A: Dear sir. I am amazed that even before the economic implosion that you were able to pay $100 an hour for therapy. Be that as it may, I understand the value of being able to tell your darkest secrets to a total stranger. The Dog Parkist herself has invested monies she might otherwise have spent on a vacation villa or yet another advanced degree on therapy in order to discover some pretty obvious facts—that she is not her mother and that there is no shame in marrying the wrong man. (Who hasn't?) But you do raise an interesting point. How much mental, physical, and financial support can we expect from our "friends" at Dog Park.
Indeed, they are friends. But there are as many levels of friendship as their are circles of hell and paradise. It is important to read and understand the terms of each level before clicking the Agree button. There are some friends who may offer a spare poop bag but not necessarily a shoulder to cry on. Others will gladly lend you their truck to haul your new waterbed but not help you put it together once you get home. And others who will listen to your every sigh and complaint and offer solace and sympathy before promptly going home to blog about you. Cave canem.
But I can tell that you are an intelligent member of the species, Mr. McWhinypants. And so my only advice to you is this: Remember Dog Park's most basic rule of poop: When somebody poops, somebody else picks it up and carries the bag. Some pick up and carry out of love, some out of duty, and some because they are paid. Since you can no longer pay your therapist, you must rely on individuals who love you or feel compelled to care for you. Consider that before you spill your guts, dear sir. Who, at Dog Park, loves you enough to carry your poop? Thanks for writing!
Dear Readers: The question above was actually posed by a Dog Parker, whose identity The Dog Parkist is professionally bound to keep secret. (Thanks, Doug!) Please follow his impeccable example and send her more questions. Thanks for reading.