Is Holly Working Today？

佚名/Anonymous

對我和霍莉來說，一切源于一只被遺棄的貓。嚴寒中，她被遺棄在校舍樓前臺階上，凍得身子縮成一團。這所小學是為心理不正常的兒童開設的，我每周在那里提供三天的心理治療。

那天早上，那只貓留在了我的辦公室里，而校長則在考慮如何安置她。

那天，當孩子們神情嚴肅，帶著倦意走進我的辦公室開始接受治療時，故事便開始了。一看到小貓，他們個個眼前一亮。他們撫摸著這只被遺棄的貓，往日的緘默和緊張似乎也隨之消失。治療過程進行得輕松而順利，這令我很吃驚。那天下班時，我便開始醞釀一項計劃。我的霍莉7歲，是只性情溫和而又合群、有禮貌的混血狗。她也可以使我的孩子們輕松地接受治療嗎？我滿懷熱情地打報告，在報告中我引用文獻，列舉以動物為伴的好處，請求允許我把霍莉帶到學校。

雖然我的計劃獲準了，但校長交代得很清楚，先讓我和霍莉試試。對于有關“狗試驗”出現的任何問題，我要承擔全部責任。

即便這樣，我還是很看好這件事。帶霍莉到學校的第一天早上，打開辦公室門時，我看到了門上的告示，我笑了。孩子們很認真地寫道：“霍莉在這里很高興”。他們很高興讓狗充當輔導員。一天的工作開始之前，霍莉把辦公室聞了個遍。

一個小男孩走進來，他和霍莉都警惕地注視著對方?！八藛幔俊彼麊柕?。

“不，”我安慰他說，“為什么不喂她吃點東西？”我把一袋各種顏色的狗餅干遞給他?！皰€你喜歡的顏色?！蔽艺f道。男孩拿了塊紅色的餅干，試探性地朝霍莉伸出手?；衾蚶鞫州p巧地叼住餅干，很快咽了下去，然后舔了舔男孩的手。男孩笑了?；衾虻某醮蔚菆霰憩F得十分出色。

鈴響后，一群小參觀者紛紛來到門前，爭著瞧霍莉。孩子們輪流喂她餅干，她搖著尾巴，舔著他們的手，以示感謝。她如此受孩子們歡迎，這一點兒也不奇怪，因為從一開始，霍莉就無條件地接納了他們。

漸漸地，當聽到孩子們的敲門聲時，霍莉也不再狂叫不止。為了霍莉，我在屋角鋪了塊地毯。孩子們積極地來我這里進行心理治療，他們坐在霍莉身旁，撫摸她，給她梳理毛發，逗她，向她傾訴心聲。在與霍莉相處的日子，孩子們身心輕松，而他們的心理界限也完全消失。心理障礙療程進展順利，取得了明顯效果。

霍莉的影響逐漸地從屋內擴展到辦公室外。孩子們的缺勤率開始下降，并且他們也不再那么調皮。甚至教師們也時不時地到我的辦公室，想接受寵物治療，輕拍她一下，在她面前變得精神煥發。

直到我因膿毒性咽喉炎兩天沒去學校的那一刻，我才知道人們是多么愛霍莉。第一天我打電話請病假，本以為他們會安慰我，誰知對方立刻問我，是不是霍莉也不來了，要待在家里。第二天，學校來電話問我，能否至少讓霍莉搭出租車到學校。顯然，老師們已煩于回答同樣的問題：“霍莉今天上班嗎？”

一天早上上課前，定時來看霍莉的9歲的三年級學生勒馬爾在家庭爭吵中被槍擊后死去。同學們在校車上聽到了這個噩耗，他們都很恐懼，以至于到了學校后，個個眼里噙著淚水。

霍莉跟著我匆忙趕到勒馬爾的教室。勒馬爾的老師淚流滿面地站在那里。“我的學位沒有教我怎么處理這類事件?！彼橐f道。我竭盡全力，想找些恰當的話來安慰他們。

“哭對成年人和孩子來說是應該的，”我說道，“尤其是這種事情發生了的時候。”看到悲痛仍舊浮在他們臉上，我接著告訴他們恐懼也是正常、自然的。我們就勒馬爾談論了一會兒。就在這時，我才注意到霍莉在干什么。

她繞著教室走，從一個孩子到另一個孩子，也到老師那里，她把前爪貼在他們膝上，探身舔去他們臉上的淚珠。孩子們不由地抱住她的背，使勁地用手指揉搓她的毛，要是一天都這樣的話，霍莉準會成禿毛狗了。她并不要求受到極大的關注，只是默默把愛和安慰送給人們。在那漫長而又痛苦的一天里，霍莉不知疲倦地默默安慰著人們。

那天下午，我鉆進汽車前座坐下來，感情的創傷令我身心憔悴。我只想回家。我回過頭，驚奇地發現霍莉已經在后座睡著了。她即使不比我更累，也和我一樣筋疲力盡。我的良心再一次受到譴責。讓自己的愛犬承擔陷入痛苦的孩子們感情上的責任，這公平嗎？她是不是該待在家里，享受寵物那悠閑的生活呢？

這些疑惑，可能說明了為什么有時我早上匆忙準備去學校時，要停下來，不是叫霍莉上車，而是看著她，問道：“今天你想去學校嗎？”當她急切地跳起，搖著尾巴，激動不已時，我想她已經回答了我們急于想要的答案。是的，霍莉今天上班。

For Holly and me， it started with a stray kitten. Abandoned in the harsh winter weather， she huddled in a ball on the front steps of our building， an elementary school for emotionally disturbed children where I provided therapy three days a week.

That morning， I kept the kitten in my office while the principal figured out where to take it.

It started as the children soberly traipsed into my office that day for their therapy. When they spotted the kitten， their faces suddenly brightened. Their reticence and tenseness seemed to melt away as they petted the stray， and our sessions were relaxed and open. The kitten's effect was astounding and， by the end of the day， I was hatching a plan. My dog， Holly， was a gentle， gregarious， well-behaved seven-year-old of mixed parentage. Couldn't she have the same relaxing effect on the children I counseled？ Enthused， I began paperwork requesting permission to bring Holly to school with me， providing documentation of the benefits of companion animals.

The project was approved， but my supervisor clearly let me know that Holly and I were on trial. The responsibility for any problems with the "dog experiment" would land squarely on my shoulders.

Optimistic nonetheless， I smiled at the signs pasted on my office door as I unlocked it on Holly's first morning with me at school. "Holly is happy to be here，" the children had carefully stenciled. Already the children were responding positively to the idea of a dog counselor. Holly sniffed out my office， and we settled in for a day of work.

A small boy entered， and he and Holly stared at each other warily. "Does that dog bite？"

"No，" I assured him. "Why don't you give her a treat？" I handed him a bag of multicolored doggie treats. "Pick any color you like，" I said. The boy chose a red treat and tentatively held it out to Holly. She neatly and gently took the treat， swallowed it quickly and licked the boy's hand. The boy smiled. Holly's critical debut had been a success.

After the bell rang， a succession of little visitors came to our door， wing to see Holly. As they took turns handing treats to Holly， she wagged her tail and licked their hands， showing her approval. It was no wonder the children were drawn to her： For many of them， it was their first encounter with unconditional acceptance.

During the days that followed， Holly learned not to bark at the children's knocks on my office door. I set up a comer for her in my office on a piece of carpet remnant. The children eagerly came to me for their counseling visits， sitting on the floor by Holly and petting， brushing， playing with and confiding in her. As they relaxed with Holly， they let down their defenses. Our counseling sessions became smooth and productive.

Little by little， Holly's influence reached beyond her little comer of my office. Absences at school began to drop， and the children's disruptive behaviors softened. Even the teachers ducked in for some pet therapy throughout the day， giving Holly a short pat and restoring their spirits in her presence.

I didn't realize how loved Holly was， though， until I missed two days of work with strep throat. When I called in sick the first day， expecting a touch of sympathy， I was immediately asked if that meant Holly would have to stay home， too. The second day， I was seriously asked if I could at least send Holly to work in a cab. Apparently， the teachers were tired of answering the question， "Is Holly working today？"

One morning before school， nine-year-old LeMar， a third-grader who visited Holly regularly， was shot and killed in a domestic dispute. His classmates learned of the tragedy while they were still on the school bus， and by the time they arrived at school， they were terrified and in tears.

I hurried to LeMar's home classroom， Holly trailing behind me. LeMar's teacher stood there with tears streaming down her face. "My degree didn't prepare me to handle something like this，" she sobbed. I mustered all my sources and expertise to come up with the right words to soothe them.

"Crying is okay for adults and children，" I began， "especially when something like this happens." Still seeing the pain on their faces， I continued to tell them that it was okay to be scared， that fear is a natural response. For a while， we talked about how we would miss LeMar. It was at this point that I realized what Holly was doing.

She was working her way around the room， going from child to child—and the teacher—putting her front paws on their laps and stretching up to lick the tears from their faces. Unconsciously， the children hugged her back， running their fingers through her fur with such intensity that she would have gone bald if they'd done it all day. She called no significant attention to herself， but quietly expressed love and consolation. She diligently kept up her silent comfort throughout that long， difficult day.

As I slid into the front seat of my car that afternoon， I leaned back， exhausted from the emotional trauma. I just wanted to be home. Glancing briefly into the backseat， I was surprised to see that Holly had already fallen asleep. She was just as drained as I was， if not more so， and， not for the first time， I felt a pang of guilt. Was a fair to ask my dog to take on the emotional responsibilities of troubled children？ Shouldn't she be allowed to stay home and enjoy the carefree life of a house pet？

Those doubts may be why， even now， I occasionally stop in my rush to leave for school in the morning and， instead of ordering Holly into the car， look at her， asking， "Do you want to go to school today？" When she leaps up eagerly， all wags and excitement， I figure she's answered that burning question for all of us. Yes， Holly is working today.