Therapy

“That cat is freaking me out man!”

My therapist sucked on the end of his pen thoughtfully.

“Tell me Jim,” he said pausing for a moment. His pauses were billed at an hourly rate. “Just how long have you had this hatred of animals?”

“What the fuck are you talking about? Who said anything about hating animals?”

I looked over at him from my position on the couch. He was now using a letter opener as a toothpick while looking out the window.

“I see. And how do you feel about that?” His repertoire of insightful comments knew no bounds.

“About what? Are we still talking about the cat?”

“Ah yes…the cat. How do you feel about that cat? What about it freaks you out?”

Finally we seemed to be back on track.

“He spends hours hanging on the living room curtain. He is only doing it to freak me out. No cat spends all day hanging from a curtain for no good reason. Claw fatigue alone should make him take a break occasionally.”

“I see. How do you feel about that?”

I glanced back over at him again. From somewhere, he had produced a fruity drink; the kind they serve at beach resorts with the little umbrellas and flags sticking out of a floating orange slice.

“I uh…um…say…where did you get that?”

“I want to focus on you,” he said leaning over to take a big drag from a straw while waiting for a response.

I turned away and crossed my arms on my chest. He should have offered me a drink.
The session eventually ended in a stalemate.

As far as the cat is concerned, I took down the drapes.

This morning, I caught him tying little suction cups to his feet. He is up to something.

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