“It turns out I’m not a natural yawner under pressure.”
“Everyone’s a natural yawner. You’re just in your head. You need to really sell it. Open your mouth wide. Let your eyes water. Make it contagious. Stop thinking about how ridiculous you look and just…let it happen.”
Nobody talks to me like this. People defer to me. They hedge their feedback in qualifiers and caveats. Archie just told me my yawning was pathetic and is now coaching me through it like I’m a first-year intern.
But there’s nothing else to do right now but give it another attempt.
So I yawn again, wider this time, letting my jaw stretch open in a way that feels vaguely obscene.
Muffin’s growling stutters.
I yawn a third time, really leaning into it now, and something shifts. Muffin’s rigid little body relaxes, just slightly. She gives a full-body shake that starts at her nose and ripples down to her ridiculously fluffy tail.
Daisy yawns.
I stare at her. She stares back at me, and then her tail gives a tentative wag. It’s right-sided, which, according to Archie’s tutelage, means she’s feeling okay about life.
Even Douglas lifts his head, yawns enormously, and then heaves himself back to his feet with the air of a philosopher who has decided that perhaps life is worth living after all.
“Holy shit,” I breathe into the phone.
“See? It’s like doggy Xanax, except free and non-addictive.”
“It’s a miracle,” I say.
“Now, do you have the treats I gave you?”
“Yes.”
“Throw a handful on the ground. Right now.”
“Won’t that reward bad behavior?”
“It activates their nose, and sniffing actually lowers their heart rate. It’s a biological reset button. You’re not rewarding them. You’re redirecting their brain from panic mode to foraging mode. Completely different neural pathway.”
“Okay.”
I reach into my pocket, extract the treat bag, and toss a generous handful onto the ground.
Then I tentatively put Muffin back on the ground.
And sure enough, all three dogs immediately drop into sniffing mode. Muffin is no longer a warrior. Daisy is no longer heartbroken. Douglas is no longer contemplating the void.
“It worked,” I say quietly.
“Told you.”
But he doesn’t sound smug about it. He sounds genuinely pleased that it worked for me, not that he was right.
That distinction shouldn’t matter as much as it does.
I’ve had executive assistants, legal teams, and a therapist on very expensive retainers in the past. But none of them has ever been as useful as a children’s entertainer on speakerphone.
“Thank you,” I say.
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“I might head back to you now,” I say.
