10/08/2026
Something a little different for a Monday afternoon… We have started writing “The Therapy Dog Diaries” a new collection of memoirs from our incredible experiences with Orla and Bonnie. Let us know what you think and enjoy! Here’s chapter one…. ❤️🐾
❤️ The Therapy Dog Diaries ❤️
People sometimes ask me what a therapy dog does. It sounds like such a simple question, but after all these years with Orla, I’m still not sure there is a simple answer. I could tell you that we visit schools and community groups. That Orla spends time with children who may be anxious, overwhelmed, frightened, lonely or simply in need of a little comfort.
But that doesn’t really explain it. Because it’s not about what Orla does. More often, it is about what happens simply because she is there.
Over the years, Orla and I have met so many children. I wish I could tell you that I remember all of their names, but I don’t. What I do recall are the smiles, the shared experiences, the tiny breakthroughs and the quiet moments.
I remember the child whose anxiety was so overwhelming that it took almost an hour to find the courage to come and meet Orla. There was no rushing, no expectation, no come on, you can do it. Orla simply waited. She didn’t know that an hour had passed, dogs don’t measure courage in minutes. And eventually, a child who had spent so long battling with their own anxiety, came over. To anyone else, it just looked like a child stroking a dog, but to us it felt enormous. I remember another child who sat silently beside her, nervous and unable to find the words to speak. Orla didn’t ask any questions, she didn’t need an explanation, she just sat beside them. Eventually, a small, nervous hand reached out and disappeared into her soft fur. Little by little, the tension seemed to leave the room. A few words came, then a few more, and before long, that frightened, silent child was talking.
I have watched children tell Orla things they couldn't yet tell another person. Sometimes they are quietly struggling with something outside of school and nobody knows. Adults can ask questions with the very best of intentions, but sometimes words are difficult when someone is looking back at you, waiting for an answer. Orla never waits for an answer and she never judges the silence. So when a child strokes her fur and begins to talk, Orla listens. There have been children who struggle to read, too. I remember sitting with one child and a book. Reading was difficult, but that didn't matter to Orla. The child turned the pages and looked at the pictures, telling Orla all about their favourite animals instead. There was no correcting, no score, no fear of getting something wrong and no demands. Just a child, a dog and a book.
Then there are the children who desperately want a dog of their own, but for whatever reason, can't have one. Their faces when they see Orla are impossible to forget. For a little while, Orla becomes their dog. They tell people proudly that she belongs to them. I never correct them. For those few moments, perhaps she does.
And then there are the children who are frightened of dogs. We never force an introduction. Sometimes the first visit is spent watching Orla from across the room. The next time, they might move a little closer. Then they might touch her back for the briefest second. And then, several visits later, I look across and see the same child sitting calmly beside the dog they were once afraid of, their arms wrapped around her.
These are the moments I carry home with me. Orla cannot take away a child's anxiety or fix whatever might be happening in their life. But she can give them something beautifully simple. Her presence. There are no demands with Orla. She doesn't care whether a child can read fluently, make eye contact, sit still, find the right words or explain how they are feeling. She doesn't know about test results, diagnoses or expectations. She only knows the person sitting in front of her. And perhaps that is one of the greatest lessons dogs can give us, they live entirely in the present moment. They don't worry about what happened yesterday or what might happen tomorrow. There is only now.
Over the years, I have come to realise that these visits aren't really made up of grand moments. They are made up of hundreds of tiny ones. I may not remember every child's name, but I remember those moments and I remember the smiles.
And I think Orla does too, in her own way. Perhaps that is what a therapy dog really is. Not someone who comes along to fix things. Just a gentle, non-judgemental presence who steps quietly into someone's world for a little while and says, without ever needing words: You don't have to be anything with me, you can just be here. And sometimes, for a child carrying more than we realise, a few moments of peace and unconditional love can mean everything.
