Page 11 of The Therapist

Robin, you barked at it! And then when nothing happened, you pressed it to your neck. Now do you remember?

My gut twisted with the need to aid you, but the tears in my eyes—the tightness in my chest from trying not to laugh prevented me from taking even a single step toward you.

It was moments like that, that I covet; that kept me watching and coming back for more. You can learn so much more about a person in those moments than others.

Grace or lack thereof, is noticed in the handling of those mortifying moments. The ones where you’re walking down a sidewalk and trip over nothing.

Does the person drop their chin and plow forward, pretending, mortified, that it didn’t happen? Do they look back over their shoulder to look for the offending non-existent cause? Or maybe they have a good laugh at themselves and carry on.

Those who hide (or try to) those embarrassing gaffs, in my opinion, can’t be trusted. They’re hiding more—something deeper.

But those who can laugh at themselves, who can acknowledge their guffaw…those are the people in life you want to surround yourself with.

You’re one of those people.

I set the stack of pages on my nightstand. I turn off the light after a single page, and I sink into the mattress. Tears that shouldn’t come do—hot and free, like steam rising from a geyser. Flash stretches out on the bed, snoring his deep, rumbling snores and twitching the way he does when he dreams of chasing something.

Four

Past

I’m stuck on an endless Cooper loop at home. Hardly anyone ever gives up their deep dark secret during session one, but there he’d sat, gaze intent on me, admitting that he does watch people—illegally. His demeanor was too cool, too rehearsed. I half-wonder if he said it simply for shock value. His therapist has not returned my call. I roll my shoulders, trying to relieve the building tension.

Flash runs through the backyard, bellowing at a squirrel or chipmunk as I pace the porch, glass of wine in hand. Something’s off, has my hackles up. My new patient speaks to me like he’s taunting me rather than unloading a burden or confession, and I’m completely intrigued. It seemed almost as if he waited till his time was up to drop his bomb, that he purposely left me with a cliffhanger.

Maybe it was a test if I’d allow him to stay longer to keep talking? I try to unweave his motives but thinking his name outside the office feels odd. The way he looked at me was atypical of a new patient.

Too acute. Laden with hidden intents.

Saying his name out loud feels positively taboo on my tongue.

Lost in my own thoughts, it takes a moment for me to realize that Flash shouldn’t be barking. I just bought him that damn bark collar, the one that blasts citronella near his snout in hopes it will keep him from annoying the neighbors—and myself—with his loud baying bark. One nosey neighbor promised to call animal control and file a complaint if there’s one more Flash infraction.

“Flash! No bark!” I holler at him.

I set my wine glass on the railing and stomp down the three deck stairs to him. He gives me a growl—harmless but loud—and nothing happens. The vibration is supposed to trigger the sensor and spray the citronella but it’s not working.

I remove the collar and Flash trots away from me.

“You’re the worst,” I grumble while fiddling with the collar. The fluid level looks right. The little LED indicator is on, so it must be charged. I glance around, even though my yard is fenced in and no one can see me, before I bark at the collar.

I don’t know how else to test the damned thing. I try again, a little louder, but nothing happens.

These are the times I wish I had a man in my life. I’m not terribly technology savvy and this collar was supposed to be an easy way to defeat a stubborn dog.

It occurs to me that barking at it from afar probably isn’t registering the vibration trigger. My options are to simply give up or put it against my throat. I’m not willing to give up. This collar cost a pretty penny and was guaranteed to make a difference.

Sucking in a deep breath I press the prongs to my throat. Flash is on to another squirrel and another round of barking. Out of habit, I holler at him to stop and immediately get ablast of citronella to the face. Instantly my eyes water and I cough before my hand falls away—collar with it. Another cloud of citronella squirts into my nose on its descent. Flash is still barking as I drop to my knees, trying to suck in a breath.

“Robin? Robin! I’m calling animal control,” my neighbor’s voice cuts through the air.

I rasp out for Flash to shut up between coughs, but he’s relentless. A peel of baritone laughter echoes in the night as I drop on my back into the grass, eyes burning, nose running, and chest heaving, while I spit and sputter.

Mortified, I wonder if my neighbor peeked over the fence and saw what a complete horror show this was.

Flash barks again, my eyes bug out of my head as I choke out a yell at him. This time he stops. With an air of I-told-you-so, he walks to me, sniffs and licks my face, then lies down next to the discarded inhumane collar of death and growls at it.

Lying under the burgeoning stars in the sky, I burst out laughing. There are days not even I can believe the things that happen to me. I snag the collar from Flash’s glare and fling it into the bushes when I sit up.

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