We lived in a house with a doggy door and a fenced yard. One fine day, the yard needed to be sprayed with some kind of weedkiller stuff and it was recommended that I keep my dogs inside for several hours. Accordingly, I closed the doggy door.
At various times that evening, as I was either reading the newspaper or watching TV or working at my living room desk, Sabrina would come over and nuzzle me with her snout. "Leave me alone, Sabrina," I would gripe, "Go lay down."

Time passed and it became bedtime. As I was walking down the hall toward the bedroom, I spotted some fairly fresh dog poop. (Scroll back up to Item No. 2 in the preceding section of this blog. Read it again. Then come back.)

Back so soon? (I jest, sometimes.) Anyway, after I did my World War III Going Ballistic Act, after I'd whaled Sabrina repeatedly and had her yelping and pouty and full of hurt "what did I do wrong?" feelings, I got a paper towel and picked up the poop and went to throw the mess out the back door (to be put in the garbage the next day, when daylight would let me see what I was doing), as I got to the back door, I saw exactly what you attentive readers already know I saw.

Horrors! I'd never reopened the doggy door. That's what all of those Sabrina nudges had been about, all evening long. "I need to go potty, daddy. Would you please let me out?"

I didn't have a leg to stand on. After opening the doggy door and getting the towelful of poop outside the house, I went back to the hallway, got down on my knees and tearfully said "I'm sorry" to Sabrina, who was still cowering at the other end of the hall, near the bedroom door.

She immediately came over and started licking my face.

And immediately I understood what my psychotherapist had been trying to explain to me about forgiveness. It's easy. You just do it.

Sabrina taught me how.