Then, imagine getting a golden retriever with the amazing skills necessary to help you stay upright walking, and even stop your convulsions.

This story is true. It's the story of me and Mack.

I'm 16, and I have severe Tourette's Syndrome, a neurological disorder which causes uncontrollable movements and vocalizations. For me, the movements can be convulsive, coming in waves that knock me off balance if I am standing, or slam my body against furniture if I am sitting down. There's no escaping it.

The last three years of my life, I've used a wheelchair most of the time to bypass movements that are triggered by walking.

I was homebound for a good period of time, and my pet dogs became my best friends. That was when the thought of having a dog go everywhere with me first occurred to me.

I quickly began researching service dogs, and discovered the number of tasks they can perform for their handlers.

Almost two years after first thinking of the idea, I finally got my own service dog. His name is Mack.

For me, Mack isn't just a pet. The tasks he does for me, bracing me when I am ticcing, unsteady on my feet from movements, and lying across me on command to stop spasms, have had profound implications on my daily life.

When Mack lies on me, exerting the firm pressure on my torso, it changes something inside me. When the pressure is on me, the sensory input gives my brain something to interrupt the spasms, and the spasms stop or become minimal within seconds.

Experiencing this daily, I feel joy.

Mack's ability to stop my crippling tics is miraculous. These movements, uninterrupted, would continue for up to five hours a time. Last year, when an episode of convulsive tics occurred, I was forced to leave school. With Mack, I continue to go about my day as if the episode never occurred.

The potential he has for me is still in its infancy - many service dogs eventually learn to predict what their handlers need and act accordingly.

Mack and I have only been paired for a month, and he's already made enormous changes in my life. Going somewhere without him, like riding my horse, I feel as if I am missing a limb or one of my senses. I begin to give a command for him, only to realize he isn't there.

When we are separate, if only for a few minutes, returning to him is always joyous.

His tail goes up, like a silk flag, and an impossibly big smile twists my face.

With him, I've become someone I didn't think I'd ever be. I am no longer disabled; he takes away the disability. With him, I am whole.