My nostrils flare as I take a deep breath in the waiting room of Great Strides Counselling. The air smells mainly of vanilla candles and lemon floor cleaner. Of course, there are a million other scents, and I try to pick up on them each in turn. June, Dr. Penelope Stride’s receptionist, sits atop her bale of hay behind her desk, occasionally pulling some strands to chew on between answering calls. I’ve always loved the smell of hay, timothy being my all time favourite. Somehow, it brings peace to my soul. I savour the aroma, eyes closed. Next, I hit on notes of upholstery cleaner, coffee, and catnip. I wonder briefly if the fidgety Siamese across the room has just taken the nip or plans to celebrate after her appointment. My thoughts are interrupted by June’s whinny.
“Charlie, Dr. Stride will see you now.”
I take another deep breath and proceed down the hallway, crossing the threshold of the doctor’s office. She greets me cheerily and I jump onto the hot pink overstuffed chair, turning two full clockwise circles before settling in. Mom taught me as a pup that I should sit at attention so my posture conveys respect and genuine interest. I picture a string coming out of the top of his head, pulling me upright. I imagine myself as calm and confident, the opposite of what I’m feeling on the inside. My stomach churns and I start to sweat. I’ve been here many times before, both in this office and in this state. My right paw begins to tremble. I try to mask it by licking it forcefully and crossing my left paw over top. I’m mostly anxious because today is the day that Dr. Stride determines if I will be discharged, sent away to use what I’ve learned in the real world.
“It’s good to see you again, Charlie. How have you been?” Dr. Stride looks up from my chart, chin tilted and eyes half-lidded, peering down at me. Some might take this as judgment, but I happen to know her eyesight is terrible and she is simply looking at me through her progressive lenses. How do I know? She once mistook me for an angora rabbit named Puffball.
“I’m... okay?,” I answer.
“Is that a question or a statement?” Dr. Stride shuffles some papers with her glistening foot and searches my face. For a dainty snail sitting in a human-sized chair, she looks the perfect mix of authoritative and compassionate; two big traits for such a small cognitive behaviour therapist. The gigantic pillow she sits on doesn’t even dent under her weight. Gravitas. That’s what she has.
I shift my weight from one front paw to the other, unsure of how to respond.
“Oh, that’s right!,” she proclaims, an octave higher than her usual gentle steady voice. “You graduated this week!”
“Yes,” I squeak out, my voice cracking.
“You look troubled. Tell me what’s going on.”
I force myself to look at her, pulling my eyes away from from the diplomas handsomely framed above the coffee bar in the corner.
“How did the ceremony go?” she prods.
“It was fine, I guess. You know I’m not the best when I’m the centre of attention.” I involuntarily stick out my tongue and scrunch my nose.
Dr. Stride throws back her head to prevent her glasses from slipping. “You’ve made so much progress and you have your coping strategies. Did you use any of them?”
“Yes. I did some box breathing and grounding techniques. I got a bit carried away with how many things I could smell and hear, but it helped anyway.”
“That’s excellent, Charlie. When do you start work?”
I swallow hard. My mouth is suddenly very dry and my heart hammers inside my chest. I reflexively start to pant, making myself slightly light headed. “Monday. Louise told me we have two appointments. We’re starting out slow.”
“That sounds perfectly reasonable. Tell me why you’re so nervous to start.”
I shift in my chair, purposely stepping on my tail which has decided to begin tapping wildly at my side. “I don’t feel like I can do it. What if I mess up? What if I bite a child?”
Dr. Stride looks at me straight on. “Stop right there. You
know what to do. Identify and challenge.”
We have done this dozens of times, so much so that I regret my words as they tumble out of my mouth. I exhale long and hard, emptying all the air from my lungs. “It’s just an intrusive thought. I have no history of biting a child. In fact, it’s the last thing I want to do. There is no evidence that it will ever happen, so I will acknowledge it and let it go.”
“Well done, Charlie.”
“What if I’m so nervous that I... I...?” I can’t bear to say the word.
“Pee?” Penelope blurts.
I sink in my chair and shield my eyes with my paws. I rest my chin on the soft curve of the chair. “Yes. What if I p-ee?”
“So you pee. It’s just pee, Charlie.”
I take a deep breath. In through my nose, out through my mouth.
“What does Louise say about it?”
“She says she’s proud of me.” I’m still unable to meet Dr. Stride’s gaze, focusing instead on the pilling of the pink fabric under me. I rub my chin over it. “She says she believes in me.” “Ah. There you have it, Charlie. Two against one!” She smiles. “How about one last appointment next week so we can work through your first day?”
Early Monday morning, Louise leads me into the public library by the back entrance. There is a sign on the door which pronounces Staff Only. My fear makes way for a bit of pride and excitement. After all, Dr. Stride says fear and excitement feel the same in your body. It’s all your frame of mind. A friendly woman who smells of lavender greets us. Her voice is unnaturally high pitched as she declares, “That’s the sweetest teacup poodle I’ve ever seen!” Passing the mirrored wall on the way to the children’s department, I have to admit I look quite professional in my new red “Read To Me” volunteer vest.
We pass a woman shelving books. “Oh... how cute! What’s his name? Can I pet him?”
I have a hard time concentrating on my first child. I switch between anxiety and fascination. Lily is a peppy blonde-haired girl with the most intriguing bouncy ringlet ponytails on either side of her head. I resist the urge to get up and invite her to play grabby pony. I do my best to sit quietly as Louise helps her read from “I Love Cats.” At the end of twenty-minute session, Louise gives Lily a Lucky Turkey treat from her special treat pouch. I take the tender morsel gingerly from her hand at which point Lily grabs my face in both hands and kisses my forehead aggressively. Although it startled me, it made me smile inside.
My second child is Jack who comes
into the room with tears in his eyes. He smells like bubblegum and fear. He has
no interest in trying to read “Trucks Are Best.” Louise starts the book for him
and gives him the job of turning the pages. He is having none of it, so I lay
my head on the floor next to him, look up at his tear-stained face, and try
with all my mind to send him reassurance. I
believe in you, Jack boy. You can do it. Just try. I won’t judge you, I
promise. I use my nose to nudge the book toward the boy’s hands. You can do this, Jack.
Just try a little bit!
With loads of quiet encouragement from Louise, Jack tries sounding out some words and I swear, a look of relief creeps onto his face. My heart feels like it might burst with joy and I feel something shift inside me. For the first time, I feel like maybe I am made to do this. With all my concentration, I send another message to the little boy.
Good Boy, Jack.
