By Sharon L. Peters, Special for USA TODAY  It happens to just about every pet owner at some point: a moment of pride so intense you can't help but grin like a fool.  For my friend Charlotte it was when, the day after she brought her newborn home, her goofy, lumbering shepherd mix, instantly besotted, raced to the kitchen wearing an unmistakable expression of disgust because the baby cried for three seconds longer than Harley thought necessary without response from any grownup. Charlotte still grins like a dope when she speaks of that six-months-ago moment.  For my friend Stephanie it was when her cat, Chino, badly injured in an awful accident that left a leg almost useless, fought to regain his courage, then his mobility, and one awesome night made the same flying leap from floor to her arms that had been his habit for years.  For me it was last Thursday, when Jasper, my rescued mutt, strolled into the chemo area of the local cancer treatment center, and two families began cheering: "Yay! It's Jasper. Jasper's here." My affable little dog's step went all prance-y, his butt shifted into full-swing mode, and, without a backward glance at me, he beelined forward, doing his best to spread his special brand of love to five people at once. He knew exactly why he was here, and so he sat tight-as-a-tick against the woman in the recliner who was attached to a bag of chemo meds, reached a paw out to the relative there to support her, and eyed another patient a few feet away as if to say "don't worry, I'll be right there."  Jasper's a certified therapy dog, has been for two years, and every Thursday we go to visit with people fighting cancer. First, Jasper works the folks in the waiting room, positioning himself to give each person — even when there are walkers or wheelchairs — the best access for the fullest connection with him. He loves them all: little kids, pale and scared as they sit with dad, there for radiation; young women who never for a second imagined they'd be fighting breast cancer in their late 20s; ranchers in dungarees who drive their trucks 200 miles for chemo.  Jasper seems to know instantly just what to do for each person. Some he gazes at directly, and they look back into his eyes, silently sharing something I'll never really understand because it's between them and it's private; some he'll sit beside and they rub his head as they stare off into the distance until they've reached the point where things have to be said, and they tell him those things, quietly, he sitting patiently until they're done. Sometimes he stays with a person for two or three minutes; sometimes it's 15 or more. His choice, always. And theirs, I'm pretty sure.  It's not training that makes him so good at what he does. Can't teach that stuff. He's just an especially sensitive, empathetic dog, who knows what is needed.  Some of the people we visit notice me at the end of the leash, and we'll chat. But mostly it's about Jasper and what he brings.  I'm still in awe, even after all these months, of his gift.  The therapy-animal group that certified us — Delta Society — requires a 40-minute re-test every two years that consists of several skills-proving exercises so the examiners can ascertain whether the animal is still well obedience trained (thereby ensuring the safety of the people we visit and the animal itself), that the connection between the dog and handler (me) continues to be productive and that the dog is still enjoying it. We did our re-certification test Saturday, and passed, Jasper receiving praise for his "smiling" demeanor, sweet nature and gentle approach with every person he encountered. I was pretty proud that day. But really, Saturday was nothing compared with what Jasper does for 90 minutes every Thursday.  This past Thursday a lovely man (and his wife, who accompanied him to the chemo sessions) got the all-clear after weeks of treatment. A wonderful result. There's no need for them to return. But they might stop in some Thursday morning, they said, to say hi to Jasper, thank him again for the little boosts he gave them when it mattered most.  That was a little bit of a teary moment, if a proud one, to be honest.  The same kind of moment every loving pet owner I know has had with his or her animal.  You share in the USA TODAY community, so please keep your comments smart and civil. Don't attack other readers personally, and keep your language decent. Use the "Report Abuse" button to make a difference.
Columnist's rescued mutt Jasper has been a therapy dog for two years, visiting cancer patients once a week, sharing a unique connection.