Let me preface this by saying I’ve had some amazing therapists over the years. Compassionate, thoughtful, expensive. Very expensive. The kind of expensive that makes you question if crying in a parking lot might just be more cost-effective. But as much as I respect the professionals—and I do—none of them hold a candle to the tiny, four-pound dictator currently curled up in the exact center of my bed like she pays the mortgage: my chihuahua daughter, Daisy.
Daisy didn’t go to school for this. She has no degree, no license, and she certainly doesn’t follow HIPAA guidelines (she’s been known to bark mid-Zoom call if I’m talking to someone she doesn’t like). But she knows me. In ways no clipboard-wielding human ever could.
I got Daisy during COVID, or rather, she adopted me. And in those dark, lonely, unraveling days, she became more than a dog. She became the reason I got out of bed, the reason I walked to the park, the reason I didn’t completely dissolve into an anxiety blanket burrito of Netflix and despair. Some days, walking her was the only thing keeping my feet moving and my heart beating in the right direction.
Therapists will ask you, “How are you really feeling today?” Daisy doesn’t ask. She tells. She climbs into my lap, shoots me a look that says “Get it together, human,” and then sneezes directly into my mouth. It’s both disgusting and deeply therapeutic. Because sometimes, the emotional breakthrough you need is just having another living thing insist you be present. And also hand over your sandwich.
She doesn’t judge my breakdowns. She doesn’t offer empty platitudes. She doesn’t say, “Let’s unpack that.” Instead, she curls up next to me when I’m sad, pokes me with her tiny paw when I’ve dissociated into a screen for too long, and barks like the world is ending if I close the bathroom door. Because privacy is not part of her treatment model.
And yet—despite being 90% attitude, 10% teeth—Daisy has been my most effective emotional support system. She knows when I’m spiraling before I do. She senses when I need company, when I need quiet, when I need to sob into her fur while she sighs and looks at me like, “You really need to get a grip, bro.”
She’s also been instrumental in my relationship with Matthew. Does she get jealous when he cuddles with me? Absolutely. Has she shoved her tiny self between us like a living, breathing wedge of distrust? Also yes. But in her own way, she’s taught us how to navigate emotional dynamics—how to share space, how to manage jealousy, how to prioritize love even when you’re a little bit of a bitch (and I say that with deep affection and full acknowledgment of her canine gender).
Unlike human therapists, Daisy doesn’t write down notes. But if she did, they’d probably look like:
- Barked at trash can. Possible trauma trigger?
- Pooped in neighbor’s yard. Felt cathartic.
- Human cried. Licked ear. Mission accomplished.
Don’t get me wrong—there are limitations. Daisy can’t help me unearth childhood trauma or walk me through complex interpersonal dynamics (though her side-eye is a pretty strong deterrent to self-delusion). She doesn’t take insurance, but she does demand a tribute of chicken and a heated blanket. She has never once suggested cognitive behavioral therapy—but she has chewed up my journal. Therapeutic? Maybe.
And sure, she’s spoiled rotten, sleeps like a little croissant in my bed, and throws fits if Matthew kisses me before kissing her. But what is therapy, if not holding space for complicated relationships, strong opinions, and emotional tantrums?
So here’s to Daisy. My fur-covered, emotionally attuned, slightly unhinged therapist. She may not have a couch or an office, but she’s got a snorty snore, an intuitive heart, and a PhD in making me feel like I’m not alone in the world. And in this life—this life full of noise and fear and burnout and “Sorry we don’t take your insurance”—that matters more than any credential.
Besides, she already knows everything about me. And unlike a therapist, she’ll never move cities, ghost me, or raise her hourly rate. She just wants cuddles. And maybe a little piece of chicken.