Last fall when our beloved chocolate labrador Lex died, my husband Jim and I both felt like we could never replace her. She had been a part of our family for so many years. As much as she was missed, and we knew she was still “around” (http://a-visit-from-lex), we also no longer had to make arrangements to kennel her when we left town. She was an alpha female and didn’t get along with other animals. Since both our sons lived out of state and had pets, kenneling had been a must. The freedom seemed like the opening for a new lifestyle for us, so when friends asked if we would get another dog, we said no. One night a few months ago, a group of friends was together and one asked if we’d ever considered getting a service dog. Since Jim has Alzheimer’s, it would be a legitimate medical reason. The lightbulbs went off. No, I had never considered it. Jim grew up with Lady, his family’s black labrador and I had given him a black lab puppy we named Punky, as a wedding present. There was no question he loved dogs and would love to have one. The real hurdle had been we didn’t want to kennel another dog, but it wouldn’t be a hurdle at all if it was a properly trained service dog and could go everywhere with us. I loved the idea, but I put it on a back burner. I needed to do some research and make some careful decisions, first. I found out the cost of a service dog from one of the official Alzheimer’s agencies was OUTRAGEOUS. It would take two years to train a puppy with them, cost tens of thousands of dollars, and require the commitment to fundraise part of the current cost and the promise to begin fundraising for future dogs. Then I began researching local trainers. It happened one Sunday night. My sister and her youngest son were having a text conversation about a dog needing to be rescued. She didn’t ask me if I’d take it because she knew I had already said no about another dog. This one had lived in an outdoor pen all its life and the owner was agreeing he didn’t have the time to spend with the almost two-year-old yellow lab. I saw a picture of the beautiful dog and wondered if he could be trained as a service dog. By the next morning, I had an appointment with the owner, to visit the dog. He was gorgeous! Strong and healthy-looking, with a beautiful light yellow coat. When the pen was opened, he took off, running like a horse, muscles rippling. He ran all over the property, head down and nose to the ground. He was tracking birds. He came back to us and we put a collar and his first leash on him and put him into my car. I felt a little magnanimous, freeing this caged beast, as I drove to a local groomer who agreed to bathe him right away. I was in awe of how powerful he was. He was afraid of the urban treatment he was receiving, but the cat and kitten at the groomer’s place didn’t phase him. Could he really be two years old? He acted like a puppy. A silly, overgrown lab puppy. But he didn’t slobber like a lab, and that was appealing. There was something about his head that wasn’t fully lab. I suspected he was 1/4 pitbull since the owner had said his mother was a registered yellow lab and the father was a mix. I had arranged for Jim to hike with a friend that day so I could give the dog a few hours in his new home and surprise Jim when he came home. Surprise him with this amazing, friendly dog I was sure he would love. My sister and friends were in on the surprise and my sister wanted me to video when Jim laid eyes on the dog. No one could have expected the reaction when my husband walked in the door. Our neighbor and Jim’s hiking partner who wanted to also see how the surprise would go, quickly and quietly excused themselves when they saw Jim’s negative reaction. He was upset. The poor dog was some kind of trigger for my mild-mannered, loving husband. Jim became withdrawn and depressed and asked me multiple times why I did it. He was upset I didn’t talk to him about it first. And rightly so. I was so sure of his reaction, I never dreamed it could possibly go so badly. The only sure thing about Alzheimer’s is there is no sure thing. Losing control is a scary thing, and I had taken away his choice and perceived freedom. We spent almost a week with the dog in our home without a change in Jim’s demeanor. I took Kenai (named after Alaska’s Kenai Peninsula and pronounced keen-eye) to the vet and visited the local trainer. The trainer thought he would be a good candidate for training as a service dog, although he thought he would be a challenge because of his age. Kenai would learn to hike and camp with us, be emotional support, bring his owner home should he wander away, and much, much more. I was never so sure of anything in my life. I felt this dog was going to be a source of love, joy, and calmness in the later throes of Alzheimer’s. So Kenai has completed his first-month living and training at the K-9 Companion facility where the trainer is sure of his transformation into an Alzheimer’s Service Dog in three to five months. Ironically, our trainer, a Veteran whose own dog had saved him from PTSD, had previously trained a dog for the mother of a friend with Alzheimer’s. He already understood some of the subtleties of Alzheimer’s other than the well-known “forgetfulness” that many people think it to be. I have my work cut out for me convincing Jim it will be a great thing. A great thing to save a dog from a pen, a great thing to bring another sweet dog into our lives. He is coming along, though. I have a video of a Veteran whose service dog has been a God-send and Jim responds positively to the video and says, “I’m in”. I pointed out other service dogs to him on our Thanksgiving travels. He reminded me yesterday that we needed to take Kenai’s monthly ration of food over to the facility. I think that is a good sign. He is not going to be able to resist the well-behaved dog who will soon be his constant companion and confidant. It feels right. And this time around, it will be his choice. In a way . . .