Hey doctors, listen up. We get it. You’ve got your degrees. You’ve got your stethoscopes. You’ve got your scrubs, and we’re not talking about the offbeat sitcom starring Zach Braff, Sarah Chalke and John C McGinley.
But doctors, I’ve got a bone to pick with you. And not a broken one, because I know you’d love that, wouldn’t you? “Ooh let me fix the bone.” No. You can’t fix this.
For years, doctors have agreed that equine therapy is a successful treatment for children with autism. Time spent with horses can enhance communication and coordination skills and has palpable benefits for autistic children. For these developments, I salute you.
But herein lies the problem. I’ve had my horse Ginger since I was a young boy. Throughout my youth, whenever I was bullied or bashed at school, I would smile as I cowered on the bus because I knew that Ginger would be there waiting for me when I got home. We’d gallop and frolic throughout our 1 acre at Samford. I felt free.
But then came the diagnosis. On my 8th birthday, doctors confirmed to me and my family what we had suspected for years.
Ginger was autistic.
Now, it’s all well and good for autistic children to reap the curative rewards of horses. But what about my horse? Ginger can’t exactly just make friends with himself now, can he? Can he?
It’s the single biggest failure of the medical community in Australia that they have not yet told me how I am to address my horse’s autism. My horse could not seek therapy by making friends with horses, because he is a horse and he’s autistic. All the other horses in our neighbourhood grab a drink together after work at the nearby dam. I can lead my horse to water, but I can’t make him drink with his mates. You see, he’s autistic.
I tried forcing him to spend time with a hairy, four-legged human I found in Mt Isa just to see if reverse-equine therapy had any effects. Guess what, Doogie Howser MD – it didn’t work!
If the doctors of Brisbane do not get back to me in one hour with a feasible solution to address my horse’s autism that does not involve the frankly ludicrous suggestion that he spend a relaxing day in the country, riding and petting and feeding HIMSELF, than I’m afraid I have no choice but to blow up Gotham General Hospital.
Your move, Doc.