Can animals help people with disabilities not just in therapy but in daily life? From my experience, the answer is yes—but how? Ask the animal itself. It sounds like a provocation, yet I think of that cutting-edge design methodology, Universal Design ("design for human diversity, social inclusion and equality"), which aims at the design and creation of buildings, services, systems, products and environments that are accessible to everyone by their very nature, regardless of any disability, without need for adaptation. If the goal is to "enable all people to participate on equal terms in every aspect of society," there is much to learn from the behavior of pets themselves: living with an animal teaches you that it carries out a genuine universal design project—bringing different souls together and finally releasing empathy.
Our house has had various kinds of pets over the years. Each established a particular way of interacting with every family member, and each adapted to my son Edoardo according to their own nature and his specific needs. We had a cat, Zampetta; a hamster, Capriola; now we have fish and birds—Cocco and Rita; Ruga, the tortoise; and my grandmother's cat, Nuvola, whom we care for when she's away. And then there are the dogs. Each one found a special way of relating to Edoardo and his movements, which are not always fluid or gentle, constrained by spastic tetraparesis.
Our greatest success came with a dog, which by its nature is always ready to meet its owner's needs—in this case, Edo's. For almost twelve years we had Tato. When we brought him home, Edo was still quite young, but right away, Tato seemed to understand that he had to be different with Edo than with the rest of the family. He was a friend who was always there. When Edo came home from school, he would embrace him and tell him about his day. When Edo was sick, Tato would spend hours crouched at the foot of his bed, waiting for a caress and some food. Tato never minded Edo's sudden, involuntary movements—movements that could hurt him while Edo was petting or brushing him.
Then Tato was gone, leaving a great emptiness. My son asked if he could have another dog. Now that Edoardo is home much more, older and more aware, his need is not just for a faithful companion, but for someone he can care for. So we said yes.
Romeo arrived about a month ago. A completely different kind of dog, with a different temperament—but the magic is happening again. Now Edo has to remember when to schedule vet checkups, teach Romeo not to be too excitable, take him out often and help him socialize. He looked up a puppy training center online himself, and we started specific training a few weeks ago. Edoardo participates with enthusiasm. He listens to the trainer's advice and then practices it during the week with help from another family member. Romeo is a puppy and makes messes—sometimes disasters—but they're still adventures and stories to tell, tasks to do, responsibilities to live.
None of this is a given for a boy with a disability. Edoardo admitted that the joy he felt when we gave him this puppy was so great he couldn't find words to describe it. He wants to be the one to notice when the kibble runs out and buy more with his own money. Walking Romeo is a moment of lightness that does good—not just for Edo and Romeo.
Of course, a pet is a family choice; we can't leave Edo to manage Romeo alone. But families like ours often need something light, something that lets us breathe normal air. Thinking about Romeo lets us live the moments of an ordinary family.
