Therapy
My therapist has a little shih tzu. Sometimes he wears little sweaters, festive ones for Halloween and Christmas. He's what my dad would call a "little yip yip dog," with a short poofy tail that stands straight up and an old man dog moustache that takes over most of his face. Like most reasonable humans, I imagine, I always try to get the dog to sit next to me on the couch and let me pet him while I'm sobbing to my therapist about whatever anxiety has taken me over at the moment—but he's never interested. After a few ear scritches he goes over to stare at his treats on the bookshelf and finally gives up and goes to sleep on the extra chair. I picked my therapist mostly because she had a dog listed as a team member on her website, actually. It seemed like just as good a reason as any. Choosing a therapist—choosing any doctor, really—might as well be a random stab in the dark. Reviews, of which there are typically only 4 or 5, are usually only people complaining...