Therapy

I have a therapy session every day just after 6 pm.

You'll find me at the kitchen table, finishing dinner, when it begins.

On most nights family dinner is a predictable shit show. I've cooked a meal that uses ingredients we actually have and that I believe four humans will enjoy. I've negotiated the smallest two of those humans declaring, emphatically, that they do NOT like the food that was their favourite only last week. I've mopped up spilt water, swept away rogue peas and said: "use your fork" at least 16 times.

It's the end of the day and I'm at the end of my rope. When, just as I need it, I feel a reassuringly solid weight settle on my right thigh.

I look down and see a small, wet, black nose. And two golden eyes—brows sweetly raised—looking up at me. Ears alert, velvety chin resting on my lap.

He is no doubt trying his chances at dinner scraps, but it feels like something else.

I ignore the kids and the clean up for five minutes and instead lose myself in a moment of pure goodness. Fingers full of soft, warm fur and arms full of big dog cuddles. Cheeto leans into me, relaxed and compliant and tired from a day digging holes, pulling rubbish out of the bin and chasing the rosellas that dare to perch on the water tank.

Soon enough I'm pulled into the riptide of bath time and bedtime and clean up. The therapy session is over until tomorrow but my nerves are calm, my patience restored and my heart full.