Adopt a Pet and Heal Your Soul - Just Don’t Lose a Limb
by Marek Glinski
Approximately 13 minutes into my 500th-or-so therapy session, my shrink interrupted my usual litany of complaints about the human race:
"Why don't you get a pet? Pet's are proven to be therapeutic. Yeah, get a pet!"
Then he excused himself and went to the bathroom for, like 10 minutes, which he often did during our sessions. Who does that?
I'm fairly certain his suggestion was code for "After 10 agonizing years, I can't stand listening to you any more. You're beyond hope and, frankly, you annoy me."
I came to this conclusion after reading these comments, almost verbatim, on my therapist's notepad while he was allegedly relieving himself.
But then I thought, as I stole the expensive fountain pen from his desk and walked out of his office, "Why not get a pet?"
I read that the right pet can be good for the soul. And they couldn't be any worse than people. But what WAS the right pet?
Narcissist’s best friend
I started with a dog. Obvious choice. I read that dogs are subservient and that they worship their owners' every move. Perfect for my needs, as I have been described by more than one former friend as a narcissist. So, I hit the animal shelter and went with a chihuahua named Carl. Perfect lap size, plus there are all these Youtube videos where people dress up their chihuahuas to look like high-string celebrities. I thought, "There's a hobby that can bring out my creative side!". So, I took Carl home, and things were fine for the first 20 minutes or so.
At approximately minute 21, Carl started having amorous relations with the back of my leg and would not quit for the ensuing minutes…hours…days. At first I felt sympathetic–then impressed–but, after two straight weeks of Carl ravishing my calf wherever I went, I started to think that the nature of this pet therapy had become a little… one dimensional. And I was starting to get blisters. This ruined me for dogs. I gave Carl to my next door neighbor, who happens to be legless.
Thanks for nothing, cat!
On to cats. Sweet and cuddly, right? I limped back to the pet shelter and brought home Sunshine, a self-contained calico verging on obesity. I was relieved to find that Sunshine could not be less interested in the back of my leg. But Sunshine's indifference extended to the rest of my physical presence. Sunshine completely ignored me and even hissed when I tried to pet her.
I started to think that Sunshine had bigger issues than I did. I yelled at her as I frantically squeezed her squeaky mouse toy: "Hey, I'm the one needing therapy here. Do something… therapeutic! Purr in my lap. Run hysterically into my picture window. Become terrified by a cucumber. At least play with this god-damned squeaky mouse that I shelled out three bucks for! Yo, I'm talking to you!"
Sunshine's response was to urinate on my living room rug and then sit by the front door, meowing to get out. So, I obliged her by opening the door and seeing her off with a kind word: "Watch out for those coyotes." Then I incinerated the rug.
Bird fails
I worked my way down various vertebrates. I didn't realize this pet therapy thing was going to be so trial and error, or that the pet store had such an unreasonable return policy.
Alfonso, the Brazilian parrot, made a very good first impression, but turned out only to speak Portuguese. Not exactly conducive to a meaningful relationship. When I tried to teach him even just a few words of English, the smug bird would just stare at me like I was some kind of idiot. Like I need that! Fortunately, my legless next-door neighbor is fluent in Spanish. Linguistically close enough. And Carl the chihuahua was happy for the company, having nothing to hump. Adeus, Alfonso.
I wasn't ready to give up on birds. Finches looked viable. I was just going to get one, but the lady at the pet store said they're social animals–probably upselling me! So, I got 5. The noise made me want to hang myself, and I got multiple complaints from the neighbors. Then one day I was cleaning the cage–and you need a hazmat suit to clean a cage for 5 finches. The little bastards escaped, flying all over the house, and doing their business wherever and whenever it suited them. Fortunately Sunshine made an unexpected return, and, well, Sunshine was hungry. At last that cat finally did something therapeutic for me!
Revenge is a dish best served fishy
I heard that watching fish could lower your blood pressure. I got a colorful clown loach and named it Bozo after my favorite childhood clown. True to my expectations, it was mesmerizing to watch Bozo whizzing around the bottom of the fish tank. I was starting to feel relaxed already! Unfortunately, Sunshine was also a fan. I turned my back for mere minutes to mix a martini and turn on some psychedelic music. In that time, Bozo became Sunshine's lunch. That cat was determined to destroy my serenity. I wanted revenge!
As luck would have it, the pet store was having a piranha sale. I took home a particularly ugly one and named it Roland because it looked like an old driving instructor, who was a real asshole. When Sunshine tried to help herself to more sushi, Roland turned the tables and took out a fleshy chunk out of the entitled harridan. She ran wailing out the door. Back to the coyotes, baby! Revenge was therapeutic, if short lived.
A few more fails and then…
I went through a few more desperate, but failed, attempts at pet therapy, including a hamster (I can only abide so much stupidity) and even a sloth (I got tired of dragging it around). I was at my wit's end, hanging a "Free sloth" sign on my front yard fence, when I heard a loud crash coming from my kitchen. I tiptoed back into the house, hand on my phone to call 9-1-1, when I saw a brown bear in my kitchen, inhaling my left-over lasagna.
… eureka!
I felt so validated! I can't tell you how many times I've served my homemade lasagna recipe, (handed down to me from my dearly departed aunt Tiffany, who, interestingly, sort of looked like a bear), only to have my dinner guests politely nibble a few pieces and shove their plates aside. This crushing rejection added a complex on top of the pile of emotional issues that I was trying to get therapy for in the first place. But now I realized, there was nothing wrong with my lasagna and, heck, there was nothing wrong with me!
I sentimentally named my new pet bear Tiffany and got busy whipping up another batch of aunty's recipe. I needed to do this quickly because Tiffany was growling at me quite a bit, and raising her claws in a threatening manner–obviously still hungry. It made me feel needed but also fearful for my life. I said to her as nicely as I could, "Look, if you tear off my arm, how am I going to score the tomatoes? If I can't make tomato sauce from scratch, I'm going to have to use store-bought tomato sauce, and then NOBODY will be happy!" I gave Tiffany 5 bags of Doritos, invited her to help herself to an extra hors d'oeuvre (Roland–I was over that ugly-ass fish) and turned the TV on. She loved "Is it Cake"" and became an instant binge watcher.
Well, I've been in a therapeutic pet relationship for six months, I'm a new person. I feel good about myself, and I've even learned new home improvement skills like patching, sanding, and painting my walls, which I have to do fairly often because of the claw marks. Tiffany appreciates my lasagna and I appreciate her nurturing hugs, even though she cracked a few of my ribs and once almost smothered me to death.
I even got up the confidence in my cooking to start inviting people over for dinner again to get over my reclusiveness. Unfortunately, they would run screaming as soon as they would see the seven-foot brown bear in my living room. But if they can't be accepting, that's on them. Tiffany and I have each other and that's all we need. I just wish we could watch something other than "Is it Cake?" Every time I try to switch to Hulu, she threatens to maul me.
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