My dog Scout is the best psychotherapist that I have ever met.
No other bond in my adult life can compare to that between me and my half-schnauzer, half-Chihuahua (all-tyrant). And she solves all my problems with a simple game of fetch. Payment? A cookie.
Without a word, Scout has the most intuitive analytical skills. She can sense my mood simply by how my key turns in the door and regardless of the vibe that follows me through that door, I am greeted with an uncompromisingly optimistic disposition that can alter even the most stubborn negativity.
I am home. Stop the world. It’s play time. She rips around the foyer with the enthusiasm of the Tasmanian Devil, creating a wake of buoyant energy and kicking up life’s dust.
What follows depends entirely on my body language, my verbal greeting, the way I hang my purse on the banister. If I seem happy my fur therapist will leap and yelp with reckless abandon, defying gravity and the layout of any furniture or inanimate obstacles that get in her way to express how happy she is that I am happy. Joy begets joy.
If my car keys land to loudly on the table, my shoes come off my feet with more of a kick than a slide, she senses my blue mood. Her leaps of excitement are downgraded to two-legged hops. She tones it down, but only slightly because she knows happy trumps sad every time. It just takes time and a little puppy love.
Either way, a ball is immediately dropped at my feet. Thud. With the raise of her furry eyebrow, the drop of her drooling tongue through her tiny white incisors and the wag of her wildly twisted tail, she commands me to sort my life out. Let’s go. Her canine wisdom knows whatever perspective I have lost can be retrieved if I would just throw that little ball. Simple.
And sometimes I whine, because I just took my shoes off and I don’t want to go in the backyard and throw a ball around. Other times I half-heartedly toss the ball down the stairs and hope she’ll give up on me. Scout never would. The one creature that knows me best and loves me anyway never quits. Ever.
I could argue, but she’d only eat my shoe. So, I toss the ball straight back to the fence line. She retrieves, while the voices in my head do battle. The ball gets dropped at my feet. Scout knows I’m lost in thought. Tail wags. Tongue drops out. Do it again. I pitch the ball, this time a little harder, with a good bounce. The six-pound psychiatrist leaps through the air, catches the ball in her tiny mouth and I can’t help but cheer.
But the head voices sense the distraction and strike up a chorus. Worries beckon. So does Scout. Ball drops. Curve ball to the left. Psych her out. She bounds into a pile of leaves and makes the play. Laughter. Applause. She’s good. She knows it.
Time passes. Repetition soothes. Perspectives change. Voices evaporate.
Scout knows that whatever life throws at me, it’s game. Reap what you sow. Don’t get caught up in the rest. Throw the ball. See what comes back.
And all that cost me was ten minutes and a cookie.