A guest post by Poodle Oodle, Editor of Poodle Times, By, for and about the poodle community. “You don’t have to be a poodle to love Poodle Times.”

Did you know August 26 was national Dog Appreciation Day? Me either. Nice, but I don’t get it. Your faithful human companion already knows every day is Dog Appreciation Day. And if not, s/he is neither faithful nor human.

All pooches live to serve and this poodle is no exception. While mom is no poodle— you can’t have everything—she’s got the idea. Together, we serve our psychiatric out-patient practice. She does the shrinking; I do the loving.

I’m a therapy dog, a working dog. You might say I was born to it. From nine weeks on, I’ve been her right hand at the office.

That’s where I learned English, dozing beside her in the magic chair. Where I cut my teeth, on the office furniture. Where I chased my tail, in the waiting room, for laughs. Where I got my sea legs— no, my belly rubs, from more humans than you can catch a tossed stick from. It’s been ten years training mom. Hard work, but hardly work, when you love it.

So August 26 was just a regular workday, which goes like this. While she hangs up my leash and stashes her purse, I trot ahead to the waiting room, where patients wait to pay their respects.

Mom’s patient offers a hand to sniff— Hand lotion!— which I lick off. “Oh! Kisses!” Sure. Next, I visit dad’s patient, who scratches me under the chin, “Nice to see you!” Naturally. Last, the drug rep, a nice woman whose shoes, shins and hands smell mysteriously delicious. “Hi there! Smell my horses?” I could sniff her all morning, but mom interrupts. I amble back to her patient, who offers me the other hand to lick. Thank you!

When Mom says, “Come on in,” that’s my cue to lead the way to the office, where I politely wait at the door— Humans first! After the patient chooses her seat, couch or chair, I decide where I sit.

Sometimes a patient is sad or anxious or upset and needs to give me belly rubs. Of course, I oblige. That’s my job. Otherwise, if the patient has the couch, I’ll take the chair, settling on the cushy spine. From there, I survey the property through the window and alert mom of intruders at the perimeter, a side-line. If all is quiet, inside and out, I might rest my eyes. Some days I’m needy, and squeeze in with mom.

Regardless, I keep my “third ear” open. If the patient sounds weepy or smells nervous, I jump down and mosey over, lean against his ankles or jump up in her lap. No matter what I do, it’s always right. That’s because I’m a Zen sage trapped in a poodle body.

“Your dog is so good!” Mom agrees. Good mom!

“Anytime you need a dog sitter, let me know,” the adoring human says.

Mom laughs. “I’m afraid you’ll have to take a number.”

When mom stirs in the chair and says, “Let me see you in (insert number) weeks,” that’s my cue. I stretch in downward facing dog, wait by the door as she and patient rise to their feet, and after she opens it, escort them out. Then I trot to the waiting room to start my rounds anew.

Sometimes I linger after mom and the next patient exit, to track down an enticing scent in the wastebasket. Empty coffee containers, food wrappers, snot rags, it's all good. Or, to deal with an intruder: ants, spiders, the occasional mouse. Either they go, or stop moving, no in between. “Poodle Oodle!” Mom calls out, “Let's go! Time to work!” As if I wasn’t! Ruff, ruff.

Love might make the world go round, but getting loved up, 9 to 5, week after week, can wear a poodle down. So I take a mental health day. Then mom comes home saying patients complained: “Where’s Poodle Oodle?! I didn’t come in to see you!” QED: Every day is Dog Appreciation Day. Talk is sweet, but how about a treat?