After Grandma Kay returned home from a hospital stay, Kola’s visual attention became even more constant, his devotion unwavering. He seemed to sense her fragility, sticking closer than ever, a furry brown shadow against her walker or resting where he could keep her in sight. Grandma, in turn, began to see his quiet companionship in a new light, filtered through the lens of her Alzheimer's and her firm belief in Kola's deep understanding, even without hearing.
She'd often talk to him as if he were a medical consultant, unaware he couldn't hear her words. "You watching me, little doggie?" she might ask as Kola lay with his head on her knee, eyes fixed on her face. "Make sure I'm okay?" Kola would simply look up at her with his soulful eyes, perhaps giving her hand a gentle lick in response to her touch or presence, which she took as confirmation. "You're a good doggie, taking care of me."
If she gestured towards a medical show on TV, she might turn to Kola afterwards and say, "See? Just like those doctors. You know what to do." His attentive posture, simply watching her intently, became proof of his 'studies.' Any nudge for attention, triggered by seeing her shift or seem distressed, or a comforting paw placed on her lap in response to her touch, was interpreted as a 'check-up.' Even his 'diagnostic sniffing,' simply his normal way of greeting her visually or checking where she'd been by scent, took on profound medical significance in her eyes. While Kola was just being his loving, loyal, visually-attuned self, in Grandma Kay's heart and mind, he had undoubtedly earned his honorary degree in Caretaking, becoming her most trusted, if silent and unheard, furry physician.
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