During my 20 plus years as a physical therapist working in the animal rehab field, a memory that is forever etched in my mind is one of the first times I put a client into a cart, basically a wheelchair for dogs.

Mack was a large German Shepherd, who was paralyzed in his back legs. Although he was making progress in therapy, it was slow going. We had suggested the idea of a cart to his dad, who was initially really opposed to the idea.

I get it. It can be emotional at first. Back then, carts weren’t as prevalent as they (thankfully) are today. Mack’s Dad felt like he would be giving up on Mack. Like they had invested all this time, energy, and money on veterinary care and therapy bills, just to admit defeat (in his mind).

As a physical therapist, I could see all the benefits of a cart. Keeping Mack’s spine in good alignment, giving him support so he could practice using his muscles, all the physiologic benefits of an upright position...

But there’s probably nothing more annoying than someone espousing the virtue of physiological principles when you’re concerned that your best friend can’t move, and your ability to help him is limited due to his size.

But after a while, Mack’s Dad agreed to “try one out” since we had access to a previously used cart. The expression on Mack’s Dad’s face was hard to read when I rolled the cart out from the storage closet, but it appeared he wasn’t approaching this experience from a place of yes.

I sent a prayer out to the universe and sweat a few buckets as I adjusted what I could on the used cart (if you’re a rehab professional and you’ve been in this position before, you know what I’m talking about). Thankfully, it was a pretty decent fit.

After I got Mack’s paralyzed back legs suspended in the stirrups - he took off like a flash in the rehab gym! No hesitation. His head was high, and he was exploring all the smells and corners of the rehab gym he knew so well at this point, but he was doing it on his own! His speed, his terms, his direction, without one of us holding him back in the front with a harness while we lifted his back end - Mack at the mercy of how long we were able to hold him up before our arms tired out and we had to set him down.

Mack’s Dad looked astonished. It was a dark, cold night. He looked at me and said, “can I take him for a walk?”.

So, I tossed him a leash and held the door and off they went for a walk, just like they had done a thousand times before. But this had been the first time in months.

And somehow, I know that can make things sweeter, when you realize you may have taken something for granted before and you don’t know if it will ever happen again, and then all of a sudden, it’s back. It may have been a little different than Mack’s Dad had envisioned when they started on their rehab journey, but it didn’t matter. It was just Mack and his dad, taking a walk, exploring unchartered terrain, together. No rehab staff trailing behind them. It was just the two of them, together, like it had always been.

It was in that moment I fell in love with carts.

I always knew all of the anatomical and physiological reasons they made sense.

I knew they were not a sign of giving up or defeat on a rehab journey. I knew they were a rehab tool, (much like crutches or a walker in a human patient).

But in that moment, I felt it. I felt the pride Mack and his dad had going out, leash in hand, for one of their nightly bonding walks. And I knew that carts weren’t just an exercise tool, I knew they were the key to so, so much more.

Since that night, I’ve been fortunate enough to witness this life changing experience time and time again.

But no matter how many times I see it, I’ll never forget when it clicked for all of us in that rehab gym on that cold night - the truly life changing experience of the gift of mobility.