第8章 今天霍莉上班吗？

Is Holly Working Today？

佚名/Anonymous

对我和霍莉来说，一切源于一只被遗弃的猫。严寒中，她被遗弃在校舍楼前台阶上，冻得身子缩成一团。这所小学是为心理不正常的儿童开设的，我每周在那里提供三天的心理治疗。

那天早上，那只猫留在了我的办公室里，而校长则在考虑如何安置她。

那天，当孩子们神情严肃，带着倦意走进我的办公室开始接受治疗时，故事便开始了。一看到小猫，他们个个眼前一亮。他们抚摸着这只被遗弃的猫，往日的缄默和紧张似乎也随之消失。治疗过程进行得轻松而顺利，这令我很吃惊。那天下班时，我便开始酝酿一项计划。我的霍莉7岁，是只性情温和而又合群、有礼貌的混血狗。她也可以使我的孩子们轻松地接受治疗吗？我满怀热情地打报告，在报告中我引用文献，列举以动物为伴的好处，请求允许我把霍莉带到学校。

虽然我的计划获准了，但校长交代得很清楚，先让我和霍莉试试。对于有关“狗试验”出现的任何问题，我要承担全部责任。

即便这样，我还是很看好这件事。带霍莉到学校的第一天早上，打开办公室门时，我看到了门上的告示，我笑了。孩子们很认真地写道：“霍莉在这里很高兴”。他们很高兴让狗充当辅导员。一天的工作开始之前，霍莉把办公室闻了个遍。

一个小男孩走进来，他和霍莉都警惕地注视着对方。“她咬人吗？”他问道。

“不，”我安慰他说，“为什么不喂她吃点东西？”我把一袋各种颜色的狗饼干递给他。“拣个你喜欢的颜色。”我说道。男孩拿了块红色的饼干，试探性地朝霍莉伸出手。霍莉利索而又轻巧地叼住饼干，很快咽了下去，然后舔了舔男孩的手。男孩笑了。霍莉的初次登场表现得十分出色。

铃响后，一群小参观者纷纷来到门前，争着瞧霍莉。孩子们轮流喂她饼干，她摇着尾巴，舔着他们的手，以示感谢。她如此受孩子们欢迎，这一点儿也不奇怪，因为从一开始，霍莉就无条件地接纳了他们。

渐渐地，当听到孩子们的敲门声时，霍莉也不再狂叫不止。为了霍莉，我在屋角铺了块地毯。孩子们积极地来我这里进行心理治疗，他们坐在霍莉身旁，抚摸她，给她梳理毛发，逗她，向她倾诉心声。在与霍莉相处的日子，孩子们身心轻松，而他们的心理界限也完全消失。心理障碍疗程进展顺利，取得了明显效果。

霍莉的影响逐渐地从屋内扩展到办公室外。孩子们的缺勤率开始下降，并且他们也不再那么调皮。甚至教师们也时不时地到我的办公室，想接受宠物治疗，轻拍她一下，在她面前变得精神焕发。

直到我因脓毒性咽喉炎两天没去学校的那一刻，我才知道人们是多么爱霍莉。第一天我打电话请病假，本以为他们会安慰我，谁知对方立刻问我，是不是霍莉也不来了，要待在家里。第二天，学校来电话问我，能否至少让霍莉搭出租车到学校。显然，老师们已烦于回答同样的问题：“霍莉今天上班吗？”

一天早上上课前，定时来看霍莉的9岁的三年级学生勒马尔在家庭争吵中被枪击后死去。同学们在校车上听到了这个噩耗，他们都很恐惧，以至于到了学校后，个个眼里噙着泪水。

霍莉跟着我匆忙赶到勒马尔的教室。勒马尔的老师泪流满面地站在那里。“我的学位没有教我怎么处理这类事件。”她抽噎着说道。我竭尽全力，想找些恰当的话来安慰他们。

“哭对成年人和孩子来说是应该的，”我说道，“尤其是这种事情发生了的时候。”看到悲痛仍旧浮在他们脸上，我接着告诉他们恐惧也是正常、自然的。我们就勒马尔谈论了一会儿。就在这时，我才注意到霍莉在干什么。

她绕着教室走，从一个孩子到另一个孩子，也到老师那里，她把前爪贴在他们膝上，探身舔去他们脸上的泪珠。孩子们不由地抱住她的背，使劲地用手指揉搓她的毛，要是一天都这样的话，霍莉准会成秃毛狗了。她并不要求受到极大的关注，只是默默把爱和安慰送给人们。在那漫长而又痛苦的一天里，霍莉不知疲倦地默默安慰着人们。

那天下午，我钻进汽车前座坐下来，感情的创伤令我身心憔悴。我只想回家。我回过头，惊奇地发现霍莉已经在后座睡着了。她即使不比我更累，也和我一样筋疲力尽。我的良心再一次受到谴责。让自己的爱犬承担陷入痛苦的孩子们感情上的责任，这公平吗？她是不是该待在家里，享受宠物那悠闲的生活呢？

这些疑惑，可能说明了为什么有时我早上匆忙准备去学校时，要停下来，不是叫霍莉上车，而是看着她，问道：“今天你想去学校吗？”当她急切地跳起，摇着尾巴，激动不已时，我想她已经回答了我们急于想要的答案。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.