother would have to bring him his bowl of food in the den, where I recovered. As long as I remained on the couch, stricken with illness, he would not leave my side.

Norovirus is generally not a positive memory. And certainly, I hope to never experience something like that ever again. But Woody’s act of compassion and canine loyalty is a memory that I will never forget. He truly was man's best friend.