Say Wuff for the Dog.

Last night Freddie Flintoff talked about depression in sport. Apparently on average one player in every cricket team is struggling with depression. It seems that those super fit, super successful sportsmen, and possibly women, paid to do what we can only dream of are particularly prone to feelings of deep inadequacy. After watching Brene Brown’s Ted Talk on vulnerability I begin to wonder. We all have internal dialogue, note dia-logue. Though it may appear a monologue with my internal voice chirping away I am also the listener to it. It’s an unequal conversation of two halves. The voice half is smart-arsed expectation and the silent half something akin to a besotted puppy licking ‘like me’ to anyone who shows the slightest interest. This I guess is my internalised dog and master. I remember drawing with my wrong hand a picture of this dog when I was low once, a shaggy dishevelled cowering mutt as I remember, but a useful exercise. It seems to me depression is when the dog gives up after a torrent of abusive expectation from the talking voice. It lays barely breathing, shivering in dread. It can’t go on but it must, moment to agonising moment. Yet strangely my pity goes to the voice. The dog is alive but the voice is a lifeless manufacture, a headless chicken, a Pinocchio automaton that can only mouth what expectation tells it to. This pompous pug faced balloon must be burst; the dog must speak its piece. The master must be trained first to get the natural, excellent best from his dog. My master, I’m glad to say, is now encouraging, he gives me bones, tickles my tummy and takes me to shows, and even when I poop in the show ring he just says, “well everyone’s got to go sometime.” I do my best for him and he does his best for me. It’s worked out well in the end.