It started the way most important discoveries in my life start, with confusion, mild paranoia and a strong suspicion that I was finally losing my grip on reality.
For weeks my anxiety at work had been doing CrossFit. It was ripped. Veiny. Highly motivated. Every email felt like a court summons. Every Slack notification sounded like a fire alarm specifically designed to shame me. I had developed a nervous twitch in my left eyelid that could probably communicate in Morse code if given enough coffee.
And then, suddenly, things got better. Not dramatically better. Not “I now practice mindfulness and own houseplants” better. But noticeably better. My heart rate dropped from “hunted animal” to “concerned squirrel.” I stopped rehearsing imaginary arguments with my manager in the bathroom mirror. I even answered the phone without whispering, “This is how it ends.”
Something had changed.
At first, I assumed I was maturing. This theory lasted about six minutes before collapsing under the weight of all available evidence.
Then I blamed vitamins. Maybe magnesium. Or iron. Or one of those supplements with a name like “NeuroMegaBrainThunder.” I checked the bottle. It was expired and mostly dust.
Next, I considered burnout had finally pushed me into emotional numbness, which felt on brand.
But the calm had texture. Warmth. A fuzzy quality. Like emotional bubble wrap.
And then I noticed the cat hair. Tiny gray strands on my black work pants. On my office chair. On my desk. Once, inexplicably, in my keyboard, as if the cat had attempted remote employment.
This was odd, because I do not own a cat. My girlfriend does.
Her cat, Mr Pancake is a loaf-shaped creature with the facial expression of a retired mob accountant. He hates everyone except my girlfriend, the couch and apparently my untreated anxiety disorder.
The truth revealed itself on a Tuesday.
I came back early from lunch, head buzzing from a meeting where the phrase “circle back” had been used as a weapon. I opened the door to my office.
There he was.
Mr. Pancake.
On my chair.
Sitting like he paid rent.
He looked at me slowly, the way cats do when deciding whether you are furniture or a temporary inconvenience. Then he blinked.
My chest unclenched.
My shoulders dropped three centimetres.
I exhaled like a Victorian child released from a tuberculosis sanatorium.
It turned out my girlfriend had been dropping him off some mornings because her apartment was being fumigated. She assumed I knew.
I did not.
Instead, I had subconsciously absorbed the presence of a silent, judgmental fur loaf as a form of emotional regulation.
Every day, he arrived before me.
Every day, he sat.
Sometimes on my chair. Sometimes on my keyboard. Once directly on a printed report titled “Quarterly Performance Concerns,” which felt intentional.
When I stressed, he yawned.
When I panicked, he cleaned his foot.
When I hyperventilated, he stared at the wall like it was showing premium cable.
I began timing my breakdowns around his schedule.
Bad meeting at 10? Fine. Pancake arrives at 10:15.
Deadline panic? No problem. There is a creature nearby who believes time is fake and nothing matters.
He became my therapist, if therapists were small, furry, charged in tuna, and responded to emotional vulnerability by licking themselves.
I tried working without him once.
It was horrible.
I spiralled over a typo for forty minutes. I googled “how to resign professionally but mysteriously.” I considered becoming a lighthouse keeper, despite living nowhere near a lighthouse.
When Mr. Pancake returned, I almost cried into his neck. He bit me lightly, which I took as emotional boundaries.
Now I budget my mental stability in cat hours.
My productivity is measured in purrs.
HR still doesn’t know.
They think I’ve “grown into the role.”
I have not.
I’ve simply outsourced my emotional regulation to a sentient throw pillow with claws.
And honestly?
Best decision of my career.
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