Peri Taub, PTWP (Pandemic Therapist With Paws) has advice for those looking for a therapist pet, and offers comparisons between cats and dogs as therapists.

NOTE from Barb:

FREE BOOK anyone? In her upcoming book, Peri remembers the years leading to becoming a pandemic therapist. It will be available for pre-order on Amazon in the next few days. But if you are a book reviewer and would like a copy now, please let me know HERE, and I’ll send a digital file (please specify epub or pdf).

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For those planning a summer holiday, here’s an excerpt from OMD in which Peri tells about herding Barb through Spain.

Is That a Toilet Brush or Are You Just Happy to See Me?

by Peri Taub, Pandemic Therapist With Paws

“Visit us in Spain!” Barb told our old friend Sarah. “It will be so relaxing.” As the years passed, our July stays in Francisco and Emilia’s ancient mill had become our summer routine. The fact was that Barb and I were both getting older, and we welcomed the familiar schedule. Meanwhile, Sarah was about to have surgery, and her recovery meant she would need to escape her regular life which (on an intensity scale of 1-10) she generally lived at about 18.5. So Barb described our idyllic holidays in rural Spain every July, and suggested it would be a relaxing place for her to rest and heal.

The only sounds she would hear, Barb assured her, were the stream that had once powered the old mill we rented, the cow bells, and the occasional rooster. She could retreat from the summer heat to the pool or the cool interior of the mill with its two-foot thick stone walls. And we’d take trips to gorgeous historical cities nearby like Salamanca and Avila.

Yup. That’s what Barb said. With a straight face and everything. (I could only hope our old friend had not read any of Barb’s blog posts.) So Sarah had her surgery and hopped on the plane to Madrid.

Only… things in Spain went a bit differently that year.

Seems the farmer one field down was now breeding dogs. Judging by the noise, thousands of them. At random intervals (not exceeding five minutes), they all went batshit crazy and howled at the top of their little canine lungs that they were hungry/bored/it’s night/it’s not night… Honestly, it made me nervous and excited and kind of embarrassed to be a dog.

Jet-lagged and in pain, poor Sarah assured us she could sleep through anything — thanks to her lovely surgery team’s industrial-strength pharmaceuticals. But that was before she met Waspzilla. Oh yeah, did I mention we had wasps this year? The biggest ones I’ve ever seen — at least two inches long and with a buzz that sounded like a jet engine readying for takeoff. Frankly, I thought Sarah was right to be terrified.

“Just ignore them, and they’ll leave you alone,” Barb told her. “Probably.”

“Be afraid!” I tried to warn Sarah. “Be very afraid.”

“Turns out, I’m not sleepy after all.” Sarah went back into the living room. “In fact, I may never sleep again.”

Next day, Sarah was still recovering from jet and wasp-lag, so I took her on a walk. We abandoned our decidedly-non-soothing house to walk around Piedrahita with its beautiful old fountain-centered square.

Barb, who is a total party-pooper, told Sarah not to let me eat any of the delicious Spanish animal poo we might encounter. Good luck with that. Now in addition to the jet/wasp lag, Sarah was sporting a decidedly greenish skin tone.

Sarah and I went to the greengrocers, and stopped to pick up some of Marissa the butcher’s fabulous steaks. Friends were coming for dinner along with their two young children. This being Spain, they arrived late, concerned about a hotel mix-up (translation: no reservation could be found). But all was forgiven because they brought the flower of the oil*.

*[NOTE: La Flor del Aceite (Flower of the oil)– According to their website, “The flower of the oil is the small amount of oil that runs just after the olives are stone milled and before the first cold press.” I thought it didn’t smell nearly as delicious as the Spanish animal poo or that dead rat behind the garden wall. But Barb said she could drink the stuff with a (non-plastic, socially-correct glass or metal) straw.]

On the way to our door, our Spanish-speaking guests were waylaid by our landlords, who wanted them to explain to Barb and the Hub that the reservoir had run out of water. But, they assured them, we were not to worry because they had a reserve tank which they would use as soon as they got a pump for it. In a few days. A week at the most… Of course, this info had to be imparted at a shout over the noise of the kennel dogs down the hill going ballistic because honestly, why not?

Finally*, Barb and the Hub broke out the wine, and everyone started to relax.

The truth is that Barb is just not that great at cooking or entertaining. I figured she might need a little nudge to get this party going. So just as Barb congratulated herself that the guests were all actually sitting down and complimenting her on the dinner (thanks for those steaks, Marissa!), the Hub pointed to floor. He leaned over to whisper to Barb, “This one’s for you.” Everyone looked over of course, to see that I had dragged out the giant toilet-cleaning brush and was happily chewing it to shreds. Cue the batshit cray-cray dog chorus from down the hill, and a surprise Waspzilla flyby.

Barb took away my toilet brush hors d’oeuvres while the Hub shooed out the wasps, but it took a while for our nervous guests to start eating again. We were all back at the table when Sarah swiveled to look at me, now at her feet. Her eyes met Barb’s with a look of panic. I inhaled and immediately buried my nose under my paws. Now everyone was looking up, faces covered, eyes watering. I saw the exact moment they all realized that (for once) I was innocent. No, this was a stench that could only have been made by a LOT of overachieving pigs working overtime. Apparently, the farmer had decided dinnertime on a Saturday was the perfect time to apply pig-manure to his fields. We flew to close all the open windows but it was too late.

I could just hear our friends’ reminiscences, in years to come: “Remember Barb’s dinner party in Spain? The one where the dog ate the toilet brush, the WUSes (Wasps-of-Unusual-Size) dive-bombed, four-million dogs down the hill were auditioning for The Piedrahita Chain Saw Massacre, and the farmer doused the place with pig poop? Can’t wait to get invited there again…”

Red-eyed, still jet-lagged, and nervously looking over her shoulder at every Waspzilla fly-by, poor Sarah agreed the best thing might be to leave the house and batshit crazy kennel dogs for a soothing day of sightseeing. We headed for Salamanca. And it was, of course, gorgeous. We wandered the Art Nouveau museum and ooohed over the Lalique glass. We toured the Old Cathedral (12th century) which is directly adjacent to the New Cathedral (16th century) with its floor to ceiling decoration scheme. (“Because there are just some tops you don’t go over,” said no Spanish cathedral designer ever.)

By this point, a starving Sarah was pointing to the happy people eating at the numerous outdoor cafes. Their food looked incredible but Barb stood firm. No, we were going to eat at the Plaza Mayor, the centerpiece of the city and one of the most beautiful central plazas in a country that knows how to do them right.

The completely empty tables should have been a clue. The new twenty-five-foot tall statue of the upside-down elephant should have been a save yourselves, run-for-your-lives red flag. We sat at the tables for possibly the worst lunch in history. Sarah mentioned slipping me her “roast beef sandwich” — one wafer-thin slice of greasy beef slapped between two pieces of bread with absolutely nothing else on the sandwich or the plate. But Barb said I had never done anything (beyond the occasional public toilet brush nosh) to warrant such severe punishment.

Sarah stared at her in disbelief. “You’re talking about a dog who eats animal poo at every opportunity.” I gave her my best puppy-eyes — that always works on Barb — but Sarah is made of tougher stuff, and she just pushed her plate away. Darn.

Then we discovered that the elephant farted smoke when the clock struck the hour. [I’m a dog, so I can’t make this stuff up.] We beat a hasty retreat out of the plaza and past all the lovely al fresco restaurants full — as Sarah sadly pointed out — of happy diners who didn’t have to watch upside-down cement elephants farting.

We made it back to Piedrahita, found out there was still no water, chased a few of Waspzilla’s over-achieving brethren on wasp steroids out of her room, and Sarah tried to relax. That’s when the doggie chorus of the damned set up their loudest peal yet.

You could have cut the relaxation with a knife.

Luckily, the water was restored in time for showers, a (possibly pharmaceutically-enhanced) night’s sleep was achieved, and all was redeemed the next day within the UNESCO World Heritage site walls of medieval Avila where we did NOT eat on the plaza. Or face the Inquisition.