2/12/2021

*This post contains short videos which are all muted

The first thing you should know is that this is not a eulogy. It is a tale of the best therapy dog anyone has ever had. I can’t promise it won’t turn into one, though. This is because my relationship with him was not intellectual, but an emotional connection, and so my remembrances are not reflections on A Therapy Dog but an ode to the majestic, loving creature that was Archie.

The second thing you should know is that Archie was not an actual trained therapy dog. He was a family pet who I was very close to, who understood me, and resultantly was able to fill the role of my therapy dog as well as any trained dog would, if not better so.

Archie came into the world on the 3rd of March 2003. He was a born and bred Australian dog. He passed at the age of sixteen in London. Both he and his (adopted) older brother, Monty, made the journey across the world in their later years, becoming some of the best-travelled dogs you might meet. Archie grew up in the heat, but was completely unperturbed by England snow, padding around the back yard while it drifted down, taking his time to relieve himself despite the foreignness of the situation. While he was generally a creature of habit, I discovered in these years that he was very capable of adapting to new things. He had lived his first ten years in Australia, enjoying a life of comfort with relatively few challenges in day-to-day life, but things were soon to change.

In 2013 we moved to London, I soon became ill, and he treaded all sorts of terrain to stay by my side. The little puppy from rural South Australia rode the Central Line in London, trotted through Soho and made friends with the academics at Queen Mary University of London in Mile End. He even came to visit me at my psychiatric hospital. When I needed to rest, he jumped up on the bed and lay against me as my little spoon and wouldn’t move until I did, allowing me to cuddle him as much as I wanted. Other times I needed to travel across London, often with uncontrolled anxiety, so he would walk by my side through the busiest roads London had to offer, on and off trains, through all kinds of weather.

As a result, I considered Archie my therapy dog in two ways. The first was in his active fulfilment of therapy dog duties including accompanying me to various activities outside of the house. The other was in his general presence. In the house he was omnipresent, as my best friend, lying next to me, appearing at my door after dinner, or staying by my side while I worked on my computer, silent but felt in every moment. He slept next to me for many years, so I would drop off with his little body against me in some way, whether stretched out against my leg or under my arm as a little spoon.

In times of serious illness, including when I was in and out of hospital, Archie’s presence was a huge comfort, whether sitting with me while I watched a show on Netflix (usually anime) or just lying next to me while I stared at the ceiling, because to me, everything felt futile. Even when I didn’t see the merit in living, I received a reminder as I felt the little heart beat next to me, his silent but real devotion making me feel less pointless. When I looked into his eyes he looked back, when I stroked his head he licked my hand, and when I cried he pressed against me so I wasn’t alone.

As I started getting better, he remained by my side as I sat at my desk, doing anything. He relaxed on my bed (which was next to my desk) and stretched out, or curled up in what we called ‘the donut’, where his nose touched his tail in a perfect circle. Sometimes he snoozed on my lap or I cuddled him while I was at my desk, for he was so small I could hold him adeptly and multitask. He would completely relax in my arms. We trusted each other.

Maybe it was his advanced age, or his quieter personality, or many other things that contributed, but he was not the sort of dog who needed to be walked regularly, or made many demands at all. He was happy just being with his people. He was generally a ladies’ man and tended to gravitate towards the women in the family and our female friends. He made exceptions – he was a big fan of my male therapist, for example – but when it came down to it he appeared to prefer us. He was extremely loyal to all of us.

When I was improved and functioning again he continued to stay in these places a lot of the time, a part of my life in my room, which I always preferred to other more public areas of the house. My room is my recharge zone and having Archie there made me feel relaxed without social pressures, dwelling in my own space with my best friend. I always wondered what his voice would sound like if he could talk but I think one of the virtues of an animal is that they don’t talk, they’re just there when no words are enough, and one just needs quiet solidarity. Archie was perfect in this way. He wasn’t a fair-weather friend but broached all kinds of skies in my life for many years.

My mental health has always been fragile and tumbling into a breakdown was often a surprise; it had seemed like things were going well, until a catalyst, with which came the realisation that things had been steadily declining for a while. Archie stayed close in every step on every terrain. To the end of his sixteen-year life, while becoming more and more unwell himself, he continued to be a beloved and essential part of my universe, and even now I still see his little tail wagging in my memory and his little smile is branded on my heart.

A Little Dog in a Big City

When I was unwell but forced to face the world, I started taking Archie with me when I began to travel again. Travelling, even locally, became anxiety-inducing at these times, and most acutely when I was released from hospital and faced with the culture shock of the outside world. As time went on, he began accompanying me to more and more destinations, on all sorts of transport. The benefits of travelling with Archie was not just getting to spend time with a good pal, it also filled a psychological need. When I’m unwell, leaving the house is a challenge. Even getting out of bed is a challenge. My depression translates into a debilitating anxiety and this includes social anxiety. Everything and everyone are overwhelming. The world seems ten times bigger, loud noises are amplified, self-consciousness is increased, heart thumps seem to radiate in my ears and breathing quickens. Public transport is the first and often the hardest hurdle. I have had to leave trains to have a panic attack on the platform during these times. I would start to wonder why I got out of bed, ruefully thinking, ‘I didn’t even want to.’ Having Archie with me when stepping out into the world again made me feel grounded, no longer alone, but with another to focus on. I had something outside of myself to look after, a being who loved me and stuck to me in every moment. I could not be panicking while cuddling Archie, even on a busy train. I’d watch his little tail wagging, or his eyes gazing into mine, and the existential dread that had my brain in the sky would lessen and I’d be brought down into the present moment.

On the train

Living in London means spending a lot of time on trains and buses. After living in Brisbane where we predominantly drove everywhere, Archie had never experienced either of these things, especially not the high-speed, loud and crowded Central Line tube at rush hour, travelling up and down long escalators going deep underground, squeezing on to packed buses and passing all sorts of infrastructure that is intimidating enough for a human new to the big city, let alone a 3kg Maltese poodle. Yet Archie, a previously more cautious dog who liked soft beds and couches, leapt to the challenge. Granted, when it came to crowded escalators and areas where harried commuters could potentially step on him, I always held him in my arms. He was little and I was very protective of him; he was never once stepped on. Otherwise, he trotted along, through barricades and along platforms to many admiring glances. When we sat down on the train, however, is when Archie became a real star.

Relaxing on the train next to a fellow commuter.

Truthfully, I had expected Archie to hate being on the tube, particularly on the most hectic line that is the Central line. However, the entire thing piqued his interest from day one. Sometimes he lay down on my lap, other times he wandered along any empty seats and even made friends with other passengers, occasionally snuggling up to those who reciprocated his attention. The rest of the passengers would follow his adventuring with their eyes, many smiling and even cloying for his attention. I was happy to let him roam if he could and he seemed to genuinely find the sights, sounds and smells (it was the Central Line after all) of this new world fascinating. When the train was full, with no space for wandering he stayed quietly on my lap, observing the other passengers while I held him, so he felt safe and not overwhelmed by all the people in constant rotation as station after station passed by.

Archie was typically a rather nervous animal, but when the time came for therapy dog duties, even those outside of his normal milieu, he excelled. I discovered that you can teach an old dog new tricks. I have said before, but I will say it again, one element of the effectiveness of this ‘animal therapy’ was that it forced me to focus on another creature; nurturing Archie and ensuring he was okay meant I couldn’t just dwell in my head, ruminating myself into unhappiness and anxiety, but rather expend that energy interacting with him and generally looking after him. He was little but he had stuffing in him and it gave me courage.

So where were we going?

Sitting on my lap, observing.

Wandering around the train seats.

‘That’s enough, I’m going to relax now.’

Taking the District line for a change. Archie didn’t like the dividers in between the the seats.

Lying on his sheepskin winter coat for ultimate comfort.

Off to therapy

The most important destination was my therapy appointments. My therapist had two different offices in different parts of the city and Archie visited both. One had a couch (just so you know, while the movies might show therapy patients lying down, I have never once done that and I don’t know anyone who has, I mean, wouldn’t that be inappropriate?) and the other had giant comfy chairs. Archie would either lie against me with his head on my knee, or, if he had more energy, he would wander around the office sniffing things. He always greeted my therapist with excitement and then proceeded to explore the space before joining me on the chair/couch while the appointment continued. He was a comfort to me particularly during those times in my life where I was feeling emotionally vulnerable. I was completely comfortable with this therapist (see previous blog post, Beginning and Finishing Therapy, a tale) but Archie was an added element in the dissipation of my general anxiety. I could cuddle him while talking about traumatic and difficult things; he was not only physically soft and fluffy, and therefore excellent for cuddling, he was also in himself a living thing in my heart who loved me, a companion while I laid out my soul. He kept me in the moment while difficult memories threatened to overcome me as I talked, reminding me that I was safe in the present day, and that I was cared for.

On the way home from seeing my psychiatrist.

Relaxing in cafes

Archie became a café connoisseur. We often visited cafes before or after therapy. Other times we went to sit in my favourite cafes for the sake of it, chatting with my barista friends, or I sat reading or writing with Archie next to me. He would at times rest his little head on the table, other times he would lie with his head on my knees, or, most of all, he would lie with his head up, observing his surroundings. There were cafes which had couches, his favourite for lounging, or cafes with cushions that he would walk all over before picking his favourite. Whichever way at whatever location Archie always made himself at home. He was popular amongst all who worked in these places and also received love and attention from my fellow customers. Going to the café before therapy made me feel more relaxed and allowed me to ‘get in the zone’ for the work to come. It also meant I was not in a rush, jumping straight off the train and hurrying to therapy, but that I had time and the anxiety of being late (or right on time) was avoided.

In another pre-therapy cafe, sitting next to me on the cushion.

Opting for another cushion now.

Chilling in another cafe before therapy.

Another day, another cushion, this time in his comfy winter jumper.

My favourite café in Soho, Tap Coffee (R.I.P.) became a second home and Archie became a fixture, back in the days when I was there every morning for a sit-down and a filter coffee. Archie sat on my lap there in my first days of writing this blog. He was essential in my recovery after my stint in the hospital at the end of 2017 and was an inspiration for the writing that became The Disinfectant Project.

In Tap Coffee in Soho, our second home for many years.

The same moment

Off to university

Visiting the School of English and Drama

When I returned to university after my second hospitalisation in 2016, Archie came with me. Whenever I had a meeting with a teacher he joined us and sat on my lap while we conversed. He and I would walk around the School of English and Drama, saying hello to the people in the admin office and other various Archie fans. One teacher, who I barely knew at that point, asked outright if we could visit anytime Archie was in the building, which we did. He was very popular in the department as he was everywhere he went.

We would then go for a walk around the Queen Mary campus for some fresh air, and Archie would trot along, past the huge graveyard and the library, towards the student hub, Ground Café. We would wander in and I would order a coffee and then, all going well, snag a spot on the big comfy couches, which Archie loved. He’d curl up next to me while I read a book, coffee in one hand. You won’t be surprised to hear that he invoked a significant amount of attention, including a lot of, ‘aww’, ‘so cute!’ and various other phrases and expressions along those lines, with faces lighting up, and in this particular space, people I didn’t know asking for his name. Despite all the attention, Archie never moved from my side; he was there to look after me, and me after him.

At university, as in most places, Archie’s influence had a ripple effect. As my therapy dog he always made me feel comfortable and happy, but in many settings, particularly here, he engendered happiness in people around me too. He was that kind of emotional force. As we walked out of the Arts Building and into whatever weather London decided to throw at us that day, I felt like the most blessed depressed girl in the whole world.

Off to see more friends in the English Department

The Therapy Dog of Dreams

I told you at the beginning that this was not a eulogy, but that I could not guarantee it wouldn’t turn into one. I have pontificated on the practicalities of Archie’s role as an emotional support animal, and I am grateful that you have stuck it out until the end. However, I cannot help but eulogise at times like these, because at the heart of it all was a dear friend who has now passed and lives only in my memory.

It felt like he and I spoke the same language. Archie was very intuitive and responded to my voice in every cadence. I referred to him as my ‘sweet angel dog’ throughout his life, and sometimes ‘the world’s greatest dog’. This usually preceded a kiss on the top of his little head. Archie also gave ‘kisses’, by which I mean he licked a lot. My hands, arms, and if I was holding him close to me, my chin. Unlike our current dog (who I love very much, please don’t mistake me) Archie never ate anything funky, not even sniffing other dogs, so I was more comfortable with it. He was generally demonstrative in his affection; he would arrange himself into the contours of wherever I was, whether I was holding him, or he was lying next to or on my lap, and then lick something, even if it was the material of my jacket. It was like taking home with me wherever I went.

At our beach holiday destination. Running through the water and sand.

I can’t pay tribute to the life of Archie without mentioning his brother, Monty. He was another beloved pet who was close to my heart. The two of them used to lie on my bed together, keeping me company. We had him from 2000-2016. He was too old to come on adventures across London when the time came, but was a constant presence in our London home. He was one majestic dog who I miss to this day.

The dogs lying on my bed the day all our things from Australia arrived in our new house, and the big job of unpacking began. They were as relaxed as ever.

As you can probably tell by now, Archie was not oblivious to suffering, ever. He knew when someone was sick. When I had a car crash in 2012, and was bedbound, he and Monty mounted a vigil by my bed. When I was sick in the psychiatric hospital in 2015, 2016 and 2017 he came to visit. He wasn’t allowed into the main hospital (it was after all, a hospital) but he was allowed into the front foyer, which had a lounge area, and my family would bring him along for me to cuddle. I still remember the way my mood would skyrocket as I left my ward and padded into that foyer in my trackies to see him jump up and down with excitement. I would rush towards him, gather him in my arms, kiss the top of his fluffy head, and smile for the first time after weeks of devastation.

From those dire times to the weeks, months and years ahead, that feeling never dissipated but only grew stronger, as the great Archie Biggs was more and more a part of my heart. I miss him more than I can say, and in the many vulnerable moments of the present day, I remember him, and wish he was here. Depression is still a battle, things often still feel pointless, and sometimes I just wish I could disappear. I remember Archie in these times, and think of the way he kept going even when he was old and sick, and how I can do the same thing. This is for him.