Gaits of Heaven by Susan Conant Read Free Book Online

branches, and two platform feeders mounted on the railing of the deck. The first of my many therapeutic errors was to allow myself to be diverted from the task of housebreaking Dolfo by asking about the feeders, which were being cleaned and filled by a man who wore white coveralls with a company name embroidered on the back: On the Wing.
    “Birds are special to us,” Ted said. “Eumie and I deal with trauma in our patients and”—he lowered his mellifluous voice—“in our own lives. The concept of flight as a beautiful adaptation has special significance for us.”
    I’d intended to say that Steve was slaving to maintain a couple of feeders that were being raided and ruined by squirrels, but I felt almost ashamed to admit that winged creatures had no great symbolic meaning for my husband, who, in ordinary fashion, wanted to feed birds because he enjoyed watching them.
    “Our own trauma histories,” said Eumie, “are probably what accounts for this delay in connecting to Dolfo’s needs, and—”
    “Speaking of Dolfo,” I began.
    “Oh, we are!” Eumie squealed. “You see, just as birds represent the healthy, adaptive flight from overwhelming experiences, Dolfo represents grounding in the safe sensations and perceptions of the here and now.”
    My second major mistake: instead of zooming in on my area of expertise, namely, dog behavior, I got sucked into Ted and Eumie’s anthropomorphic perspective. Simultaneously, I made my third big error, which was to ask a routine question about Dolfo’s history. “Dogs certainly are the ultimate in the here and now,” I agreed in an effort to form an alliance with Dolfo’s owners. “But they have histories, too. Maybe you could outline Dolfo’s for me.”
    Eumie smirked at Ted. “Isn’t that cute! She’s doing just what therapists do. Most therapists. Dr. Needleman spent our first two sessions on it. She is not gestalt at all. She’s an analyst. You know, Ted, now that I think about it, Dr. Foote hasn’t delved all that deeply into our individual narratives, has she? She’s more oriented toward our dialoguing, isn’t she?” To me, Eumie said, “That’s our couples therapist. When you’re dealing with two people with our kinds of histories, well—”
    I knew exactly who Dr. Foote was. In fact, I’d “seen” Vee Foote, in the expensive sense of the word, after the combination of a head injury and Steve’s marriage to Anita the Fiend had left me... But that’s another story. Rita, who had referred me to Dr. Foote, now considered her greedy and incompetent. I, on the other hand, pitied Vee Foote just as I pitied everyone else afflicted with a pathological fear of dogs, which is to say, a paralyzing fear of life itself.
    “The whole issue of time orientation in therapy is interesting,” said Ted. “I’d be curious to know how Missy Zinn handles it with Caprice...” And he was off. His own individual therapist was a Dr. Tortorello, Eumie’s was named Nixie Needleman, Caprice’s was the aforementioned Missy Zinn, and Wyeth’s was Peter York, who, as I didn’t say, was a young psychologist whom I knew because he was a friend of Rita’s and was about to go into supervision with her. Ted and Eumie shared a psychopharmacologist, Quinn Young-man, whom I knew because Rita was dating him. In addition to the traditional shrinks, there were herbalists, acupuncturists, massage therapists, Reiki healers, hypnotherapists, and experts in guided imagery, and there must have been primary-care physicians and dentists as well.
    “Dolfo,” I summarized, “clearly inhabits a richly populated environment. So, all the more need for him to learn the skills required to be a valued member of this, uh, complex support network.” Having staked my claim to the conversational field, I consolidated my position by demonstrating clicker training, which is good old operant conditioning with positive reinforcement for desired behavior. The sound of the clicker gets paired