ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Sunday, September 15, 1996 TAG: 9609180012
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: 3 EDITION: METRO
COLUMN: Elizabeth Strother
SOURCE: ELIZABETH STROTHER EDITORIAL WRITER
BRANDON loves Louie, the duck.
Roger is captivated by Boo Boo, a fluffy little lopi-eared (pronounced "loppy-eared") bunny.
As for me, well, I am in love with a llama named Ricardo - but that is not important. Louie, Boo Boo, Ricardo and a beautiful tricolored angora rabbit named Teddy are at Clearbrook Elementary School in Roanoke County, not to charm me (which they do), but to reach the four children in Linda Hughes' classroom (which they also do, to one degree or another). It is tough work.
The kids, all boys, are autistic. That means they have a rare defect of the central nervous system that makes them unable to engage in normal social interactions and severely limits their communications skills, verbal and nonverbal.
The cause is unknown, the symptoms devastating. Imagine if your child could not ask you for a drink of water, talk about his day in school, tell you he loves you, or even show he is aware that you exist.
Individuals can have different characteristics of the disorder, and in varying degrees. But these four all showed the detachment typical of autism when I arrived. They were seated around a table, Linda and two teacher's aides hovering, gently but insistently urging them to roll a ball across the table to one another, rubbing their forearms, hugging them, working to establish contact.
Then in comes Mona.
Mona Sams - occupational therapist with Rehab Services of Roanoke, recent transplant from Alberta, Canada, small ball of energy - seems to occupy every corner of the room, talking enthusiastically, in her distinctive accent, about the children, the animals, what will be happening. The kids don't seem to notice, except Brandon.
"Lou, Lou, Lou," Brandon calls out.
Yes, Louie is here, Mona assures him. Brandon is speaking - already, a small achievement, and the animals are still out in the parking lot. Mona uses pet therapy - the Americans like to call it animal-assisted therapy, lest anyone mistakenly think it is therapy for pets, she later explains - as one tool in her arsenal.
She visits this class twice a week, first to work with the students on motor skills and computer readiness, a second time with her animals. Brandon knows this and, amazingly, lets everyone know that he knows. "Lou, Lou, Lou," he calls, with growing agitation.
We go to unload the cages from her Ford pickup - she brought just a couple of rabbits today, and the duck. And, of course, the llama, but he is left for now in Mona's Ark, the stock trailer hitched to the back.
Louie is set on a table and Brandon immediately is drawn to him, flicking at the duck's chest with the back his fingers, grabbing Louie around the throat for a nerve-wracking moment before Mona can pull his hand away and guide it gently across duck feathers. "Nice hands, Brandon. Nice hands." Brandon has been involved in pet therapy since Mona arrived in April, "and from the day we brought Louie ..." She pauses, searching for a way to explain the connection. "They just like each other."
The flicking is Brandon's way of touching. If he were not allowed to do that, he wouldn't be able to reach out at all. So Mona has to make sure the touch is soft.
Roger, meanwhile, has discovered Boo Boo. His eyes sparkle as he rubs the rabbit's back, pulls its ears (``Nice hands, Roger. Nice hands.") and buries his face in fur.
This may look like simple playing, but these children are learning communication skills. "It's working through the animal to the child," Mona explains. "These children could go without interacting with people. If the animal bridges the gap to other people" - getting the child to make eye contact, or to communicate what he wants - it has done its job.
And it is truly a job.
Mona brings Ricardo to the door. One by one, the boys will take the llama's lead and walk him up and down the hall. Ricardo is feeling the stress. He balks at walking through a narrow section of the corridor, and Mona has to tug and push to get him headed back toward the classroom. He's not used to working solo; llamas are herd animals, and Mona usually brings two.
"He'll go back and be a llama tonight," she says sympathetically. "I'm not overstressing him, but this definitely is work for him."
Not every animal she has is suited to the career path. One of her three llamas does not like mingling with humans, so he's a stay-at-home llama. Those able to handle the job are extroverted and even-tempered. They don't panic easily.
"Llamas are a particularly intelligent animal, so it's easy for them to know what to do," Mona says. "And because the animal looks so different, the kids are immediately drawn to him."
A now-calm Ricardo swings his long neck around and pulls my notebook down to examine it. "They're very curious." He brushes his black muzzle across my face. It is soft as velvet.
Roger wants Ricardo to climb the steps with him, which the llama will not do, then puts his hands on the animal's face, exploring with tiny fingers. Ricardo endures. Llamas don't like to be touched on the face, Mona says. Confirming this, Ricardo jerks away from a passing teacher who tries to follow suit.
He knows who he's working for.
LENGTH: Medium: 96 linesby CNB