Buckeye and Me

Danny Groner has feelings…about the death of his therapist’s dog.

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Before I met Buckeye, the golden retriever who attended my therapy sessions, I wasn't that into dogs. Not afraid. Not allergic. Just indifferent.

But dogs have usually sensed my indifference and do their best to win me over. Whenever I visit friends who have dogs, their furry friends look to woo me. I’ll pet them kindly or toss them a favorite toy, in hopes that by the time they fetch it, they’ll lose steam from the endeavor and move onto the next person.

Even before I met Buckeye, one thing I did love about dogs was watching their interactions with children, especially children I’ve met who behave or think differently. Over the years, I’ve seen kids transform in the company of household dogs. These additions to the family can bring out fuller aspects of kids’ personalities. Because I didn’t grow up with animals, I had never appreciated why some families choose to have a dog join them. I see now that for most children, but especially those who express big feelings, dogs can provide comfort.

Between the ages of 10 and 30, I learned to cope with my big feelings without a dog, or any other aid. I bounced around the neighborhood, dropping in at homes of peers, making friends wherever I could. But the relationships could be fleeting. They left me well regarded by many I came across, yet close with few of them. I could only catch people as they passed for so long.

In my years of emerging adulthood, when I’d find myself in a foul mood due to one unnerving area of my life, I’d act out in other places, to the chagrin and concern of those on the receiving end. I took little comments as personal attacks. During the heart of the 2008 recession, when work was difficult to come by, I once lashed out at a friend who criticized the iced tea mix I'd prepared at my home. I hadn't put in enough sugary substance, fearful that I might run out. I was always high-strung, and it was never the person's fault. They were being normal, but I felt every little thing was one too many things. At that time, I thought many of the difficulties I encountered during my adolescence and young adulthood were unique challenges. I believed that I was dealing with disappointment to a degree others couldn’t possibly appreciate. I suffered silently, accepting that misfortune would define my story. I was certain I was a passive figure in a still-unfolding story that engulfed me.

Adults, I contended, had stacked the deck against me, and it was up to me to show them I could brave it without asking for help. In my 20s, foolishly, I permitted sadness and shame to convey much of who I was—and could be. I kept my angst and anger bottled up, frustrated that life hadn’t offered me more, disheartened that I wasn’t amounting to more than a puddle of shame.

Good friends, the ones who stuck around, noticed what was going on. They recommended I try therapy. But even if I wanted to go, I thought I couldn’t afford it. At some point, however, I started to see that my setbacks and shortcomings were largely by my own doing, which meant that I could take back control over my story. After a decade of asserting that I was unfairly cursed, I hoped to steer better through the decades that followed. I reached a place in 2018 where I realized I couldn’t afford not to make therapy a priority.

My first therapist gave me much-needed footing. I’d aim to burn the clock for the full 50 minutes, but she wouldn’t let me. She’d ask me to unpack ideas. She would slow me down. She helped me examine why I did what I did and, with it, why I was who I was. I learned to attribute less meaning to trivial episodes, and to arrive at sessions— and to leave them, too—with less steam or heat attached to me.

Regardless of the progress I sensed I was making, I positioned our time together as temporary, a short-term engagement. At 35, grateful to have reached my wedding day— and crediting my therapist with getting me there—I suspended therapy thereafter. When the trailer for my wedding video landed in my inbox, I forwarded her the link. She deserved to see me happy, I figured. But she never replied to that email I sent to mark our milestone. Had I missed the mark? Had I not understood the assignment? Was I bad at therapy? Was I just…bad?

Over some time, Buckeye stopped escorting me to the living room. He’d linger in the front hall by the staircase. At the close of sessions, I’d see that over the course of the hour he’d moved just a few feet over, thereby blocking the front door. I began to believe that Buckeye was trying to get me to stay.

I went without therapy for 20 months, feeling that I’d developed better means of coping. Until it caught up with me. I lost my cool when I shouldn’t have. I was at a dinner table with someone twice my age (among others) who disagreed with me on politics, and he told me, loudly, in response to what I thought was a innocent thing to say, "You're headed in the wrong direction." He turned purple, berating me, in front of others. I felt small. I felt my blood boil. I punched the table and shot back at him louder than he was, to put him in his place, and adding that the way he conducted himself was reprehensible. I believed I was right, but my response to a situation that upset me was unbecoming of what I aspired to be and knew myself capable of. I should have had better methods in place to prevent myself from being so acutely, actively triggered by an adult bully.

Days later, still reeling from that embarrassing encounter, I spoke in an undignified manner to my wife. She replied that whatever patience she had for me from that earlier fiasco had been lost. I could tell she was worried about me. I didn’t want to regress. I didn’t want to harbor any additional regret.

Too ashamed to return to my once trusted therapist, I picked a different one, closer to where I’d moved. I was ready to work on myself again. When COVID hit, I was enormously thankful that I had someone to speak with amid that turbulent time. I joked during 2020 that when everyone came up to a 20 percent, low-level anxiety, mine remained where it had always been. I never felt so normal in my entire life.

But by 2021, when I’d phone friends, I discovered that many seemed to be in a better place than I was. I look back and recognize we were all posturing and pretending, trying to cajole our way out of an unpleasant nightmare. But, at the time, I couldn’t see outside myself. As I began to reemerge and reacquaint myself with the world, though, these feelings of angst subsided. So, too, did my reliance on a therapist to counsel me. After all, I was back to being a socialized me again, and I thought I no longer needed her guidance.

I grasp now, as someone who struggles with anxiety, that a therapist isn’t someone I require only during recognizable difficult periods. Viewing therapy as something reserved for crises limits its potential. It’s something I need. Something I am permitted to have. I’m also permitted to be proud when I share with my therapist how I’ve dealt with both hurdles and hardships. One of the biggest take-aways is that in order to be kinder to others, I’ve had to learn first to be kind to myself.

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Roughly a year ago, I knew it was time, without any prompting, to return to therapy. I identified a provider who seemed right for me. When we met, I positioned myself as an easy patient. After all, I wasn’t in crisis. This was mere prevention.

During our initial meeting, I mentioned a curiosity I’ve long had about therapists: their intentional secrecy about their personal lives. For me, this policy sometimes made it harder to build rapport and establish trust. I wanted to know, for instance, where they had traveled during their time off the prior week. If I was expected to open up and give so much of myself, I hoped they might offer small glimpses of themselves, too, as a means to connect. Recalling my preference for her to volunteer small bits of herself, my current therapist, upon returning from a family celebration in Europe, filled me in on where she’d been.

One nice element of my ongoing therapy is that it takes place inside my therapist’s living room. And because we meet in her living room, I got to meet her dog, Buckeye.

For many months, whenever I’d arrive at my therapist’s door, I’d sidestep Buckeye. As I passed, he would follow, plopping down on the floor beside me. While we both waited for my therapist to enter, I’d comb through Twitter on my phone, and Buckeye would stare from a distance out the window. We settled close, but still separate.

When my therapist came in, Buckeye moved closer to her, never losing sight of that window. If he spotted a squirrel, he’d bark, and my therapist would shoo Buckeye out of the room. I grew accustomed to this therapeutic dance.

Over some time, Buckeye stopped escorting me to the living room. He’d linger in the front hall by the staircase. At the close of sessions, I’d see that over the course of the hour he’d moved just a few feet over, thereby blocking the front door. I began to believe that Buckeye was trying to get me to stay.

This past Fall when I arrived for an appointment, Buckeye wasn’t there. Curious to find out what had changed, I raised the topic of the dog. He was having a medical procedure. At my next visit, Buckeye was back in his spot, noticeably missing an eye. Buckeye had cancer. The surgery prolonged his life, but the end was nearing. My therapist acknowledged that Buckeye was the most visible portion of her personal life that she shares with her patients.

When I showed up for therapy after Thanksgiving, I learned that Buckeye had died. I offered my condolences. Because of the circumstances at hand, my therapist maintained her composure and professionalism. We spoke about how I’d spent my holiday break.

I now think about Buckeye a lot. In our early months together, Buckeye was the steward, making sure that I found my prescribed way. He’d watch over me in those first minutes, sensing that’s all I really wanted from him. He set me at ease before I dove into my session. Buckeye’s barking was never an imposition. His calls at squirrels served as a kind of comic relief. I grew to enjoy having a third-party observer in the room. He was never able to add anything, but was ever on hand to just lie there, to listen, and to look out for what was lurking beyond.

He was not a therapy dog, but in hindsight, Buckeye provided a different form of therapy for me. He fostered the reliable rhythms I sought to acquaint and adjust to the world around me. I treat my therapy sessions not as checkups, rather as tune-ups. The world can still feel awfully noisy to me, but I begin each and every session by pointing to some recent occasion when I successfully turned down the volume.

Buckeye’s presence conveyed an absence of judgment. Whether I had a proud period or not in between sessions, Buckeye was always the same to me. He showed me how to sit still.

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