Buckeye and Me - by Danny Groner - Memoir Land
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First Person Singular<br>Buckeye and Me<br>Danny Groner has feelings…about the death of his therapist’s dog.
Danny Groner<br>Jun 25, 2025
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DAJ/Getty Images<br>Before I met Buckeye, the golden retriever who attended my therapy sessions, I wasn't that into dogs. Not afraid. Not allergic. Just indifferent.<br>But dogs have usually sensed my indifference and do their best to win me over. Whenever I visit friends who have dogs, their furry friends look to woo me. I’ll pet them kindly or toss them a favorite toy, in hopes that by the time they fetch it, they’ll lose steam from the endeavor and move onto the next person.
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Even before I met Buckeye, one thing I did love about dogs was watching their interactions with children, especially children I’ve met who behave or think differently. Over the years, I’ve seen kids transform in the company of household dogs. These additions to the family can bring out fuller aspects of kids’ personalities. Because I didn’t grow up with animals, I had never appreciated why some families choose to have a dog join them. I see now that for most children, but especially those who express big feelings, dogs can provide comfort.<br>Between the ages of 10 and 30, I learned to cope with my big feelings without a dog, or any other aid. I bounced around the neighborhood, dropping in at homes of peers, making friends wherever I could. But the relationships could be fleeting. They left me well regarded by many I came across, yet close with few of them. I could only catch people as they passed for so long.<br>In my years of emerging adulthood, when I’d find myself in a foul mood due to one unnerving area of my life, I’d act out in other places, to the chagrin and concern of those on the receiving end. I took little comments as personal attacks. During the heart of the 2008 recession, when work was difficult to come by, I once lashed out at a friend who criticized the iced tea mix I'd prepared at my home. I hadn't put in enough sugary substance, fearful that I might run out. I was always high-strung, and it was never the person's fault. They were being normal, but I felt every little thing was one too many things. At that time, I thought many of the difficulties I encountered during my adolescence and young adulthood were unique challenges. I believed that I was dealing with disappointment to a degree others couldn’t possibly appreciate. I suffered silently, accepting that misfortune would define my story. I was certain I was a passive figure in a still-unfolding story that engulfed me.<br>Adults, I contended, had stacked the deck against me, and it was up to me to show them I could brave it without asking for help. In my 20s, foolishly, I permitted sadness and shame to convey much of who I was—and could be. I kept my angst and anger bottled up, frustrated that life hadn’t offered me more, disheartened that I wasn’t amounting to more than a puddle of shame.<br>Good friends, the ones who stuck around, noticed what was going on. They recommended I try therapy. But even if I wanted to go, I thought I couldn’t afford it. At some point, however, I started to see that my setbacks and shortcomings were largely by my own doing, which meant that I could take back control over my story. After a decade of asserting that I was unfairly cursed, I hoped to steer better through the decades that followed. I reached a place in 2018 where I realized I couldn’t afford not to make therapy a priority.<br>My first therapist gave me much-needed footing. I’d aim to burn the clock for the full 50 minutes, but she wouldn’t let me. She’d ask me to unpack ideas. She would slow me down. She helped me examine why I did what I did and, with it, why I was who I was. I learned to attribute less meaning to trivial episodes, and to arrive at sessions— and to leave them, too—with less steam or heat attached to me.<br>Regardless of the progress I sensed I was making, I positioned our time together as temporary, a short-term engagement. At 35, grateful to have reached my wedding day— and crediting my therapist with getting me there—I suspended therapy thereafter. When the trailer for my wedding video landed in my inbox, I forwarded her the link. She deserved to see me happy, I figured. But she never replied to that email I sent to mark our milestone. Had I missed the mark? Had I not understood the assignment? Was I bad at therapy? Was I just…bad?<br>Over some time, Buckeye stopped escorting me to the living room. He’d linger in the front hall by the staircase. At the close of sessions, I’d see that over the course of the hour he’d moved just a few feet over, thereby blocking the front door. I began to believe that Buckeye was trying to get me to stay.
I went without therapy for 20 months, feeling that I’d developed better means of coping. Until it caught up with me. I lost my cool when I shouldn’t have. I was at a dinner table with someone twice my age (among others) who...