The project was approved, but my supervisor clearly let me know that Holly and I were on trial. The responsibility of any problems with the "dog experiment" would land squarely on my shoulders. Optimistic nonetheless, I smiled at the signs pasted on my office door as I unlocked it on Holly's first morning with me at school. Holly is happy to be here, the children had carefully stenciled. Already the children were responding positively to the idea of a dog counselor. Holly sniffed out my office, and we settled in for a day of work.

For Holly and me, it started with a stray kitten. Abandoned in the harsh winter weather, she huddled in a ball in the front steps of our building, an elementary school for emotionally disturbed children where I provided therapy three days a week.

That morning, I kept the kitten in my office while the principal figured out where to take it.

It started as the children soberly traipsed into my office that day for their therapy. When they spotted the kitten, their faces suddenly brightened. Their reticence and tenseness seemed melt away as they petted the stray, and our sessions were relaxed and open. The kitten's effect was astounding and, by the end of the day, I was hatching a plan. My dog, Holly, was a gentle, gregarious well-behaved seven-year-old mixed parentage. Couldn't she have the same relaxing effect on the children I counseled? Enthused, I began paperwork requesting to permission to bring Holly to school with me, providing documentation of the benefits of companion animals.

A small boy entered, and he and Holly stared at each other warily. "Dose that dog bite?"

"No," I assured him. "Why don't you give her a treat?" I handed him a bag of multicolored doggie treats. "Pick any color you like," I said. The boy chose a red treat and tentatively held it out to Holly. She neatly and gently took the treat, swallowed it quickly and licked the boy's hand. The boy smiled, Holly's critical debut had been a success.

After the bell rang, a succession of little visitors came to our door, vying to see Holly. As they took turns handing treats to Holly, she wagged her tail and liced her hands, showing her approval. There was no wonder the children was drawn to her: For many of them, it was their first encounter with unconditional acceptance.

During the days that followed, Holly learned not to bard at the children's knock on my office door. I set up a corner for her in my office on a piece of carpet remnant. The children eagerly came to me for their counseling visits, sitting on the floor by Holly petting, brushing, playing with and confiding in her. As they relaxed with Holly, the let down their defenses. Our counseling sessions became smooth and productive.

Little by little, Holly's influence came beyond her little corner of my office. Absences at school began to drop, and the children's disruptive behavior softened. Even the teachers ducked in for some pet therapy throughout the day, giving Holly a short pat and resoring their spirit in her presence.

I didn't realize how loved Holly was, though, until I missed two days of work with strep throat. When I called in sick the first day, expecting a touch of sympathy, I was immediately asked if that meant Holly would have to stay home too. The second day I was seriously asked if I could at least send Holly to work in a cab. Apparently, the teachers were tired of answering the question: "Is Holly working today?"

One morning before school, nine-year-old LeMar, a third-grader who visited Holly regularly, was shot and killed in a domestic dispute. His classmates learned of the tragedy while they were still on the school bus, and by the time they arrived at school, they were terrified and in tears.

I hurried to LeMar's classroom, Holly trialing behind me. LeMar's teacher stood there with tearing streaming down her face. "My degree didn't prepare me to handle something like this." She sobbed. I mustered all my sources and expertise to come up with the right words to soothe them.

"Crying is ok for adults and children," I began, "especially when something like this happens." Still seeing the pain on their faces, I contsinued to tell them that was okay to be scared, that fear is a natural response. For a while, we talked about how we would miss LeMar. It was at this point that I realized what Holly was doing.

She was working her way around the room, going from child to child -- and the teacher -- putting her front paws on their laps and stretching up to lick tears from their faces. Unconsciously, the children hugged her back, running their fingers through her fur in such intensity that she would have done bald if they'd done it all day. She called no significant attention to herself, but quietly expressed love and consolation. She diligently kept up her silent comfort throughout that long, difficult day.

As I slid into the front seat of my car that afternoon, I leaned back, exhausted from the emotional trauma. I just wanted to be home. Glancing briefly into my backseat, I was surprised to see that Holly had already fallen asleep. She was just as drained as I was, if not more so, not for the first time, I felt a pang of guilt. Was it fair to ask my dog to take on the emotional responsibilities of troubled children? Shouldn't be allowed to stay home and enjoy the carefree life of a house pet?

These doubts may be why, even now, I occasionally stop in my rush to leave for school in the morning and, instead of ordering Holly into the car, look at her, asking, "Do you want to go to school today?" When she leaps up early, all wags and excitement, I figure she's answered that burning question for all of us. Yes, Holly is working today.