Meet Raq
We found out about this special Golden through the December 2003/January 2004 issue of the UK's DOGS today magazine and on page 64 there was the most glorious tale (A Telepathic Bond) written by Sandy Eifion-Jones.

Sandy has provided us permission to reproduce her award winning story here at the Land of PureGold, and for that we are so very grateful. Golden Raq has certainly changed her life and she has additionally just completed a three part series entitled, A Dogmatic View, on the positive aspects of training, with particular respect to disability. We cannot wait to see Sandy's own website which she will be debuting in 2004.

A Telepathic Bond

Some time ago, my disability trapped me in loneliness and my daughter persuaded me to get a dog. So, in January 2002, Raq, a fluffy 8 week-old bundle, entered my life — partly against my will. I panicked. How would I cope with a Golden Retriever from a wheelchair? For someone with my muscular weakness, wouldn’t a large dog become unmanageable, bark and be a general nuisance, cutting in to my quiet, ordered routine? I cursed my folly at giving in to the pleas of my twelve year-old daughter.

Eighteen months later and I have discovered the boundaries of the owner-dog relationship go further than we might think. Raq has not only rescued me from despair but is now, by her own uncanny will, my self-trained support dog. The invisible waves of intuition have gone further than that too, when I rescued Raq.

As soon as Raq arrived in our house I insisted that she learnt immediately who was leader of the pack. She would be well-loved but under strict control. In the restricted space of a house, moving about in a wheelchair is not easy and with an unruly dog it would be impossible. Although we all found Raq irresistible, I thought that to get too close to her would be a mistake. After all, I didn’t want her trailing around after me, getting tail and paws caught by my wheels. And if she thought I was someone who would always stroke and cuddle her or, worse, play, with her, what would I do in those desperate times of pain when I was virtually immobile, barely able to turn the page of a book?

This was fine until I began to find Raq curled up against my wheels asleep, or with her snout on my footplates looking up at me with eyes that could melt a box of chocolates. Then there were the times I found her under my chair, snoozing. Sometimes, I didn’t notice she was there until I was about to wheel off. This was hopeless. How could I scold her for being so loving? From the start my motorised wheelchair posed no threat; she readily adapted, giving me puzzled looks whenever I took a few wavering paces to transfer to a stool.

At this stage I was still trying to keep my distance, worried she would become too dependent on me. I’d made this clear to my family: I would love Raq but not be responsible for her daily care. My husband and daughter would feed and exercise Raq and I would be there during the day, solely for companionship and to let her out into the garden.

For a while this worked well. Except that, during these first six puppy months, I didn’t realise how much closer I was moving to Raq, — that a certain unforced bond was developing which I hadn’t accounted for. It was then that odd things began to happen. One day, I wheeled over to the washing machine and accidentally dropped a sock. Silently cursing, I was about to bend over in my chair and pick it up (a back-bending effort for me) when Raq got there first.

Remembering my ideas on strict discipline I started to reach forward, envisaging a painful and tiring tug-of-war. This was it — I could see the first of my worries was about to start. Using a wheelchair with a sock-pilfering dog is no game. And it wouldn’t stop at a sock, I thought. Well, it didn’t. It progressed way beyond that. Raq picked up the sock with her mouth and gently handed it to me, releasing it without quarrel. The look in Raq’s eyes was unmistakeable. She’d seen my daily struggle and wanted to help. Not only that, this was her idea of having fun with me. If I couldn’t play as much as my daughter, then there was plenty of fun to have doing the laundry together.

From then on, pairing up socks on the radiator became a joy as Raq started to sit in front of my chair without command, looking up expectantly. I soon found I had to drop socks deliberately just so she could pick them up and hand them back, eyes gleaming with pleasure. After this, I realised I could maximise Raq’s brainpower to the benefit of us both. She learnt quickly, responding to commands easily. But it was one day when Raq was nine months old that it really dawned on me just how intuitive to one another’s needs we had become.
It was a hot, sunny day in August when I had just wheeled inside after feeding my tortoises. Raq was playing around with a bumble bee. Minutes later, I turned round to find Raq nowhere in sight. It was then I was overcome by a strange sensation that I had never before experienced. Something in the atmosphere changed. I cannot describe this feeling; it was as if the air was moving in a different way. Something was wrong. I called Raq’s name but she didn’t come bounding out of the bushes to greet me as she usually did.

Our garden is large with many tall conifers and bushes. Yet for some reason I searched no further but stopped near a large magnolia bush in front of a row of Leylandii. I was sure Raq was near, and could feel her presence, whilst staring at the bush. Quickly, I wheeled out of the garden and into the street to the house whose garden backs on to the Leylandii. Again I sensed Raq was near and asked the neighbour to check her garden. With negative result, I wheeled back home. Again, I sensed Raq was near and went back to the Leylandii. I scrambled off my wheelchair and crawled through the undergrowth where I found her, shaking and sick, in shock. The bee had stung her. What was it that kept drawing me to those bushes? It was, I believe, waves of telepathy. Later, I even experienced a sense of shock.

After this episode, this mysterious bond intensified; there was no going back. I began to teach Raq how to empty the washing machine which she loved, peering in at the end to check the drum was empty, even handing me the plastic bubble. Gradually we progressed from small items to heavy wet towels, a task which before my busy, stressed-out husband would have had to do.

I had heard about assistance dogs and the intense training which each dog must follow. But Raq simply worked as if she knew her role. Before long, I taught her how to collect the post, bring me the cordless phone, open and close doors, and place my book or dropped keys in my lap. She started to fetch my shoes and tug off my socks and she willingly picked up my purse and paid my domestic help. She helped me tidy up around my home and brought the dirty plates and bowls for washing, without licking. None of this happened through rigorous training and again I ask myself why. Then, recently, I heard a scientist, specialising in animal telepathy, giving a talk on this. I began to answer my own question.

But this is only a slice of Raq’s working life. After a while, being trapped alone in the house, brought another wave of depression. Raq was a wonderful comfort but I needed to escape my four walls. I didn’t have the confidence to do this alone. Raq soon changed that.

I had spent months watching my husband training her to heel but she had little practice with the wheelchair or my weakness. Then one day, seeing me in tears, I am convinced Raq sensed it was time for me to overcome fear.

She took me out for a walk on the street — for the first time in ten years. There I was alone, controlling this beautiful animal with an indescribable bond of loyalty and trust. After this, our walks lengthened, people stopped to talk. How right my daughter was in persuading me to have Raq, despite my reluctance and worry. I often cry at the thought of losing Raq one day. And this is a dog with whom I tried not to get involved and who frightened me on arrival. I owe her so much. She has taught me how to have fun again and not to feel so afraid of life. I can never thank her enough for being so special.