Inspired by my psychotherapy supervisor whose dog sat in with her, 8 years ago I decided to do the same with my greyhound. Willy is tall, lean and lanky with a black coat and one distinctive white paw. A reserved demeanour and knowing gaze infuse a calming presence – and my patients are deeply attached to him. His long naps, interspersed with ‘downward dog’ stretches, evoke a yogic mindfulness – a reminder to be present. As long ago as 1860 the London Gazette published a scene of two small greyhounds owned by the resident physician, meandering around a ward at Bethlem Hospital. The most famous psychiatrist’s best friend was Freud’s chow chow Jofi, who sat in during psychoanalysis sessions. Initially a personal comfort, he came to see that the presence of Jofi enriched the therapeutic process.

My hound’s non-verbal communication provides useful information about an individual’s mental state - deepening my understanding of the countertransference. Sometimes he lays millimetres from a patient’s shoes – when emotions are just below the surface – inviting them to ‘let it all out’. Other times he turns his head away – mirroring their avoidance. Anxious teenagers, attempting to be invisible on the waiting room couch, are disarmed by a glimpse of this miniature racehorse cantering by. At times he acts as a transitional object – traumatised patients sit on the floor, patting him like a child does a stuffed toy. A patient with post-traumatic stress disorder once arrived in an unusually dissociated state. I worried how I would ‘stick him back together’ by the end of the session. Willy intuitively stood up and moved next to him. Sensing his presence, the patient placed a hand on his back. An emotional discharge followed – the patient cried – returning him to reality. He’s a barometer of bipolar mood elevation: increased playfulness suggests hypomania, while ‘zoomies’ – running in circles – is indicative of mania. Or he can mirror a patient’s progress, as Osher Günsberg wrote in ‘Back, after the Break’: ‘once I learned to deal with my brain at full volume, [Willy] started to become more and more calm… now [he] just sleeps on the floor… I consider it a massive win’.

At the end of the day, he is tired, with attendance limited to once per week – avoiding ‘canine burnout’. What makes for the right (or wrong) clinic dog? Breed is important. A colleague once trialled a cattle dog – but it would ‘round up’ children in the waiting room. Temperament is another key factor. A friend’s neurotic lagotto only infused nervousness into the practice. A well-behaved dog is essential. Willy is now 13 years old – and sadness wells up in me when I reflect on the day he’ll no longer be with us. The bond my patients have with him will elicit grief. Loss being universal, I hope the experience provides an opportunity to process their own losses. For now, he sits at my feet – Sphinx-like – atop his outstretched legs – helping me to understand the riddles of the mind.