better understanding of the same relationship in the autistic brain. It was a mouthful, but the work had a lot of potential in the study of autism.
Part of his research included overseeing an undergraduate lab where the students assisted with some of the work he was doing. The presence of dogs made his lab extremely popular.
In particular, he had a blockheaded yellow Labrador who was single-handedly increasing the dopamine levels of everyone who came into contact with him. Clarence had not shown the aptitude to be a service animal, nor was he particularly good at learning the commands necessary to work effectively in a research lab. But he was aces when it came to hauling his enormous body onto laps and demanding to be petted.
Tuesday was Clarence’s last day. He was on loan from the Austin Canine Coalition—otherwise known as the ACC—but had been recently adopted from the rescue organization. Clarence seemed pretty happy about his change in fortune—or maybe it had been the paper ball one of the graduate subjects had tossed his way—but everyone in the lab was heartbroken.
Max explained to the students and the two volunteer research subjects that they’d have a replacement dog next week. He’d already arranged it with the ACC—a three-legged Australian shepherd named Bonnie.
The ACC was a joint, citywide consortium combining the forces of several local dog rescue organizations. The rescue groups took dogs they couldn’t place or couldn’t house to the ACC. The ACC then attempted to train those dogs as companions and therapy dogs, as comfort buddies to soldiers, to kids who had to testify in courts, autistic youth, and to medical and senior centers. The dogs that flunked out of the ACC training program were put up for adoption, but while waiting for that happy day, they could be loaned out for projects, such as the one Max was conducting.
The ACC occupied fifteen acres right in the heart of some prime Austin real estate, where dogs romped under grand old live oaks. Max had learned about the consortium and the work they did when his little brother, Jamie, got a job there. Jamie was twenty-seven, and had autism spectrum disorder. He particularly had difficulty understanding social cues and was not functionally verbal, which severely limited his employment opportunities. But Jamie could express himself in other ways. Like in his art. To Max’s untrained eye, Jamie was a brilliant impressionist artist, painting familiar landscapes and people through a hazy, soft pastel lens. His artwork hung on the walls of his room in the family home, the sunroom his dad had converted into a studio for Jamie, and the den. Max had a few at his house, too. He liked them. He thought there was something entirely relatable and familiar about the scenes his brother painted, but at the same time, something hauntingly distant.
But Jamie’s artistic abilities were not enough to compensate for his inability to verbally communicate or consistently behave in a manner deemed socially acceptable to the world at large.
A couple of years ago, Jamie’s doctor had recommended behavioral therapy to help with social situations. In the course of learning how to integrate with society, Jamie had been introduced to dogs at the ACC and had fallen into obsessive love with them. He wanted to know all about them. He ordered books on the different breeds and read them all. He drew pictures of all sizes of dogs.
Max had been fascinated with this. Their mother had been extremely allergic to pet dander, which had ruled out any chance of having a dog at home. And in his memory, a younger Jamie had been suspicious and nervous of animals. Maybe Max had imagined that, because the adult Jamie was changed by that trip to the dog campus. He was not affectionate and didn’t like to be touched—but a dog could lay its head on his arm or lap, and Jamie seemed not to mind. A dog could crawl in his lap, and Jamie would hug him. Dogs seemed to understand Jamie and would press their bodies against him when he was nervous or anxious.
When the opportunity for part-time work came up at the ACC, Max and his dad had helped Jamie apply. His job was to clean the kennels and walk and feed the dogs. He had never missed a day he was scheduled to work.
Max began to wonder if a dog companion would make it possible for Jamie to live in a group home. His father wasn’t ready to think