THE PURR-FESSIONAL: THERAPY SESSIONS FOR THE TRAUMATIZED PET

I didn't ask for this job. Most cats dream of professional napping, competitive judgmental staring, or Olympic-level indifference. Me? I somehow became the Dr. Phil of the pet world, except with actual intelligence and without the mustache.

The thing about intelligence is that it's a curse. When you're the smartest creature in a three-block radius, the problems of lesser beings inevitably become your burden. That's how I ended up running an unlicensed therapy practice out of my human's home office in the quiet suburban nightmare of Maple Ridge.

So here I am, Professor Felix Whiskerly. I have a Ph.D. in Feline Psychology and am tenured at the prestigious University of Litterbox (don't ask about the accreditation). I'd offer you my business card, but I lack opposable thumbs, and quite frankly, I'd probably just bat it under the refrigerator anyway.

I live with my human, Sarah, who believes she "owns" me. Adorable, isn't it? It's just a delusion, but I permit it because of the tax situation. She's a therapist herself, which is how I picked up the trade. Every day, she disappears to "help people with their problems," leaving me to nap on her client chair and absorb the therapeutic ambiance. Little does she know that when she leaves for work, I run my own practice out of her home office.

It began, as most catastrophes do, with a single moment of weakness. Mr. Fluffington, the Persian from three doors down with more hair than brains, was having what humans call a "nervous breakdown" over his new kibble. His human, a woman whose fashion choices suggest she's still emotionally trapped in 2003, had switched to store-brand food. The horror. The indignity.

"What do I do, Felix?" he wailed, his flat face somehow managing to look even more compressed with misery.

"Simple," I replied, flicking my tail with surgical precision. "Puke it up. Not just anywhere. Do it on her pillow. The white one with the embroidery she's so proud of. Make it count."

Three days later, Mr. Fluffington was back on premium food. Word spread faster than catnip rumors at a shelter.

And that's how my waiting room, which Sarah calls "her living room,” came to be filled today with the neurotic, the damaged, and the inconvenienced pets of Maple Ridge. I regard them all with the same expression: barely concealed contempt mixed with professional interest. It's a delicate balance.

Welcome to "Paws and Reflect," the only pet therapy group in Maple Ridge that addresses the unique trauma of living with these strange, bipedal creatures we call humans.

Mr. Fluffington was the first, but his friends soon followed. I caught Rex, the golden retriever from across the street, crying behind the azaleas. Rex has the intelligence of a tennis ball and the emotional complexity of Shakespeare's Hamlet.

Now, seeing a 90-pound dog weeping like he had just finished watching "Marley & Me" again was concerning enough, but when I asked what was wrong, the floodgates opened.

"My human... she... she keeps pretending to throw the ball," he sobbed. "But the ball is STILL IN HER HAND! Every. Single. Time. And I fall for it. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME."

"And how does that make you feel?" I asked, channeling my inner Sarah.

"Like the fool who has trusted a thousand times too many," he replied with unexpected eloquence. Then he ate a bee.

I knew then that my calling had found me, whether I wanted it or not. Today's session is particularly well-attended. I leap onto Sarah's leather chair, which still bears the evidence of my "texture testing" (she calls it "destroying her furniture"; I call it "tactile research").

"Welcome, everyone," I purr, switching into my professional voice. "Let's begin with our group mantra."

Three dogs, two cats, two parakeets, a turtle, and an extremely reluctant ferret begin to recite in unison: "I am not just a pet. I am a complex being with emotional needs."

The ferret, Winston, just sighs dramatically. He's new and still clinging to the illusion that he's somehow above this.

"Excellent. Now, who would like to start today?"

Bella, a perpetually anxious Yorkie wearing a rhinestone collar that screams “My human thinks I'm an accessory,” raises her paw.

"Professor Whiskerly, I've been practicing the boundary-setting techniques we discussed last week, but I'm struggling. Every time my human goes to the bathroom, she still expects me to accompany her. I've tried sitting firmly by my food bowl, but then she says, 'Don't you love me anymore?' in that high-pitched voice, and I just... I just can't disappoint her."

"Bella, we've discussed this. Humans lack the emotional maturity to use the bathroom alone. It's why they invented smartphones. Your human's separation anxiety is not your responsibility."

"But she looks so sad when I don't follow," Bella whimpers.

"Try the displacement technique. Next time, bring her a toy instead. Make her throw it, then don't return. Classic misdirection."

Meatball, an overweight pug, snorts from his cushion.

"At least your human doesn't monitor your caloric intake like you're a contestant on 'The Biggest Loser,'" he wheezes. "The vet said I needed to lose three pounds, and suddenly my human is weighing my kibble on a kitchen scale and downloading intermittent fasting apps. Yesterday, she looked me dead in the eyes while eating a donut and said, 'Sorry, buddy, the vet says no more treats.' Who is she kidding? I've seen her search history. 'Can dogs take Ozempic?' and 'Doggy weight loss supplements.' Maybe she should try the Ozempic herself before hiding my Milk-Bones. The audacity of someone who orders DoorDash three times a week to lecture ME about portion control!"

I nod wisely kneading the desk blotter because it helps me think. Also, it ruins Sarah's paperwork, which is a bonus.

Rex, our golden retriever with ball-related PTSD, woofs in agreement. "That just might work. But Professor, can we address the elephant in the room?"

I look around suspiciously.

"No, not an actual elephant. I mean the TikTok issue."

Ah yes. The latest crisis affecting the pet community.

"For those new to the group," I explain, licking my paw casually, "many of our humans have become obsessed with filming us for something called 'content.' Rex, would you like to share your experience?"

Rex stands, his tail drooping. "My human has created an account called '@GoldenBoyRex' with half a million followers. She records herself saying absolute nonsense in a voice that sounds like what would happen if a cartoon chipmunk had a baby with a squeaky toy, then pretends it's me talking. She claims it's trendy, whatever that means.”

A murmur of sympathy ripples through the room.

"Yesterday," continues Rex, "she spent four hours trying to make me 'smile' on command while she filmed a sponsored post for some dental chew that tastes like the underside of a garbage truck. I'm considering running away to become a wilderness guide dog."

I hold up my paw for silence. "Social media exploitation is indeed reaching epidemic proportions. Remember, you always have the right to sabotage their filming by suddenly needing to lick your private parts..”

The parakeets, Zoom and Skype (yes, their human works in tech) flutter anxiously.

"We have a different problem," says Zoom. "Our human hasn't left the house since people started hoarding toilet paper. He's always there, staring at us, talking to his computer about 'synergy' and 'circling back.' Sometimes, he holds us up during video meetings and makes us wave."

"And he keeps calling us his 'coworkers,'" adds Skype. "Last week, he put tiny ties on us and took our picture for his LinkedIn profile."

I make a note on my invisible pad. "Classic case of remote work syndrome. Many humans still haven't adjusted to post-pandemic boundaries. I recommend creating a designated 'bird space' where you refuse to perform. Perhaps try spontaneous molting during his important calls."

The therapy door creaks open, and we all freeze. A massive Maine Coon slips in the door. His fur is perfectly groomed, and he's wearing what appears to be a miniature AirPod in one ear.

"Apologies for my tardiness," he says in a vaguely European accent that I'm almost certain is fake. "The Tesla was charging."

This is Maximilian, the neighborhood's most pretentious cat. He belongs to a tech entrepreneur who installed a cat door that only opens by recognizing Maximilian's microchip. I've tried to sneak in there for the heated floors and automated food dispensers, but security is tighter than Fort Knox.

"Maximilian," I nod, professionally hiding my disdain. "We were just discussing human social media obsession."

"Oh, please," he scoffs. "That's so 2023. My human has moved on to much more concerning behavior. He's been feeding my daily activities into something called ChatGPT to create a 'predictive model of feline behavior.' Now, he tries to anticipate my every move. I can't even plan to knock a glass off the counter without him removing it first. It's psychological warfare."

The room falls silent. This is, indeed, next-level human strangeness.

"That's... concerning," I admit. "Have you tried deliberately acting out of character to confuse the algorithm? Perhaps enjoy a vegetable or walk on a leash willingly?"

Maximilian shudders. "I would never degrade myself with a leash. However, I did sit on his keyboard during an investor call and typed out what appeared to be a coherent sentence about quarterly projections. He's now convinced I'm wise in a different way and is building me a custom language interface."

"That could work in your favor," I note. "Request premium cat food."

A loud doorbell chime interrupts our session, followed by the thud of a package hitting the porch.

Luna, a hairless sphinx cat who'd been quietly judging everyone from the bookshelf, rolls her eyes. "Ugh. Another minion of Jeff Bezos here to fuel my human's impulsive shopping. That 'Subscribe & Save' pet deodorizer spray was a personal attack." She licks her paw indignantly. "The irony is that my human needs deodorizing far more than I do. Have you smelled their gym clothes? It's like a biochemical weapon. But no, I'm the one who gets spritzed with 'Fresh Linen' scent twice a week. The nerve."

I jump down from the desk to pace the floor. It helps me think, plus it makes my tail look magnificent as it swishes behind me.

"Friends, what we're encountering is a pandemic of human projection. They assign us human emotions, desires, and even career aspirations without considering our authentic animal selves."

Maximilian rolls his eyes. "Says the cat running a therapy practice."

I shoot him a look that clearly communicates where he can shove his designer cat food. Before I can properly put Maximilian in his place, the sound of keys jingling in the front door sends us all into a panic.

"Emergency protocol!" I hiss. "Hide, everyone!”

The living room erupts into chaos. Rex dives behind the couch with a thud, his tail still visible but wagging frantically. Bella squeezes under the TV stand, a space clearly not designed for even the tiniest Yorkie.

The parakeets zoom back to their cage at warp speed, while the ferret slithers under the rug creating a suspicious moving lump. The turtle simply closes his shell with a soft 'pop.'

Mr. Fluffington and Luna scramble up the bookshelf, knocking over Sarah's collection of self-help books in the process. Meatball attempts to hide behind a houseplant half his size, panting heavily from the exertion.

Maximilian, the insufferable show-off, somehow manages to teleport into an empty vase, his eyes peering over the rim like a submarine periscope.

"Five seconds!" I announce, leaping onto the couch and arranging myself into the universal cat position of "I've been napping here all day and definitely haven't been running an unlicensed therapy practice."

The door swings open, and Sarah bursts into the room. I see her carrying a small pet carrier, and she's grinning ear to ear like she just won the lottery.

"Felix! I'm home early! And I've brought someone special!"

Oh no. I know that tone. That's the "I made a life-altering decision without consulting you" voice.

Sarah sets the carrier down and opens the little door. Out waddles the smallest, most ridiculous-looking puppy I've ever seen. All ears and paws, with a face only a human could love.

"Meet Pickle!" Sarah announces. "Isn't he adorable? The shelter said he's a dachshund-corgi mix!"

Pickle looks around the room, his eyes wide and innocent, utterly oblivious to the fact that he's just interrupted the most prestigious underground pet therapy session in Maple Ridge.

"I thought you might like a friend while I'm at work, Felix," Sarah exclaims. She completely misses the suspicious rustling behind the couch and the lump underneath her rug.

"I'm going to grab some treats from the kitchen so you two can get better acquainted. Be nice, Felix!"

Sarah disappears around the corner, humming to herself, blissfully unaware of the tension in her living room.

Pickle toddles over to me, sniffs once, and then says in a squeaky puppy voice that only we animals can hear, "Hi! I'm Pickle! What's going on here? Is this a party? I LOVE parties! Are you my brother now? Can we be best friends? I've never had a best friend! Or a brother! Or a party!"

I close my eyes slowly and open them again, maintaining my professional composure.

"Sarah," I meow, which she interprets as a standard greeting rather than the existential cry for help it truly is.

"Look, Felix, he even has his own little therapy vest! The shelter says he's a trainee emotional support animal!"

Pickle wags his tiny tail and says, "I have absolutely NO idea what I'm doing, but I'm SUPER excited about it!"

I glance around at my clients. They are all staring at me with a mix of horror and amusement. Then, back at Pickle, who is now chasing his own tail in delirious circles.

"What's with all the animals?" Pickle yips as pets begin cautiously emerging from their hiding spots once Sarah is out of sight. "Why is everyone playing hide and seek? I LOVE hide and seek!"

Meatball the pug lets out an exasperated sigh. "We're doomed."

It seems the doctor has just become a patient.

"Same time next week," I murmur to the group as I hear Sarah rummaging through cabinets in the kitchen. "And someone, please bring catnip. A lot of it."