Maybe You Should Talk to Someon - Lori Gottlieb Page 0,22
the better. Only way she listens.”
“The only way?” I ask.
“Well, when she was younger I would go outside and run around with her, let her blow off some steam. Sometimes she just needed to be outside. But lately she’s been a real pain in the ass. She even tried to bite me.”
“Why?”
“She wanted to play with me, but . . . oh, you’ll love this.”
I know what’s coming.
“I was texting, so she had to wait, and she just lost her shit. Margo was out of town, so Rosie was spending her days with her Danny, and—”
“Remind me, who’s Danny?”
“Not Danny. Her danny. You know, a dog nanny?”
I stare back blankly.
“A dog sitter. A nanny for the dog. A danny.”
“Oh, so Rosie is your dog,” I say.
“Well, who the hell did you think I was talking about?”
“I thought your daughter’s name was—”
“Ruby,” he says. “The little one is Ruby. Wasn’t it obvious that I was talking about a dog here?” He sighs and shakes his head as if I’m the biggest idiot in his kingdom of idiots.
He never mentioned having a dog before. The fact that I remembered the first letter of his daughter’s name, which was referenced only in passing two sessions ago, feels like a victory to me. But more than John’s entitlement, what strikes me is this: he’s showing me a softer side I haven’t seen yet.
“You really love her,” I say.
“Of course I do. She’s my daughter.”
“No, I mean Rosie. You care about her deeply.” I’m trying to touch him in some way, to bring him closer to his emotions, which I know are there but atrophied, like a neglected muscle.
He waves me away with his hand. “She’s a dog.”
“What kind of dog is she?”
His face brightens. “A mix. She’s a rescue dog. She was a mess when we got her because of those idiots who were supposed to be taking care of her, but now she’s—I’ll show you a photo if you’ll let me use my goddamned phone.”
I nod.
As he scrolls through his pictures, he smiles to himself. “I’m looking for a good one,” he says. “So you can see how cute she really is.” With each photo, he beams a bit more, and I glimpse his perfect teeth again.
“Here she is!” he says proudly, handing me the phone.
I look down at the picture. I happen to love dogs, but Rosie, God bless her, is one of the ugliest dogs I’ve ever seen. She has sagging jowls, uneven eyes, multiple bald patches, and a missing tail. John is still beaming, smitten.
“I can see how much you love her,” I say, handing back the phone.
“I don’t love her. She’s a fucking dog.” He sounds like a fifth-grade boy denying a crush on a classmate. John and Rosie sitting in a tree . . .
“Oh,” I say gently. “The way you talk about her, I hear a lot of love there.”
“Would you stop saying that?” His tone is irritated, but I see pain in his eyes. I think back to our previous session—something about love or caring must feel painful for him. With a different patient, I might ask why what I’m saying is so upsetting. But I know that John will avoid the topic by arguing with me about whether he loves his dog. Instead, I say, “Most people who have pets care about them deeply.” I lower my voice so that he almost has to lean in to hear me. Neuroscientists discovered that humans have brain cells called mirror neurons that cause them to mimic others, and when people are in a heightened state of emotion, a soothing voice can calm their nervous systems and help them stay present. “Whether it’s called love or something else, it doesn’t really matter.”
“This is a ridiculous conversation,” John says.
He’s looking down at the floor, but I can see that I’ve got his full attention. “You brought up Rosie for a reason today. She matters to you, and now she’s acting in a way that concerns you—because you care.”
“People matter to me,” John says. “My wife, my kids. People.”
He glances toward his cell, which is vibrating again, but I don’t follow his gaze. I stay with him, trying to hold on so he won’t get pulled away whenever an unwanted feeling appears and go numb. People often mistake numbness for nothingness, but numbness isn’t the absence of feelings; it’s a response to being overwhelmed by too many feelings.