Chewy: A Doctor's Tail: Amazing Lessons from a Service Dog as Transcribed By a Medical Doctor

By Dr. Daniel Herlihy and Chewy Bone a part

Despite having two years of graduate-level study in microbiology, a medical degree and practice in family medicine, it took me ten years to write this book. It started as a prescription from my neurologist to aid my traumatic brain injury. My car flew off an elevated highway with devastating consequence. I sustained four surgeries, chronic pain, but worse: A diagnosis of dementia (92% disabled both physically and mentally) and going into Alzheimer's disease.
That news makes a doctor want to suicide; especially since I diagnosed the disease in my father. I knew the horror lying ahead.
Despite the massive, depressive topics of brain injury, homelessness, suicide and the loss of memory this book is a medical thriller. It's also humorous. My canine companion is a four-legged stand-up comedian And since I am writing these very sentences now, its full of hope.
The reader will learn a sufficient amount of medicine to be informed while being titillated by my "crazy" adventures into hospitals, surgeries, the streets and public parks of homelessness. You will adventure into delusions, hallucinations and other psychological misadventures. All dangerous locations the reader can visit without leaving the safety of a comfortable armchair.
What does a dog do on a daily basis to aid the completely broken?
He showed me when to eat, as I could not remember even my last meal. We learned to dress (matching tartan vests -- fashionable among the service dog crowd.) He ventured me out of my isolation and bridged my connection to my Michele who had brain cancer. Teaching me to socialize he brought me to places I did not dare to walk by myself. And so much more.
A more critical question is how does a mere dog stop a man from suicide with all the reasons to leave the suffering behind?
Chapter nine!
My hope for the reader is to understand the outstanding support a service dog can give. Then please tell someone to obtain these under prescribed knee high portable doctors.
Good health.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543944662

Book preview

1

A QUESTION OF HEROES

Every day we get asked, Is that a service dog?

Everywhere this happens…even in public bathrooms.

The federal government has codified my response, so it is easy on me. Legally, I must say, Yes, this is a service dog. Yes, his service is seizure alert. It’s a surprise when the government gets it right. Say these two answers and even without a service vest or papers, you can bring your reliable knee level doctor with you most everywhere.

This legal recipe is very helpful. I (especially after the accident) frequently am in large amounts of pain and disoriented and distracted and thus, not fit for human company. It’s unfortunate that the brain injured cannot hibernate like bears do when the environment is not hospitable. How wonderful it might be to sleep in an underground burrow while my neurons reconnect, and reconstruction completes itself. Instead, my existence is sleepwalking while clumsily bumping into awkward situations and learning to extricate myself. Part of rehabilitation is not withdrawing from unwanted stimuli, (everyone and anything) instead I must learn to act neurotypically.

So, no acting out.

Which is awful, for me – but not the general public.

The only creature I can stand to be me around is…the one that prompts the questions. However, the good outweighs the bad.

After all, service dogs are similar to a cane or walker. But only legally, such that the airline folks cannot stop me from bringing on my medical devices or prescriptions. So, is he a device? No, not at all. But divisive? Yes, at times, for he can’t be fully explained. My service dog permitted me to survive after a major head injury. What a quandary to fully describe what Chewy does for me after everyone asks. Such a difficult question! I must discuss it with the dog often.

Further, these very conversations are a point of contention between myself and the public. The neurotypical folks say, Everyone talks to themselves and their pets. I certainly do. Unfortunately, my doctor, who was treating my traumatic brain injury, talked me out of believing my companion and I were actually (in the really real reality) conversing.

Fortunately, I thought our talks about the best part of my life. Thus, we still conversate together. Denial in this particular case can be called delusion confusion.

But let me put too fine a point on the question. Let’s do the long, more accurate, alternative answer (by example) to the Is that a service dog?

The barista at Starbucks insists I prove the dog is real (still happens frequently). Then she threatens to call the police to get the fake service dog but authentic unhygienic beast out of the store. My assumption is both Chewy, and I are the latter.

Now my usual wandering, dislocated mind is sharpened by my frustration and is fully focused on the task. So, there I am irritated and cerebrally macerated. And you might know mood instability is common in brain bang issues —- I can get shouting Irish mad in a micro-second.

I look to my dog; he says, Why yell? Tell them the truth. Tell her about it.

Again? Again? I shrug.

Chewy knows what’s best, so he prods. Come on, that underwrote script -— ‘I have a head injury, and my dog is a seizure alert dog.’ Oh, poor you! You sound weak, pathetic, and anemic. Tell them like it really is.

Everything? Even the craziness? Even I have hesitation.

Tell them for my sake. I need some street cred here. You are a pain in my ass. They don’t know what I put up with. School them, dude.

What you going to poop the rug like last time?

Oversensitive biped. My work, our relation, described so dismissively. Like reducing a novel to a single page.

Bung breath, what did I get the vest for? I say deflating and knowing the dog and pony show is what my canine is demanding.

For stability, I begin by planting myself in front of the cash register, lowering myself into a karate stance: the horse. I will be there a long time.

After a sideways glance at Chewy, I fully catch the eye of the interrogator. Oh, glad you asked, Doctor Barista. I had a car accident and rolled down a mountain. Was left bleeding from every orifice. Got scalped from the windshield. Had three operations. Multiple broken ribs. Nearly lost my leg. And best of all have a traumatic brain injury. I take a breath preparing for the chronic problem section of my history. Consequently, I lost my job, marriage, and child. I suspect you will soon be understanding my mind is also gone. But, let’s start simple. Let me roll up my pant leg here to show my 9-inch reconstruction knee scar.

Hey, maybe not… the coffee pusher hesitates. My unsightly, unhygienic fish-belly white leg extends from me to the cash register desk. "Come on, feel it. Nice texture. Bumpy, but not too lumpy. I have two more scars: my seven incher and my six incher. Oh, and a lump. Squishy but benign. Won’t kill me. It’s a lipoma. Just a fat bump.

Unfortunately, it’s unsightly. A third eye kind of thing…." I do an eye roll theatrically.

As I lift my shirt, I ask, Don’t mind if I reveal the pathology?

There is a line behind you, sir. I have customers. She realizes Pandora’s Box is open and neither box nor mouth will be closing soon.

Yes, but you asked, and you need an answer. Chewy wants you to respect him. The dog and I nod to each other more certain this tale must be told. "Now my brain problem is like having a stroke. I cannot seem to remember things or can’t inhibit my behavior. Sometimes I forget what I was doing. But, that’s crazy talk. Because right now, I am explaining my diagnosis and prognosis to you.

I am sure you do have a service dog. My bad. Just put your shirt down, sir. The caffeine dealer murmurs something to herself.

Giving Chewy the she does not get it yet look, I continue. Sure, but we can go simple. Now I keep a pic of my brain MRI in my wallet just for these occasions. See that dark area there? Yea, that’s grey matter gone.

Hi! I am the manager. Let’s give you a free coffee today and a pupa-chino for your lovely service dog.

Incidents like these occurred most frequently when my injuries were newly acquired and severe. Hit your head hard enough, and reality is vastly distorted. After a many such adventures I took the advice of my dog and simply wrote his story. Not only to offer my book a better option than yelling (though I love causing public scenes -- having a post dramatic syndrome) but further to repay Chewy. He has a big ego (total alpha dog) and wants me to write the great story of his life.

Furthermore, the writing was also encouraged by my neurologist to reorder my brain neural circuits.

Reading and writing will help you relearn the language. Penning the words in the script will get your motor cortex to rewire. Coordinating the fingers, arms and eyes are beneficial. Multiple areas of your brain will have to communicate with each other for a global synergistic effect. Even such small actions could bringyour cerebellum back to coordinate your walking. You cannot keep falling and hitting your head.

After many years this prescription did all the things promised. Great therapy!

Furthermore, memoir writing enabled me to re-story my life. Doesn’t every survivor of a catastrophic trauma need to make sense of what occurred? When all is gone what remains? When even identity has been wiped from the hard drive of mind what do we have? Only the hunger for meaning. And that is the story.

To that end, this is my tale. Or, so, I thought. Chewy argues, no insists, he is the protagonist. Thus, the book is his. Ridiculously, I am the antagonist. Crazy? So here is the novel my jokester canine wanted. But first, an explanation of who the hero and protagonist are of Chewy’s canine memoir."

So, let’s formally begin the book.

Heroes are as important today as they were in Homer’s time of the ancient Greeks. Tales of brave Ulysses inspired soldiers to defend their city-states, family, and friends. Now from the Second World War, heroes come alive in books and movies to tell how genocide is fought and epic evil conquered. Many readers of comic books (graphic novels, if you prefer) know the virtues of superheroes. By absorbing their stories, our lives are shaped. After every ending, we secretly question ourselves. Are we as strong and as good as supermen?

No/Yes. Everyone has the potential to be super people. Superwomen, super kids, and super grandparents exist. Though the kids are easiest to spot – look for the cape. Spirit, courage, and self-sacrifice are the ingredients of heroes. The bat car, utility belts full of gizmos, special mental abilities and time travel are nice if you can invent them or buy them. But these are not essential. They are, however, time savers, especially when a crisis is ending the world.

Smaller scale crises happen when our personal world is ending. This happened to me. From it, I learned something. The superpower secret of the universe is – quiet now – the big reveal is coming – every one of us is a hero. Every single one of us is on the heroes’ journey. Everyone has what it takes. The qualifications journey makes them. In fact, there is no hero finish line. To start the journey is qualification enough.

Are heroes movie stars? Yes. You are the star of your movie. You are writing the script right now. Just by picking this book up, you’ve already started. And what will you write?

You don’t know this yet, but you will compose your version of the 12 steps of Joseph Campbell’s journey of the heroic. This Dr. Campbell is an authentic hero. Even though he never seems to have left the library, he has changed many minds and hearts. The man is a bona fide hero of the academic type. So smart, that

I fear reading books in his native language; even though that is English, and I am a native speaker. His work brilliantly combines all the stories every written into only one. And he’s right. Only one story exists. It’s the Star Wars story. It’s Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz. and Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. It’s every good blockbuster movie you see on the big screen. How to survive a disaster is the only real story. Ask those writers at Marvel comics.

Written into our genetics is the code for storytelling. Only a matter of time before scientists will locate the gene. They will then proclaim -- a mutation or absence is as dangerous as cancer!

Much of our nutrition goes into our mouths. But, there is a special type of nourishment which flows from our voice box. From the lips of our leaders, teachers, and parents, words formulated.

Codified into our great books, those sounds become written symbols that hold back the fear of disaster, hurt or even extinction. On the streets, in cafes, in homes, I have seen readers huddling alone and bent over the pages squinting for hopeful answers. Murmuring to themselves, they want to find the path to safety.

And yet, the more I see you, the more I recognize myself: Small, beaten-down, and hidden. Stung by how alone I am, I understand a gruesome truth. My parents could not be called to help. They are long dead. For me, there is no savior. No lone cowboy will ride into town to make things right. No Deus Ex Machina will come at the end of my Greek play to inexplicable save me.

I alone must become the hero who saves my skin.

Now if you disbelieve this, read further for proof. You don’t even need to be human to be a hero (I was told to insert that particular truth by Mr. Four Legs.) Even further, if you need a business card listing yourself as a hero, we will send you one. That should make it all official. Happily, you can start right now.

What happened to me that it became a necessity to write a saving plan? Can you avoid this catastrophe? Will you not be called to mold yourself into a hero adventurer?

Everyone falls. I fell much further than most. A prosperous, happy doctor secure in his calling to heal, I had an expensive car and a prestigious office adjacent to a park. A beautiful wife and wonderful daughter, I had money for anything desired. One car accident later, and all of this disappeared. More dreadful, I completely lost my memories. They were replaced by pain and broken bones and extensive brain damage.

I love my theater, my movies, and my drama. I love my science and medicine as well. These fields have much to guide me back to health. One signpost indicated Darwin had one thing right. We need to survive. We will to live. We hunger to continue life. Incidentally, he might be right about the genes business -- that is passing them on before you pass on. Doesn’t everybody want to pass on their genes -- especially those 1970’s, 501 Levi’s with the rivets. Perhaps. But not necessarily for me. I only want to exist and revel in the bitter taste of coffee, the morning sun flushing my face and the friendship of my dog. Also, I need to laugh; for I will not go gently into that dark night. At one time I did not have the strength to do anything but.

What saved me from suicide? Who stopped me so that these words you read exist?

Listen up, Chewy this is where I call you the hero.

A mere dog did.

"Further, Chewy, while you were you not by my side immediately after my wounding car accident; you must know the reason why you were called to be in my life. Or vice – versa. My diagnosis was dementia. Further, because my father had Alzheimer’s disease (I diagnosed him), it seemed it would progress in that direction. Are these the ugliest of words?

Here you see the superhero (that’s me, Chewy, not you) is in dire trouble. In fact, mortal danger. What we have here is a real cliffhanger. Stay tuned to know how the following dramatic questions are to be answered: Who will help? How can he escape?

Can the enemies of darkness be disarmed? With the planet earth at stake, will the armed forces be powerful enough to save it?

Damn, some of that over drama is my head injury talking. It rambles, interjecting inappropriately often throughout this book. If bothersome, just ignore it.

Will he survive? Oh, you know that one.

But I must sincerely coauthor with my hero partner. His steady contribution, his presence, his advice was a leash pulling me unwillingly through to the better times. He was a godsend. This tale cannot be untangled from his tail.

Medium ability. Shading appropriate. Obvious suicidal ideation.

2

THE INITIATING INCIDENT

"So, Chewy, here is the midpoint of the story. In Latin, it is called en media res. After this, we will start at the beginning. But here is an exciting part that gives the reader a thrill. Necessary so they will continue reading your heroic deeds."

I understand. Not everything I do is heroic. Today I swatted a fly: Had to leap from the armchair. Coordination, mental concentration, brute strength, the fortitude of will. Some of those buzzers been in the kitchen for two weeks. They have a short lifespan, so I wanted to get the little bugger before he dies of a natural cause. Now that is interesting.

Spellbinding, mesmerizing, stunning, balletic and narcissistic. I managed to keep a straight face knowing my four-leg can be delicate.

Double all that, and you’d only have the half of it. His chest expanded in that alpha dog way.

Perhaps we should record your great deeds for posterity. Homer did this for the Greek heroes. At least a novella celebrating the epic struggle with a rabbit last week. The world should know your historical hunting skills and your abilities to keep the rat population down and eating less grain. That alone needs a statue.

I got very close to the jackrabbit last week, the one eating the thyme. That scourge will be eradicated.

No doubt. We’ll need a second book on how you adapted your skills to become a service dog. Till that time let me read so you will know how history will remember you.

Standing and looking at the mud-colored wall, I didn’t even notice that the wallpaper was about the only thing holding up this partition between the bedroom and kitchen. The floor of my not fit for human habitation trailer was covered in gray carpet scraps. The mustiness burned my nose. The ugliness of the