Friends as therapy (with pets)
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Ask me on December 21 and I’ll respond enthusiastically.
Ask me on June 21 and I’ll be resolute. Why the hell do I get up before dawn to walk the dog? For therapy, of course!
Physical therapy, family therapy, cognitive behavioural therapy, grief therapy, group therapy, laughter therapy, pets-as-therapy. All these therapies for free courtesy of my friends, also out there under the guise of walking their dogs.
Our collective knowledge of kids, education, travel, cooking, iPhone settings and the AFL is outstanding, although some are punching well above their weight with that last one.
We are ‘The Walkers’, a self-named Messenger group in which individually we are known as Nelson, Susie, Tilly and Penny.
I’m the last one to join the group each morning as we walk on the hill behind our homes, where I often hear the girls coming before I see them.
The pooches do the obligatory bum sniff before we head off for our four-kilometre loop on the fire trails, and our relief that humans don’t greet in the same fashion has been noted.
‘The Walkers’ met nearly 20 years ago when our kids were in preschool together, and we’ve been walking the same circuit each weekday for years.
You’d be forgiven for thinking it sounds a bit like ground-hog day, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. Bless the Bush Capital and its design to have nature reserves within walking distance of many of its citizens. Our hill with its environment, wildlife, and views is always a pleasure for which we could never tire.
The variable, however, is the people who come and go, some more memorable than others, doing their various early morning activities. Like ‘Backwards Walking Lady’, a tiny woman who would literally walk along the main fire trail backwards. ‘Angry Running Man’ who would scowl at our dogs as we tried to make room for him on a narrow section of trail.
‘Singing Praise Lady’ parks at the top of the hill and sets up her music and amplifier at the lookout, as an accompaniment to the songs of praise she performs in the direction of Parliament House. We’re all in agreement they could use the help down there.
A contrast, however, to ‘Near Naked Running Man’ who runs down the road always holding, never wearing, his t-shirt even on the sub-zero days.
We have a keen interest in politics, namely securing a selfie with the next PM who walks on our hill. There were daily sightings of Dutton and Cormann deep in conversation before the big showdown that saw Morrison do a Bradbury.
Prior to that we often saw an always polite Prime Minister Turnbull flanked by his security. By the time we got brave enough to ask for a photo with him though, he was gone!
We’ve picked up runners who have face-planted on the gravel, and cyclists who have hit the tarmac. Not to be outdone, other species have provided some breath-holding moments too like the young kangaroo who had managed a half-pike with a twist through the wire fence and found himself hanging upside down in self-applied restraints. Add animal rescuer to our resume.
Some dogs of the hill are hilarious, such as ‘Mr Floppy Ear’ the Corgi who, no surprises given his moniker, has one overtly bent ear. This high-velocity barrel does his level best to keep up with his Master on their regular run with his kinked ear flapping in the breeze.
The crowd favourite is Basil the sausage dog, as what he lacks in stature he makes up for in bravado. It’s a comical image when this little ankle biter shirt-fronts our pack with Monty Pythonesque intimidation, a juxtaposition to his 6ft owner who just laughs at our chorus of, “Shut up Basil!”.
Us four friends are out here each morning for reasons beyond appeasing our furry companions, but none more prevalent than to support our heads and our hearts as we rejoice the victories and navigate the losses in our lives.
People gather with friends in many settings and talk, but something quite profound happens when you walk whilst you talk. A filter of restraint is removed, replaced by a trust that allows you to share without interpretation of expression.
Seemingly pouring out your heart to those you trust is easier when they are at your side as you focus on the trail ahead. There is also the cone of silence and promise that what goes on the hill, stays on the hill. Warts and all.
These women are the village that helped raise my kids. They are the objectivity to my subjectivity. They are the calmers of waters and the absorbers of ails. They are my counsellors of grief and my celebrators of triumphs. As I am in turn, theirs.
Perhaps we should change our Messenger group name to ‘The Therapists’.
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