A pooch for a shrink

Nothing gets our family dog more excited than seeing us take the leash from the top shelf of the front closet. She knows that means it’s walking time and she’s going out.

Most of the time, walking Channell is my husband’s job because he likes walking, he’s in better shape than I am and he’ll take the dog out when the weather’s hot, cold, rainy or mild.

                When the hubby’s not home, walking the dog falls to me, and I’ll admit to being a poor substitute because I won’t go if it’s too hot, too cold or raining.

Also our walks aren’t nearly as long as when Channell goes with the man, but our dog seems just as excited to head out with me as she does with him.

                Channell, to her credit, does not call me a slacker.

                The adventure starts with trying to clip her leash to her collar. Even though Channell knows the drill, it’s sometimes hard to attach the leash because she’s so excited.

But she’s a smart dog, so when I stamp my foot and say “we’re not going,” she lays down and lets me hook her up.

                Heading out the door, I know to hang on to the leash with all my might. She’s revved up like a tornado when she sees the road stretching out before her. But first, we have to stop at the end of the driveway so she can smell the ground around the mailbox.

                I know she’s checking out other dogs who’ve marked their territory, so I let her take her time. Then we’re off down the street. The next-door dog fiercely guards his territory and barks ferociously the whole time we’re in front of his house.

                Channell ignores him and keeps her eyes out for her sworn mortal enemy, the squirrel. Because there’s pecan trees along our route, she knows there will be aggravated squirrels chattering at us from the safety of the high branches.

                After we pass those pecan trees, I start to relax and enjoy the nightly stroll.

Unless I think I hear a bat overhead, the mosquitoes are biting or it’s cold. Then all I do is complain to Channell about how much I hate the cold, how much I hate bugs and if a bat gets in my hair, I’m dropping the leash and running for cover.

                Channell does not tell me to stop being a baby.

                What she does quite well, though, is listen. A few months ago, a good friend suggested I try positive self talk. He said that instead of criticizing myself, I should tell myself nice things. I should take advantage of walking the dog to practice positive self talk, he advised.

                So one night, I tried it out with Channell as my sounding board.

                She listened to my entire soliloquy without interrupting, unless you count stopping to sniff an ant pile or marking a lone daisy interrupting.

On our walks, Channell’s helped me through a variety of problems and issues. Sometimes her advice is to nod her head in agreement, other times to ignore my really mean remarks, and sometimes to simply listen.

                At the end of the walk, Channell knows which one’s our driveway and she always turns in, leading me home. She walks a lot slower back up the driveway than she did 20 minutes earlier, but her tail is wagging. I know I feel better for having gotten what’s bothering me off my chest.

                Channell does not tell me “I told you so.”

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.