My Therapist Can Talk To Animals- Part 1
By MelisMovingOn on March 21, 2014
Last Fall, my depression got so unbearable that I finished a quest I started nearly three years prior to get a referral to a civilian psychiatrist. My husband is a military psychiatrist and we felt it best I didn't visit his colleagues for my mental health care at the military hospital where our insurance prefers we go for care. I was so desperate for help that when the referral incorrectly placed me with a psychologist, rather than psychiatrist, I called and made the appointment anyway. On the phone, the doctor told me that she saw patients at her home and asked if I had allergies to cats. I said no. She told me that when I came to just walk in and take a seat; she would call for me when she was ready. On the date we'd specified I drove up a street lined with normal middle class houses wondering which house Mapquest would tell me to stop at. Mapquest needn't utter a thing because as soon as I saw the eery grey house with the red door by which hung a "Danger: Beware of Cats" sign I knew I'd reached my destination. As I got out of the Jeep, I looked up at the second story window lined with colorful plush animals, backs to the window, as though they were part of an intervention for their friend sock monkey who'd huffed one too many fluff balls. I trudged forward imagining perhaps I was there to bust the poor monkey free.
When I reached the door there was no placard indicating this was a clinic or even a Post It note saying "come in," so I was reluctant to follow Dr. Griffin's instructions. It was my curiosity that gave me a push to discover whether or not there really were rabid cats inside as the sign warned. The door opened into a living room. The first thing I saw was a kitchen chair on which sat a mountain of magazines and mail. All around me was the stench of cat urine. There was also a table with three piles of magazines, a couple chairs around it, an armchair and a couch whose arms were lined with black garbage sacks and two cat activity towers and three cats sniffing my diaper bag. I was a little confused as to whether I had entered a quarantine zone for wild peeing felines or a waiting room of sorts. A women appeared from a door behind the table and I asked her if I was in the right place. She just smiled and said something in Spanish while she started to gather the trash bags from the living room and the kitchen which was behind the door from which she came. I noted many more cat towers in the kitchen and the room beyond that.
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