The Support Group

My apartment door won’t close because of the cats.

Not my cats—I don’t own any. But every Wednesday at 6 PM, they arrive for group therapy, climbing five flights up to my South Bronx walk-up, where the elevator has been broken since the Obama administration. The building leans slightly to the left, like it’s tired of standing. The super only fixes things if they’re actively on fire.

It started with one stray, a battle-scarred tabby wearing tiny wire-rimmed glasses. I found him sitting in my hallway, studying the eviction notice that had fallen to the floor. Not pawing at it. Reading it.

The paper had been taped carelessly, cheap adhesive and gravity conspiring to bring my landlord’s latest threat down to cat-eye level. Pay within 28 days or face eviction proceedings.

I picked up the crumpled notice.

The cat opened a tiny notebook and sighed. “Have you considered cognitive behavioral therapy?”

I stumbled back into my apartment, slamming the door so hard the peeling paint fluttered to the floor.

The vodka bottle on my coffee table gleamed under the dim light—my only companion since I lost my job. Great. Now I was hallucinating talking cats.

I poured the rest of the liquor down the drain, watching my last comfort swirl away.

If that was what drinking got me, maybe sobriety was worth a shot.

Two days later, the tabby returned—with five others. Somehow, they were already inside. Maybe I had forgotten to lock the door.

They didn’t meow or scratch. They arranged themselves in a circle on my floor, tails wrapped neatly around their paws.

“My name is Duchess, and I struggle with impulsive scratching,” a bedraggled Persian said, voice shaking.

A one-eyed Siamese offered a supportive headbutt.

“We’re proud of you for sharing,” said the tabby—Dr. Meowng, as the others called him. “Now, let’s discuss healthy coping mechanisms.”

I stood in my kitchen, watching stray cats process their emotional trauma while my microwave dinner grew cold.

“Would you mind brewing some catnip tea?” Dr. Meowng asked during a break. “It helps with group participation.”

I should have called animal control. Or my psychiatrist. Instead, I put the kettle on.

Week after week, my apartment became a sanctuary for emotionally damaged strays. They arrived with their baggage and left with homework—"Practice positive self-talk while hunting" or "Write three things you're grateful for in the litter box."

Dr. Meowng maintained strict professional boundaries, though I once caught him stress-eating from my garbage after a particularly challenging session.

The eviction deadline loomed. But when my landlord arrived to kick me out, he found twenty cats in business casual attire conducting a workshop on mindfulness. He backed away slowly, mumbling about an exorcist.

Then the housecats came.

Their owners whispered our name in private, slipping into my building like smugglers.

A tech billionaire’s Sphinx cat needed weekly therapy for body-image issues. An oil heiress paid triple to help her Scottish Fold overcome guilt about being born into privilege.

“Tiffany finally accepts that not every mouse has to be organic and free range,” gushed a woman in a Chanel suit, pressing an envelope of cash into my hands.

A Russian Blue handled scheduling with military precision, color-coding appointments by neurosis.

Red for attachment issues.

Blue for litter-box anxiety.

Gold for vacuum cleaner phobias.

By the eighth session, my fire escape had become a waiting room. A Himalayan refused to enter because of a long-standing grudge against the Bengal inside. A tuxedo cat with commitment issues kept pacing, unable to decide if therapy was worth her time.

We switched to daily sessions because of the patient backlog. My landlord stopped threatening eviction. Now he avoided eye contact entirely.

One morning, I mediated a heated debate about the psychological impact of discount scratching posts while water dripped through a hole in the ceiling into a bucket.

That afternoon, I counseled a Birman through Instagram burnout.

That evening, Dr. Meowng and I debated whether a Persian’s anxiety stemmed from her new cat tower’s color scheme or a deeper fear of change.

Then things got weird.

A Maine Coon arrived convinced he was being haunted by the ghost of an ex-owner. We had to call in a paranormal therapy specialist—an elderly tortoiseshell with half an ear and a thousand-yard stare. She led a séance on my coffee table, knocking over my only houseplant.

We introduced Inter-Species Relations workshops. A calico had a breakthrough when she realized her hatred of vacuum cleaners was really displaced aggression toward an emotionally unavailable owner.

An Abyssinian staged a sit-in on my stove, refusing to move until his owner acknowledged his emotional labor. A Japanese Bobtail had a full-blown meltdown when his favorite sunspot was taken by a rival tabby.

Emergency intervention.

Dr. Meowng conducted a mediation session, flanked by two enforcers—a scarred alley cat named Buster and a three-legged ex-show cat who had seen things. They settled the dispute with a formal pawshake.

This is my life now.

It’s 2 AM, and I’m sitting on my couch—now permanently covered in fur—as a Ragdoll sobs about his trust fund being tied up in stocks.

A notification pings on my phone.

$3,000 deposited.

I stare at the screen.

Somehow, this ridiculous therapy practice has saved my life.

The fridge is full of gourmet tuna. I have a waiting list. I haven’t even thought about alcohol.

My old life is a distant dream. I can afford rent now, but I stay in my rent-controlled apartment. Where else am I going to go? Besides, this is my job now. The refrigerator still rattles, but now it stores designer catnip next to my takeout containers. My landlord slips rent receipts under my door, ignoring the midnight yowling.

The strays pay in purrs and dead mice. The posh cats’ owners, thankfully, pay in dollars.

Dr. Meowng has expanded his staff—a Bengal who specializes in past-life regression, a Maine Coon expert in play therapy, and a Ragdoll who runs Embracing Your Inner Predator workshops for overly domesticated cats from Central Park West.

During another packed session, as we process someone’s food scarcity trauma, my bank notification pings—two thousand dollars in client payments.

I haven’t spoken to another human in months—except to run their credit cards. My clothes reek of cat throw-up and catnip, with a lingering hint of tuna. My apartment overflows with cats working through their issues, a constant in my life and, somehow, the most stable relationship I have.

Dr. Meowng says that’s something we should probably discuss in our next session. He’s added me to the waiting list, right between a cat with commitment issues and a tabby struggling with his hunter’s identity crisis.

I think I’m finally ready to talk about my own problems.

The tiny notebook opens. The glasses are adjusted. Dr. Meowng looks at me with professional concern.

“So,” he says, “tell me about your mother.”