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Jenny watches Jess with the dogs, an approving smile on her face. She nods at me, and I understand what she’s saying. She can tell Jess is the perfect candidate for one of their dogs. “How ’bout we go into the living room so we can talk?”she suggests.
We walk through the house and step into the sprawling living room that has a spectacular view of the ranch and the mountains in the near distance. The puppies and Butterscotch come with us.
Jess sinks to the floor and strokes the puppy next to her with a light-pink collar. The puppy is bigger and four months older than the others. Bailey.
Dylan enters the room through the kitchen door. Some of the puppies tumble over to him, happy to absorb his affection too. He scratches each golden retriever behind the ear.
Bailey presses her body into Jess’s side. The puppies aren’t ready yet to be psychiatric service dogs. They need to complete their basic training before they’re eligible for the advanced PSD training. But after talking to Jenny, who conducts the training with the dog owners, she felt this might work. Unlike some of the people Jenny has worked with, Jess can at least leave her house.
Jess stops stroking Bailey. Her eyes scan the area, and I recognize the sudden stiffness in her body and her alert gaze. Her hand is frozen midair, her face pale.
“Jess?” I ask since I’m not a hundred percent positive she’s having a flashback.
She doesn’t respond.
I survey the room, using all five senses, and search for potential threats or a trigger. It’s not only about what is visible. But without knowing what happened to Jess, it’s impossible for me to know what set her off.
Dylan walks toward us. Jess’s hand trembles violently, her breathing fast and shallow.
I raise my hand to stop his advance, my gaze remaining on Jess. She’s not even looking at him, but I’m positive something about Dylan has triggered a flashback or some other reaction.
Understanding what I’m getting at, Dylan retreats several slow steps but doesn’t leave the room.
I crouch in front of her. “Jess,” I say, careful to keep my voice low and calm. “You’re having a flashback. You’re safe. We’re in Jenny and Dylan’s house, and we’re visiting their golden retriever puppies. Can you describe the living room for me?”
Butterscotch whimpers and licks her hand. Bailey barks, and Jess blinks herself back to the here and now, her hands still shaking.
I want to gather her in my arms and soothe her, but I know better than to do that right now. I don’t need to make things worse for her. “Jess, try taking slow, deep breaths.”
She nods, her face still pale, and inhales and exhales slowly for several beats.
“Can you describe the living room?” I repeat. It’s a grounding exercise I once read about that’s supposed to help someone experiencing a PTSD episode.
She glances around. “The sectional couch is dark gray, like a storm cloud. The furniture is a dark-red wood. It’s very nice furniture, by the way.” The last part is directed at Jenny.
Jess strokes Bailey.
“Do you remember why we’re here?” I ask.
She nods, the color slowly returning to her face. “You’re doing renovations to their house, and we’re here so you can discuss the plans. And so I can meet their adorable puppies.” She continues stroking Bailey.
“That’s correct. They are adorable. And they’ll eventually become psychiatric service dogs. But before they go through the advanced training, they’re fostered out to puppy raisers. And that’s the other reason we’re here.”
“The younger puppies are going to their new foster parents soon,” Jenny explains. “The person who was going to be Bailey’s foster parent had to back out of the program. Troy thought you might be interested. She’s older than the other puppies, but she’s also more advanced in her regular training.”
Most of what Jenny is saying is true. But she also agreed Jess is a good candidate for a psychiatric service dog based on what I told her. Because it was hard enough to get Jess to agree to therapy, I can’t tell her the goal is for her to become Bailey’s adoptive parent.
Jess looks wistfully at Bailey. “But…but I don’t know anything about raising service dogs.”
Jenny lowers herself to the floor near where Jess is sitting. “You clearly love dogs. And Troy told me you grew up with a dog. If you’re interested in being Bailey’s foster parent, I’ll teach you everything else you’ll need to know. We’ll do one-on-one training sessions together. We can do a fair amount of them online to make things easier for you. Bailey likes you, so you’re the perfect match.” In more ways than Jess realizes.
Jess looks briefly at me, emotions warring in her eyes. Uncertainty. Longing. Worry. Her gaze returns to Bailey and then Jenny. “Won’t she have to go everywhere with me? For her training?”
“That’s right.”
Jess shakes her head, her shoulders drooping. “I work in the kitchen of a café. She won’t be allowed to be with me there. I’m sure it would violate the health department regulations.”
“How’s the job going so far?” I ask. Zara told me Jess hasn’t had any more flashbacks at work since Monday, but she’s been tense and jumpy all week. As if waiting for another flashback to hit, desperately trying to fight it before that can happen.
