Jeff Jacobs: The Christmas dream that touched lives all over the state. We miss you, Rocky

He came to me in a Christmas dream and his name was Rocket. He was yellow and fast. He arrived at our Plainfield home in the flesh in January 2014 and while his registered name remained Rocket, the rest of the family immediately called him Rocky.

 Rocky turned out to be better than the dream.

Most everyone calls their dog the best dog and most everyone is correct. Over and over on social medial you see, “We don’t deserve dogs.” This, too, is correct, and my words would only join the chorus.

What made Rocky different is he was a healer. What made Rocky unique is he’s my wife’s healer.

“He picked me,” Liz said.

When Liz and my daughter Katie went to the breeder, a litter of 10 yellow Labrador Retrievers awaited them in a pen. We knew we wanted a male.

“They took out the five little boys and they were running all around the garage,” Liz said. “It was the cutest.”

My wife sat down on the floor and one crawled up her leg, tucked his nose into her neck and made those little puppy sounds.

“That was it for me,” Liz said.

Our wonderful daughter has many great traits. One she shares with her dad is obstinance.

 “Katie hadn’t chosen yet,” Liz said, “That could have been a problem if she wanted a different one.”

After Liz snuggled with the puppy, she put him down and he promptly knocked over a broom.

“This one, mom,” Katie said.

 It was unanimous.

Even as a puppy, Rocky was calm and easy to train. Liz was at my son Liam’s high school soccer game when a little 3-year-old started screaming in Rocky’s face, poking him. Everything you shouldn’t do.

Rocky never flinched. That’s when the idea crossed Liz’s mind. He might be a good Therapy Dog.

Liz reached out to Pet Partners. Rocky had to wait until he turned 2. Liz and Rocky took an on-line course. They would go to a place in Hamden where judges evaluated them. Obey commands, walk past another dog without interacting, loud sounds, wheelchairs bumping.

Rocky passed. He was registered.

Liz was left to build her own clientele. The first place she called was the Behavioral Health Inpatient Unit at Day Kimball Hospital in Putnam. In a three-decade battle with manic-depression, she spent time there.

She called Villa Maria nursing home in Plainfield where her late mom had stayed. Word started getting around. Liz was asked if she was interested in United Services, a behavioral health center in Willimantic. She would add the United Services facility in Moosup.

Liz was a member of Tails of Joy in Manchester and state schools make their requests for visits through that organization. It turns out Jason Greene, the former girls basketball coach at Plainfield High, had contacted Tails of Joy.

From there the child psychologist at Plainfield Schools asked if Rocky could come to Shepard Hill Elementary. The answer always was yes.

The visits to Villa Maria eventually had to stop. The resident cats objected. The switch was made to Pierce Care in Brooklyn.

At Shepard Hill, remedial readers would read to Rocky to improve their skills. He was a good listener. There were regularly scheduled visits at a half-dozen places. Always, staff would come out. They had their own stress and Rocky was a welcome therapist.

There were faster runners, but from ocean to dock diving there were no better swimmers. Rocky could chase a stick when the current was swift against him in the Quinebaug River, paddle to shore and shake himself dry as if nothing happened.

He seemed spatially aware. Trays of food and frail arms and legs were safe with him. The puppy who knocked over a broom grew into a 95-pound adult who wouldn’t knock over anything.

When patients were bed-ridden, he’d carefully inch closer. Liz would take the patient’s hand and put it gently on his head. Often their eyes would remain closed and they’d smile.

“So many older residents love to talk about the dogs they had,” Liz said. “It made them so happy. Some residents never get visitors. But they knew on a certain day we were coming, and they’d wait for Rocky.”

Only once did Rocky jump up on an older woman sitting in her recliner. A Therapy Dog no-no, Liz was horrified.

“The woman was laughing,” Liz said. “She said, ‘No, no, I want him to do it.’ He intuitively seemed to know what people needed.”

There was a Pierce resident who loved Rocky’s visits. He would play games with him, hide treats around the room. He loved that dog.

On one visit, the man wasn’t in his room. Liz feared the worst. It turned out to be the best.

For five years he would never leave the nursing home, Liz was told. The man was too anxious. One day he said he needed to go to Walmart to get treats for Rocky. Because he was able to do that, the gentleman had gained enough confidence to venture out to lunch that day.

Another time, in the psychiatric unit at Day Kimball, a patient was so distraught she would not leave her bed. She heard Rocky was visiting. Out of nowhere, the woman came out of her room, drew close, hugged him, talked to him.

“It was profound,” Liz said.

Some liked to pet him. Some like to get down on the floor, get in there for the big hugs. True pet therapy, Liz calls it.

At the elementary school, Liz would see a child holding back. Maybe they were chased or bitten by a dog. When they saw how gentle Rocky was, they’d keep inching a little closer and by the time the visit had ended, they were right up next to him, touching him.

Rocky would walk into the classroom and expressions of sheer joy would erupt. Always, there was the remark, “This made my day.”

There were one-time visits around the state, too, like the UConn School of Medicine and Bass Library at Yale as students studied for finals. Young, old, regardless of SAT scores, didn’t matter.

“They mobbed him at Yale,” Liz said. “One student took a book and put it in front of Rocky and put his glasses on him, so it looked like Rocky was reading.”

Let’s see Handsome Dan top that.

When I had open-heart surgery, Rocky was allowed to visit me in Hartford Hospital as a Therapy Dog. The nurses put him to work visiting other patients.

In April, Plainfield High School football player Andrew Vincent died tragically in a car accident. Counselors were there during spring break. The first day back to school Liz was asked to bring Rocky. Instead of visiting classrooms as normal, they remained in the cafeteria. Bunches of heartbroken kids came over and for a moment there would be a smile.

“We really needed this,” one student said.

Over the summer, Liz sensed something was wrong before the vet did. And when Rocky started limping, he was treated for arthritis. His eye started drooping. She took him to Tufts’ Foster Hospital for Small Animals in North Grafton, Mass. An MRI was done. Rocky, 8, had nerve sheath tumors in his right leg into his spine.

He was given two months to live. He made three. He’d hippity-hop into the woods with Liz and his son, Paulie, a Black Lab who provides twice the comic relief and only half the professionalism of his biological father.

If Rocky spotted a squirrel or rabbit, he’d occasionally burst full speed. Pain meds helped. He’d use the elevator for visits. He did pet therapy until the week he was euthanized.

On Sept. 30, Rocky wasn’t eating. He barely limped outside to do his business.

“He looked at me,” Liz said. “It was time.”

Liz told me to say home with Paulie. She wanted to take Rocky to Tufts alone. She had talked to the vet and if it was a nice day, they could do it outside.

She called Liam. He was upset and insisted on coming over from Waltham. So Liz sat there waiting stoically under a tree as Rocky chewed on a stick, happy to be with his partner. He died with his head on Liz’s lap.

“It just killed me,” she said.

We’ve had 11 cats and four dogs over the years and some of Rocky’s ashes are buried out back in our woods under a memorial stone. Some are in a little container Liz keeps. The rest flow in the Quinebaug where Rocky loved to swim.

When he died, the outpouring touched Liz’s heart. Shepard Hill sent a special throw blanket with Rocky’s picture on it. There were cards and letters. The principal from Moosup Elementary wrote a tribute on Facebook.

A pet’s death is never easy and Rocky’s death was especially rough for my wife. Some days she barely moved. She is doing better the past month. Each year, she sent out Christmas cards with photos of the two dogs. They were eagerly awaited at the nursing home, a place where people sometimes get little mail. There is no Christmas card, not this year.

 “Because of my disability and not working, Rocky was with me 24/7,” Liz said. “We hiked all over Connecticut. We had a connection. I thought when he became a Therapy Dog, great, this is going to help people. I never realized the effect it would have on me. On my worst, depressed day, I always left feeling better leaving a visit than when I went in.

“Oh my God, I got to witness some amazing moments with him.”