Golden Boy

I’d trained Ernest as a therapy dog. He knew how to help others. Now he had to help me

- PEGGY FREZON

DOWNTOWN ALBANY WAS AS busy as usual that blustery January day last year, with no place to park on the street. My husband, Mike, pulled into the underground garage of the state office complex, 40 city blocks of concrete buildings and four office towers connected by tunnels and a windowless concourse. “You good?” he asked.

I wasn’t good. My heart was pounding. But I said, “Sure.” Sweaty palms, a knot in my stomach. We were six floors underground, and the cold concrete walls were already closing in on me. Our golden retriever, Ernest, tossed his shaggy head and wagged his tail in excitement. Easy for you, buddy.

We were here for Ernest to do his job as a therapy dog, providing stress relief to employees at the New York state budget office. Mike and I rescue senior golden retrievers and together do therapy work with them. It feels great taking them places where they can provide the love and comfort that’s unique to dogs—nursing homes, schools during exams, colleges on freshmen’s first day. Just interacting with our goldens helps people feel calmer and happier.

We first got involved with therapy dogs several years ago, when Mike was in the hospital in serious condition and I was worried sick. A Bernese mountain dog loped into the room, but instead of going to Mike’s bedside, he came right up to me, knowing I needed comfort. From that moment, I knew I wanted to work with therapy dogs. Our first was Ike, a sweet older golden. Then we rescued Ernest three years ago, when he was nine. We enrolled him in therapy dog training, and he took to it. “He was born for this work,” the instructor told me. Ernest passed his test with flying colors.