My cat is not my child. My cat is my therapist.
When chaos swirls around me and worry controls me, she sits contently. Eyes closed. Front paws tucked under her. Purring. She accepts there are things she cannot change. Lives in the moment.
She, like most pets, never lies or cheats. (OK. Maybe indulges in catnip or steals a mouse that a neighbor cat has had on eye on.)
Sits and listens to me ramble. Isn't judgemental. Doesn't tell me what to do. Doesn't charge a co-pay or tell me I can't have another appointment for six weeks. Sure, scratches up the furniture. Isn't potty trained. No big deal.
Sure, I don't see her or treat her a human being. Shes not my child. I don't talk to her in baby talk. But I know I'll ball my eyes out the day she's gone.
I just appreciate what she brings into my life. (Even if some days, its just a little something in the cat box.)
She doesn't ask for much for much in return.
A co-worker had a dog that had gotten so old feeble that it couldn't climb the stairs. So each night he'd carry him (all 60 or so pounds of him) up to bed. He said he did it because he knew, that if he was in the same situation, his dog would carry him up the stairs if he could.
I just think every situation is unique. For some people, a pet is the only family they have. Others treat their pets as their kids. Some even treat their kids like dogs.
Hold on. The cat is scratching the couch. Guess she's telling me this session is over. Or maybe she's just happy. She'll let me figure it out. See, I told you she was a good therapist!