I have found that when you are deeply troubled, there are things you get from the silent devoted companionship of a dog that you can get from no other source.
~Doris Day

Fifteen years ago, a Goldendoodle with big eyes, fluffy fur, and a yellow ribbon around his neck arrived at our Cape Cod home from Georgia. Most people thought I got a dog for my five-year-old, Emily, who’d just finished treatment for cancer. But really, the handsome pup who hid behind the couch was for my seven-year-old daughter, Isabelle.

Isabelle had spent a year and a half being shuffled to friends’ and family members’ houses with little structure and a lot of unknowns. She didn’t want to talk about her feelings. Instead, she bit her nails and had a few accidents at school.

Isabelle watched Emily lose her hair, weight, and the strength to play outside. At school, her peers had no idea what she was going through, nor did the adults who couldn’t fathom what it was like to be a little girl who was afraid her sister might die.

My husband and I did the best we could to meet Isabelle’s needs, but most of the time we were distracted and overwhelmed. Only one of us was home at a time, while the other was at the hospital with Emily. Isabelle lost herself in television shows and chocolate pudding; she retreated to a detached version of herself.

When Emily’s eighteen months of treatment were over, it was time to focus on Isabelle’s wellbeing. The eight-pound pup, whom we named Obi — a nod to my husband’s love of Star Wars — was “hired” to help Isabelle heal. It was a job that the adults in her life, including myself, were failing at miserably.

Initially, Isabelle was afraid of him. He snatched food from her hands and jumped up on her. I considered dog-training classes, but post-cancer appointments didn’t leave much time for that. Within a few weeks, though, Isabelle taught Obi to sit. He learned there would be a “treat” if he came back from running after a squirrel. He learned the meaning of “no” and “paw.”

Every afternoon, Obi trotted to the end of the driveway with me to get the girls off the school bus. Isabelle played with him in the leaves or the snow. Afterward, he sat with her on the couch while she did math homework and spelling worksheets. He asked for nothing except belly rubs and an occasional carrot or piece of red bell pepper, his favorite.

Obi became a welcome distraction from the world of cancer treatment and its aftermath. We took him to the beach and played catch in the backyard. He didn’t like the water or fetching a ball, so most days we threw the ball to one another while he watched and gnawed on a stick. On Sundays, we went for ice cream. Emily got vanilla, Isabelle chocolate, and Obi scarfed down vanilla on a dog biscuit.

Isabelle’s canine companion gave her back the attention that Emily’s illness had taken from her. He didn’t try to justify to her why Emily’s needs took priority or insist on knowing the “real reason” why she was upset. He just made her feel better by throwing his body next to hers and repeatedly placing his paw on her hand when she stopped rubbing behind his ears.

Every night, she fed him and took him out to pee. She cleaned his water dish and brushed his sandy coat, which resembled human hair more than Poodle fur. Not once did Emily protest about Isabelle taking charge. Emily loved Obi, but she had no interest in taking care of him. Even a prompt from him for a rub made her roll her eyes. He was truly Isabelle’s.

Life with Obi was a trade-off. He was expensive, messy and always eating something he shouldn’t, like a new L.L. Bean dog bed. The bills for his grooming, vet visits, and food were higher than what I spent on the rest of us. “Just think of all the money you’re saving on therapy,” my sister said.

Obi was indeed therapy. Every day, Isabelle softened a little more. Her shoulders dropped, her tone lightened, and the sparkle in her eyes returned. She giggled while dressing Obi in costumes for a talent show with Emily in their bedroom. Most of the time, Obi emceed the show.

Middle school tested Obi’s ability to navigate mean girls and drama, yet he did. His warm eyes followed Isabelle around the room, calculating when to rest and cuddle and when to do his jig at the slider door and insist they play outside.

On a weekend night when Isabelle wasn’t invited to a birthday party, she and Obi ate popcorn and watched movies. He jumped in as her nursemaid when she was home sick from school, easing the guilt I felt that she was alone.

Deep into the pandemic, Isabelle’s senior year of high school was spent on a computer screen in the basement. The two of them lay on a mattress eating peanut butter off spoons and bingeing Netflix series. Obi didn’t say annoying things like “You’ll never forget this year” when her prom was canceled or Senior Week was virtual and “lame.”

In the fall, before Isabelle left for her freshman year of college, she sobbed at the mudroom door. “I’ll be back soon, buddy,” she said.

Six weeks later, Obi stopped eating. We thought he missed Isabelle. I made him chicken and salmon. When he refused to eat what he normally would have inhaled, we took him to the vet. Obi, now twelve, had cancerous tumors all over his body. I called Isabelle at college and flew her home to say goodbye.

When Isabelle walked through the door, Obi’s tail swept back and forth for the first time in weeks. Tears fell from her face onto his fur. She said nothing. He rallied and stood up, a newborn colt steadying his wobbly legs. All weekend, she sat on the floor with him, working on her college assignments in the same spot where they learned to read and multiply.

On Sunday, a few hours before she left, Obi buried his head in Isabelle’s lap in the backyard. She stroked it and watched my husband and Emily play catch. The sun was warm. It was almost a perfect day to get ice cream.

It’s hard not to believe that Obi knew his job was complete. He had listened and loved. He had kept Isabelle’s secrets and encouraged her to be brave. His unconditional love was magic, a potion that healed Isabelle.

— Amy McHugh —