Today was not going the way Cousteau had envisioned at all. Cousteau usually loved Mondays. He loved going into the office and seeing all his wonderful office friends. This Monday specifically was a Monday Cousteau had been especially looking forward to, ever since Mom had dropped him off at Pampered Puppers Puppy Palace last Thursday.
Cousteau had enjoyed his time at the Four Peasons (that’s what the staff called it for short)—they had groomers there who knew exactly how to wash and style his shaggy King Charles Spaniel puppy coat so it shined a golden caramel. But, he had missed his Mom and his elder King Charles Spaniel counterpart, Sherlock. He counted down the days until their return, so you can imagine his disappointment when they picked him up and it wasn’t a thing like he imagined.
For one thing, Sherlock didn’t even come inside with mom to see him, as Cousteau had hoped he would. Cousteau sometimes wondered if Sherlock hated him. When Mom had brought him home, she’d told him, “You and Sherlock are going to be best friends.” Sherlock, however, had other plans. He made that clear when he told Cousteau that they were roommates, nothing more.
“I have enough friends,” he had said on Cousteau’s first day in his new home, and that had become that.
As the new puppy in the house, Cousteau looked up to Sherlock. He didn’t know the first thing about being a therapy dog, and Sherlock was the very best, according to Mom. Cousteau had hoped Sherlock would teach him everything he knew, but so far, Sherlock was keeping his trade secrets to himself.
Sherlock just sat in the front seat and didn’t say a word the whole drive home, behavior that made Cousteau feel really anxious. He didn’t even socialize with Mom. He came home and wordlessly went straight to bed.
All that silent treatment had made the drive to work quite tense and awkward, which had really put a damper on Cousteau’s favorite day of the week. The only thing he could think was Sherlock must be jealous, but that made no sense. Sure, Cousteau had been pampered all weekend, but Sherlock had been on a trip with Mom. Wasn’t that just as good, if not better than being boarded at the Four Peasons?
Sherlock shifted in his spot at the side of Mom’s desk, much the same as he had done throughout the night before. All that shifting had kept Cousteau up most of the night as well. He had assumed he and Sherlock would sleep the day away at work, but so far that wasn’t happening. Maybe he was grumpy because he was tired but couldn’t sleep. Maybe Sherlock hadn’t been able to sleep much on his trip. Maybe the lack of sleep had made them both grumpy. Cousteau got an idea.
“Hey Sherlock!” he called from his spot at Mom’s feet. Sherlock didn’t move at all. Cousteau hopped up and walked over, calling again, “Sherlock!”
Still no answer. No response. No acknowledgment whatsoever. Cousteau furrowed his brow. All he was trying to do was extend an olive branch, and still, his roommate ignored him. “Sherlock!” he shouted.
Sherlock jumped. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to sneak up on people?” he asked. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“I’m sorry,” Cousteau said, and he really meant it. He wanted so badly for him and Sherlock to be friends or at least friendly, but all his attempts to befriend the older dog had failed.
“It’s fine,” Sherlock replied, but Cousteau wasn’t sure he meant it. “Now what was so important for you to scare the daylights outta me?”
Cousteau scrunched his face and scratched his ear with his back paw. This was happening more and more now. Sherlock didn’t exactly hear so great a few months ago when Cousteau first moved in, but recently it seemed he could barely hear at all.
“I thought maybe we could go out into the courtyard and take a nap. It looks really nice outside today.”
Sherlock looked past Cousteau to the cracked open door that led outside to the rooftop courtyard where the dogs played when they wanted and did their business when they needed. For a moment, Cousteau felt hopeful he would say yes. Then Sherlock dropped his head. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure? It’s a really nice day.”
“Well if it’s such a nice day, why don’t you go outside, pup? Then maybe I can get some peace without you bothering me.”
“Seriously?” Cousteau asked? “You know what? Fine. Suit yourself, old man.” He walked away, incensed at how unbelievably rude his roommate was being.
Sherlock regretted what he’d said to Cousteau as soon as the words had left his mouth. He knew Mom had said she wanted him to be best friends with the puppy, and he knew he was letting her down, that she was disappointed in his behavior. He could tell Cousteau had his feelings hurt. Sherlock wasn’t heartless. He wasn’t a bad dog. He was just having a bad day. A bad day following a particularly bad weekend. An awful weekend actually. An awful weekend that was supposed to redeem him from this cycle of feeling like he was disappointing Mom and letting her down.
How could Cousteau understand any of that? Unlike Sherlock, Cousteau was still young. Unlike Sherlock, Cousteau had his whole life ahead of him. Wasn’t that the pup’s whole point of existing, anyway? To come in and take over now that he was no longer capable of performing his duties as a therapy dog? Didn’t Mom say Cousteau was Sherlock’s retirement plan? And wasn’t that even more true after the bad news he’d received this weekend? Sherlock might as well have both his front paws out the door at this point.
Sherlock thought about the weekend, and he was in that office again. The cold flooring, the plastic chairs, the white walls, the cramped room. He sat there right next to Mom, a perfect good boy eagerly awaiting the doctor’s good news. The doctor flashed lights in Sherlock’s eyes, poked tools in his ears, and prodded him all over. None of it was pleasant, but Sherlock took it all in stride. Anything was worth the trouble if it meant getting his hearing back.
But, faint as it was, as far away as it sounded, Sherlock still made out another message:
“There’s nothing we can do,” the doctor said. “These things just happen. He’s getting old. His hearing is going. It’s likely to get worse.”
Sherlock hadn’t smiled since that moment. He didn’t feel like smiling. How could he? Without his hearing, Sherlock couldn’t do his job as a super-sleuthing therapy dog properly, and worse, his replacement was already on board.
He had taken such pride in his long and accomplished career as a trained therapy dog. Whenever Mom had a problem, he treated it like a mystery to solve. He saw Sanctuary Centers clients everyday, too! Whenever someone needed an extra pick-me-up during their therapy session with mom, Sherlock would be nearby. If they needed a tissue, he would fetch a box from the shelf, or give snuggles to those who needed a little extra love. No matter how complex the issue, he could sniff it out, figure out exactly what was wrong, and find a way to make it better. Sometimes, all he needed to do was stand nearby, still and quiet. He was so good at his job, just his presence could brighten up anyone’s mood instantly. He loved his job, and he was good at it. One of the best ever, Mom would tell people. Now though? Sherlock was a shadow of the dog he used to be. He felt like he hadn’t been a proper companion in months.
Lately, things had gotten to the point that he couldn’t even pick up on simple cues anymore. He used to be so good at reading people, knowing the moods of his regular clients without having to say anything. Sherlock saw three clients today but he could barely hear the words they said out loud. How could he properly do his job like this? What kind of assistant was he to Mom in this state? Even doing something simple in their leisure time like sitting with her on the couch to watch TV, which used to be Sherlock’s favorite way to relax, was beyond him now. He couldn’t concentrate because he couldn’t hear the television from the other side of the living room. He just sat there, alone in his muffled silence, pretending to follow along, worried he’d be found out and sent away at any second.
That’s why when they got home last night, he couldn’t even bring himself to pretend anymore. He’d been so excited to go to the special doctor in the city for the weekend. He just knew he was going to come home fixed up. Instead, he came home just as broken, and now Mom knew it, too. Even worse, she knew he wasn’t ever going to get better. Sherlock went to bed early. He couldn’t sleep, but he thought it best to let Mom and Cousteau get their quality time in after being apart for a few days. He felt his presence was a burden.
“Sherlock!” Mom’s voice surprised him. He hadn’t even heard or noticed her get up. Some detective dog he was, he thought, missing things happening so close to him now. “Let’s go out into the courtyard.”
She turned and walked a few steps before looking back behind her. Sherlock hadn’t risen. As he’d told Cousteau, he didn’t much feel like going out into the courtyard today.
Mom walked back and bent down right in front of him to get close to his face. She patted his head and ruffled his floppy, now completely useless ears. “It’s a beautiful day,” she said, sounding a million miles away even though she was face to face with him. “Come outside with me.”
Cousteau fumed to himself, ignoring all the action in the rooftop courtyard. It was a beautiful day, with moderate temperatures and sunny skies, and nearly all the dogs had found their way to the outdoor workspace to enjoy the weather. Any other day, he would be in the thick of things, running and playing and enjoying their company, but today he didn’t feel like it. Today, all he could think about was what a jerk Sherlock was being.
The weekend trip was meant to help Sherlock. Instead, it seemed that his hearing had not improved even a little bit. Cousteau hated seeing him so sad, but what was he supposed to do? How could he help? Sherlock’s problems seemed so big, and Cousteau felt so small in comparison–especially with Sherlock being so mean about everything. After all, Cousteau was just a puppy. What could he do to fix the problem? If the special doctors hadn’t helped, what hope was there for just one little dog?
Sherlock needed help, that much was clear. He needed a friend. He deserved that. Sherlock had made no secret of his intentions for his doctor trip. He’d told Cousteau to be ready. When he came back, he’d be a real dog again. Did Sherlock think he wasn’t a real dog without his hearing? Was that the problem?
Cousteau felt a pang of guilt over his time being pampered at The Four Peasons while Sherlock was stuck in doctor’s offices. He remembered the night before when Sherlock had come home in silence and gone straight to bed. At the time, he’d thought that was just Sherlock being rude, but now he wondered if there wasn’t something more he’d missed.
The door to the courtyard swung all the way open, and Cousteau watched Mom lead a reluctant Sherlock into the sun. Sherlock’s head drooped, and he looked at the ground as he plodded behind Mom. He didn’t look up at the sun, didn’t smile as it hit his face. No one said hello to him, but he didn’t seem to notice or mind.
When Cousteau had come outside earlier, Sama and Sasha—the Shepherd mix and French Bulldog who always came as a package deal—had asked Cousteau if he wanted to play. They’d told him about some new puppy, a girl dog with a boy’s name he’d forgotten as soon as he heard it. He blew them off, just as Sherlock had blown him off, without a second thought. Cousteau hadn’t felt like playing. He’d been too lost in his confusion.
Cousteau wondered, was Sherlock sad and angry at him, or just sad and angry? Was that why he hadn’t felt like playing earlier? Cousteau had thought it wasn’t fair, that he was just trying to be friends, and Sherlock was being so mean to him.
How unfair must things seem now for Sherlock? How hard was it to lose a whole part of yourself? That sounded so scary to Cousteau. Was Sherlock scared?
Mom sometimes referred to Cousteau as Sherlock’s retirement plan, and she always said it as a joke, but maybe it wasn’t such a joke to Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock wasn’t ready to retire at all. Cousteau had no intention of forcing Sherlock into retirement. He got up to walk over and tell Sherlock exactly that.
That’s when he saw it happening. He would have stopped it. He wanted to stop it. “Sherlock!” he shouted, but he was too far away, and Sherlock didn’t hear him.
Even though he didn’t want to, Sherlock followed Mom outside into the courtyard. He used to love it out here, used to love anything outdoorsy in general. There was so much to do, so much to chase and investigate, so much to hear. All the sounds — the birds chirping and singing, the wind rustling the trees or whistling through a canyon, the distant howl of a coyote, the crickets and owls at night — Sherlock would take it all in and sigh to himself. All that chaos made him feel at peace. He appreciated his own stillness amid the bustling activity of the wilderness. He preferred it to the bells and whistles of the house or the booms and clangs of the city.
The courtyard was no wooded forest, but it was his tiny piece of nature where he could escape the clacking of the keyboards in the office. He could hear the birds on the roof and feel the wind on his face and smell the bushes and the tiny trees. That little patch of grass was his favorite part of coming to work.
Now though? Nowadays the courtyard only depressed Sherlock. How could it not? In his muted bubble, all he could do is notice the things he couldn't hear anymore. The courtyard only served to remind him of everything he’d lost.
These were the thoughts running through his head as Sama and Sasha were running toward him. He didn’t hear them coming, didn’t see them play-fighting behind him as their roughhousing launched them into him and sent him tumbling. If they hadn’t rolled right over him and kept on going, he might never have known what hit him in the first place.
Mom shooed them away and bent down to check on him. She patted him, head to haunches, then checked each paw one by one. Once she was satisfied nothing was broken, she said, “I am so sorry, Sherlock–I wasn’t paying attention!”
Sherlock winced, not because his body hurt, but because his heart did. It was supposed to be his job to look out for Mom. He was supposed to protect her. He was supposed to be there for her when she needed him, not the other way around. Everything had gone all backward.
Then the pup walked up.
Cousteau approached Sherlock with considerable trepidation. He knew he was probably the last person his roommate wanted to talk to at that moment, but he had to try to help. He couldn’t just watch Sherlock hurt anymore. He knew what he had planned was a long shot. It might blow up in his face. On the off chance that it didn’t, though, Cousteau felt that it was worth the risk.
“Come to make fun of me, pup?” Sherlock asked.
Cousteau shook his head. “Those two can be oblivious sometimes.”
Sherlock squinted. He didn’t speak immediately. Cousteau held his breath and braced himself for the worst.
“They can,” Sherlock said. “But you know, most of the time, they’re having so much fun in their own world that it’s hard to hold it against them.”
“Best not to take it personally, you think?”
“I’m sure if they realized they’d hurt me, they’d want to apologize.”
Cousteau sensed an opening. “I had a favor I wanted to ask you,” he told Sherlock.
“Did you now?”
“Yeah, I—well you know Mom wants me to be a therapy dog like you.”
“I’ve heard,” Sherlock frowned, recognizing the irony.
“Yeah, and I don’t have any idea what I’m doing.” Cousteau plowed ahead. He was in too deep to turn back now. “I mean I am clueless.”
“Clueless might be a bit harsh, pup.”
“No, I am. You don’t know the half of it. Like last night, when you went to bed early, Mom was so sad, and I didn’t know what to do to help. I was totally lost.”
Sherlock perked up. “She was sad?”
“Oh man, yeah. And I completely froze up. I kept thinking ‘I wish Sherlock wasn’t so exhausted from his trip. He’d know what to do right now for sure,’ you know?”
“Is that right?”
“Well yeah. Of course. Mom’s always saying you’re the best therapy dog she’s ever seen.”
“She does say that, doesn’t she?” Sherlock puffed his chest a bit.
“So I was thinking I could shadow you.”
“Shadow me?”
“Learn from the master, like as your trainee. There’s so much you could teach me that I really need to learn.” Cousteau took a breath. This was it. “And obviously, I’d owe you big time, so if you ever needed anything from me, I’d be right there to help you out.”
Cousteau thought he saw the edges of Sherlock’s lips curl into a smirk, but maybe that was wishful thinking.
“If I ever needed help with anything,” Sherlock said. “You know, Cousteau, you’re all right.”
“So you’ll train me?”
“I’ll train you. And if I ever think of something you could help me with, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“That’s great! I mean as long as we’re gonna be roommates—”
“Oh, I think we’ll be a bit more than roommates,” Sherlock interrupted, and this time Cousteau was sure he saw a smile. “After all, you can never have too many friends.”
This story was brought to you through the Child and Adolescent Program at Sanctuary Centers of Santa Barbara.
Author: Derek Cowsert | Illustrator: Mindy Kilgore