The cat says I’m the cause of her anxiety.

Me! Of all people.

The one who found her half-starved outside our back porch, meekly mewing on that wet fall afternoon. The one cleans her litter box and cleans up after her little accidents, which have become more frequent lately.

I’m the problem.

That, according to my wife, is what the cat told the cat psychic. My wife hired this person in an act of desperation after Petunia—that’s the name of our snub-nosed Persian holy terror—started to act aggressively toward me. It started a few months ago. Whenever I tried to pet Petunia, she would nip at my hand or claw, or both, then growl like a watchdog and run toward the kitchen to hide under the table.

Before the cat psychic, though, my wife hired a cat psychiatrist. I told her she was crazy to spend money on a shrink for a stray cat, but my wife pouted at me and I said, sure, what the hell, give it a shot.

This cat psychiatrist—actually, she’s a pet psychiatrist who also works with dogs and hamsters and presumably non-furry pets, like turtles and goldfish—diagnosed Petunia as suffering from some sort of anxiety disorder. She suggested we “enrich Petunia’s environment” with more toys, more safe spaces for her privacy, more scratch poles. Now I’m three hundred dollars lighter in the wallet, we have a dozen multi-colored stuffed and rubber toys scattered around the house, a new cat tower Petunia ignores with disdain, and hideaway boxes in my reading room and our living room that never get used. More clutter, more things to trip over, and still an anxiety-ridden fluffy cat who tears tufts of long hair from her body and glares indignantly at me whenever I’m in her presence.

So my wife turned to Google, which opened to her a brand-new world of grifters, in my opinion. Pet psychics. Or as some of them call themselves, “animal communicators.” She found one who specializes in cats and lives a few miles away, so she took Petunia to her for a “reading,” or whatever a cat psychic would call it. Good luck holding that cat’s paw like a palm reader!

By the time I got home from work, my wife and Petunia were seated at the kitchen table, Petunia occupying my chair like it was her throne. They sat solemnly, like they were about to conduct an intervention, when my wife broke the news.

According to the psychic, my wife says, the cat says I ignore her needs. That I disregard her desire for pets and play time. That I don’t treat her like a true part of our little family. That, my wife says, is what the psychic says is affecting Petunia’s mental health. The pet psychic is very concerned, my wife says.

You’ve got to be kidding me, I say.

According to the cat psychic, my wife goes on, the cat says she loves our home and loves me deeply. She is grateful to me for rescuing her. Well, that’s nice, I say, and throw a glance at Petunia, who sits upright like the queen of the castle.

My wife says the cat psychic says the cat says she was sent here to be my spirit guide, but that I am spiritually closed off and obstructing the channels that would allow the cat to do her work, to follow her calling to heal me spiritually.

Seriously? Come on, I say, how can you believe this crap?

My wife says the cat psychic says the cat says I need to take a deep look inside myself. I need to check in on my heart, to acknowledge my own personal pain and anxiety. Only then can true healing begin.

Good grief, I say. You people, I say, and then I realize they are not you people but a person and a cat.

My wife continues, her voice weighty with concern: The cat psychic says the cat says I should start practicing meditation, for my sake and hers, and start sending good thoughts of appreciation her way. The cat psychic says the cat says I can do this at work or anywhere; I do not need to be near Petunia. In fact, the cat psychic says the cat says she would prefer I not be near her until I am able to come to terms with my own emotional insecurities and instability. Also, my wife says, the cat psychic says Petunia wants you to call her by her name. Don’t just call her the cat. Say her name. Say her name, Arnold! Say her name!

My wife tells me all of this as I stand with arms folded in our kitchen. Petunia glares at me with penetrating green snake eyes that peer into my soul. Are you serious, I say, and my wife shrugs and says, That’s what the psychic told us.

I sigh. So I’m the problem?

Apparently so, says my wife.

I look at Petunia, her flat, broad Persian face a picture of smugness.

So, what should I do?

Petunia chirrups, jumps out of my chair, and strolls toward the food bowl.

Well, it looks like she’s hungry. You could start by feeding her.

Me? But you always feed her.

Yeah, I do. Maybe you should feed her once in a while.

Do you think that will help? I reach into the counter, where we keep an ample supply of Fancy Feast. The cat sits by her bowl, glaring.

No, not that one. She doesn’t like that kind. Try the Tuna Florentine.

I shake my head and pop the top on the cat food.

Clean her bowl first, my wife says.

Oh. Right. I retrieve the bowl, rip a paper towel from the rack, wipe clean the remnants of an earlier feeding, and scoop some food into her dish. I carry it toward her as she sits expectantly. Your highness, I grumble beneath my breath as I set it before her.

Say her name, my wife says.

Here you go, Petunia. I say. Bon appetit.

The cat dives into the bowl and snarfs. I sit in my chair, which is warm thanks to the cat’s body heat.

Do you remember how to meditate?

I nod. Sure. It’s been years, but I know how it’s done.

Maybe you should try that.

Are you serious?

Maybe you should try it now, she says. The cat therapist said it’s important to begin new behaviors immediately.

I shrug. Okay. Sure. What the hell.

Arnold, my wife says, you have to be invested in this. You have to take this seriously.

I know, I know. For Petunia’s sake.

She smiles. That’s right. For Petunia’s sake. She stands and says, I’ll have dinner ready in about thirty minutes.

I walk down the hall, into my reading room, and sit in the overstuffed leather chair Petunia has practically clawed to shreds. I sit, both feet on the floor, hands on the chair arms, and try to relax. To clear my mind. To breathe.

I begin a body scan, observing with each breath one part of my body from head to toe, observing each part, acknowledging each—any pain, any tension, any stiffness—as thoughts float through my mind like soft clouds across a placid sky. I drift into nothingness, and I’m back to my boyhood, holding and petting a yellow tabby I named Tiger, a cat who ran away and never returned. A cat who broke my young heart. How I missed Tiger for so long, but now I feel his presence once again, after all these years.

I continue to breathe, to let the thoughts pass like clouds, and I hear a soft, gentle rumble at my feet, a throaty purr. I open my eyes and look down to see Petunia, my spirit guide, rubbing against one ankle and purring.

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Andrew Careaga is a retired marketing and public relations practitioner whose writing has appeared or will appear in The Argyle, Frazzled Lit, Flash Fiction Magazine, Hidden Peak Press, In Short, Orange Rose, Roi Fainéant, Spillwords, and elsewhere. One of his works was nominated for the Best Micro Fiction Anthology of 2026. He lives in Rolla, Missouri, USA. He can be found on X/Twitter, Instagram, and Bluesky at @andrewcareaga, and on his website, andrewcareaga.com.