“The dogs are nonjudgmental,” Dulebohn tells each class. “You’ve got a kid who’s picking his nose? The dog isn’t thinking, That is gross. He’s thinking, Save one for me! Or your child has disappeared and you say: ‘Find Jeffrey.’ The dog isn’t thinking, Jeffrey’s in danger! The dog thinks: Game on!”

About 10 percent of 4 Paws placements fail. “Some fail because parents weren’t prepared for how much extra work a dog would be,” Shirk says. “They can barely get themselves and their special-needs child out the door; adding a dog feels overwhelming.” Others fail because it’s not a good match. A family’s video may not have reflected the severity of behavior. “A child looks gentle on his video, so we place a soft dog,” Shirk says. “Then the child’s violent meltdowns scare the dog, and he starts avoiding the child.” Dulebohn and Shirk try to discourage clients from engaging in “the Lassie syndrome”: the belief that a devoted, sensitive and brilliant dog will gallop into their lives and make everyone feel better.

And yet, sometimes, that’s what families get.

Dulebohn matched Iyal with Chancer, a big, good-humored golden retriever with “high self-esteem” who wouldn’t be hurt or insulted by the boy. Chancer was originally purchased as a puppy from Mervar Kennel in Youngstown by a family that lost interest in him; he was returned, after a year, overweight, matted, undisciplined and lonely. Knowing that 4 Paws successfully placed Mervar dogs in the past, Judy Mervar donated Chancer. Like all 4 Paws dogs, he was shown kindness and affection in the course of his training, but he was not offered a long-term close human friendship. “Once dogs have been matched with families, we pet them and love them, but we don’t give them that intense, ‘I love you so much, you’re my baby’ kind of one-on-one attention,” Shirk says. “We don’t take them home with us at night. Every one of our dogs wants that closeness, is primed for that closeness; but we want them to find it with their families, not with our staff.” Chancer didn’t know what he was missing. But his trainers knew. “Chancer,” Dulebohn says, “really needed a boy.”

The dog’s deeply encoded desire to attach to humans came alive when he was introduced to the Winokurs. A shaggy, tawny giant, he panted and wagged with pleasure. Something similar, on the human side, was sparked, too. Morasha dropped to her knees and embraced Chancer’s big neck. Donnie felt like doing the same. “Hi, hi, hi good boy,” she cooed, stroking his broad handsome head. Iyal was briefly interested but then wandered off.

They were in a hard stretch with Iyal. He was throwing tremendous rages daily, and instantly did it here. “I’m so sorry,” Donnie said, mortified, unable to budge the explosive boy from the dog-training circle on the very first morning. But she was among friends; special-needs parents all, they patiently waited for Iyal’s tantrum to die down. Unfortunately, on a lunch break in town, Iyal lost control again and threw a fit in the drive-through lane at Wendy’s. He crossed his arms, sat down hard and bawled. The backed-up drivers looked at Donnie with less empathy than had the 4 Paws parents. Shirk says, “Iyal really needed a dog.”

At the conclusion of the second day’s class, the families were invited to keep their dogs overnight for the first time. At the hotel, Donnie’s cousin took Chancer outside for a walk while Donnie supervised Iyal and Morasha in a hot tub in the indoor pool area. “When they came back from their walk,” she says, “Chancer looked around, and then broke away! I thought: Oh, my God, he’s escaping. We’re going to lose him. He streaked past everybody in the solarium and took a flying leap into the hot tub. He was saving Iyal!”