The Day My Dog Became My Therapist

It all started on a Tuesday.

Now, Tuesdays are usually uneventful. But this particular Tuesday, the universe decided to hit me with a whirlwind of chaos, confusion, and cold leftover lasagna. The morning started with me waking up to the sound of my alarm doing its best to imitate a dying robot. I slapped it into silence, stumbled out of bed, and stepped directly into something cold and squishy.

“Frank!” I screamed.

Frank, my Golden Retriever, looked up at me with the innocent eyes of a toddler who just painted the walls with peanut butter.

“What is this?!” I demanded, holding up my foot like I’d stepped into radioactive goo. He wagged his tail. No guilt. No shame. Just pure joy. Apparently, last night’s spaghetti had not been properly guarded. I hobbled to the bathroom on one foot, muttering under my breath like a deranged pirate. Once I was semi-clean and semi-awake, I made myself a cup of coffee, which I immediately spilled all over my shirt because Frank thought it was a good idea to headbutt my knee in excitement for breakfast.

With coffee stains and a broken spirit, I flopped onto the couch.

“Frank,” I sighed, “my life is a mess.”

Frank tilted his head to the side like he was really listening.

“You don’t understand,” I continued, sipping what was left of my dignity and caffeine. “My boss hates me, I forgot to pay my electric bill, and I just got ghosted by someone named Euphoria. WHO names their child that?!”

Frank blinked slowly.

Then… he barked. Just once. Loudly.

And honestly? It kind of felt validating.

That bark hit different.

It was like he was saying, “Preach, human. Preach.”

So I kept talking.

“I’ve got credit card debt that could fund a small war, I’ve eaten nothing but carbs for the past five days, and yesterday I cried because my sock had a hole in it.”

Frank leaned in and placed a paw on my knee.

I froze.

Was… was this therapy?

Suddenly, all the TikToks I’d laughed at about “dogs being better than therapists” didn’t seem so funny. This furball knew things. Deep things.

So I did the unthinkable.

I booked a therapy session—with Frank.

Chapter 1: The Bark Awakens

I set up a little office in the living room. I wore a robe. I gave Frank a clipboard (he chewed it in under five minutes). I lay on the couch dramatically like they do in movies.

“Dr. Frank,” I began, “I have abandonment issues and an addiction to cheese.”

Frank barked.

Progress.

“I also have trust issues. For example, last week I told my coworker something personal and she immediately used it to make a meme in the group chat.”

Frank growled softly.

“I know, right? Toxic.”

Then he did the thing—the head tilt. Every time I said something slightly emotional, he’d tilt his head to the left like he was mentally taking notes.

At one point, I paused and asked, “Are you judging me, or diagnosing me with a rare condition?”

He licked his butt.

Interpret that as you will.

Chapter 2: Who’s a Good Listener?

The next day, I decided to go deeper. I brought snacks—mostly for me, but Frank somehow guilted me into sharing.

“Frank, I need your professional opinion. Is it normal to cry during laundry?”

He sneezed twice.

“Is that… dog code for yes?”

Frank rolled over, legs in the air.

I took that as a “go on.”

So I did. I confessed to binge-watching 14 episodes of a reality dating show in one night. I admitted I once ate a whole tub of cookie dough with a spoon I found under the couch. I shared my darkest secret: I sometimes pretend to be on a cooking show when I’m making ramen.

Frank didn’t bark once.

That silence? Powerful.

That nonjudgmental stare? Healing.

That fart he released mid-session? Slightly traumatic, but oddly grounding.

Chapter 3: Pawsitive Affirmations

By session three, I was thriving. I started my mornings with a pep talk in Frank’s voice. (Yes, I gave him a voice—it’s deep, soothing, and vaguely Australian.)

“You’re doing amazing, mate,” Frank would say as I brushed my teeth. “Smash that to-do list.”

I stopped doom scrolling. I started journaling. I even said “no” to plans I didn’t want—Frank would be so proud.

I imagined him barking approvingly every time I made a healthy decision.

No more texting my ex at 2 a.m.? “Good on ya, mate!”

Ate a salad instead of an entire pizza? “Strong choices, legend.”

Told my boss I deserved a raise? Okay, I didn’t do that—but I thought about it. That counts.

Chapter 4: Emotional Support Animal or Emotional Supervisor?

Things started getting weird around this time.

Frank began following me into the bathroom. Not in a cute, clingy way. In a therapist needing to monitor your progress kind of way.

I’d be mid-shampoo and hear him sigh dramatically from the bathmat.

“Privacy, please?” I’d say.

He’d blink slowly, clearly disappointed in my regression. Worse, he started sabotaging my junk food habits. He’d knock the cookie jar off the counter. He once dragged an entire bag of chips under the couch and held it hostage until I went for a walk.

This dog was turning into a life coach with fur.

I couldn’t even stress-eat without hearing his metaphorical Australian voice whisper, “Is that helping, or just hiding?”

Chapter 5: The Bark Side of Healing

One night, after a particularly rough day (I found out Euphoria is actually a middle name, her first name is Glitter), I sat on the floor with tears in my eyes.

Frank padded over and sat beside me.

I didn’t say anything.

He didn’t bark.

He just leaned into me, warm and calm.

And I realized—maybe therapy isn’t always about words or breakthroughs. Sometimes it’s just about having someone beside you who listens… even if they occasionally lick their own feet during your emotional monologue.

A week later, I found a certificate online that said “Certified Dog Therapist.” I printed it, framed it, and hung it above Frank’s food bowl.

He’s earned it.

Sure, he still eats garbage, farts during deep conversations, and once tried to hump my date’s leg during dinner.But thanks to Frank, I sleep better. I smile more. I bark back at life with confidence. And when people ask how I’m doing?

I say, “I’ve got a great therapist.”

He just happens to poop in the yard.