Story 62: Reza Shadey and the Cat Psychologist
Okay, snuggle down tight, little ones. Let me tell you a tale about a very cheeky and magnificently fluffy cat who decided he didn't need help... and then went to give some anyway.
Reza Shadey — the grandest, fluffiest, most magnificently bossy Persian cat in the whole wide world — was having an operational meltdown.
Not just any meltdown.
Oh no.
This was a Mrs Higgins's-hidden-the-extra-sardines-and-Reza-had-declared-a-mouse-strike-in-protest kind of meltdown.
The worst kind.
"Honestly", Reza yowled, draped across the kitchen counter like a furry opera singer mid-song, "the indignity. How can I supervise this entire operation without premium gourmet assets?"
His tail flicked dramatically — whoosh! — nearly sending Mrs Higgins's favourite teacup wobbling.
"Oops", he thought. "Must be more dramatic next time... without the smashy bits. Smashing is for Thursdays."
Mrs Higgins, who knew all about Reza's performances, didn't even look up from her tea.
"Reza, you silly sausage, you had salmon for breakfast. And that chicken leg you 'found' under the sofa."
"Insufficient", Reza huffed, puffing up until he looked like an extremely offended dandelion. "My planning, my napping, my general brilliance — it's all exhausting. I might faint. Or worse... become slightly peckish."
He flopped onto his side with a great dramatic sigh.
That was when Mrs Higgins picked up a bright leaflet.
"Reza", she said, "I've booked you an appointment."
Reza's emerald eyes narrowed.
"An appointment? With whom? The Sardine King?"
"A cat psychologist, dear. Dr Felicity Whiskerton."
Reza sat bolt upright.
"A psychologist? For me?"
He puffed out his chest.
"Mrs Higgins, my brain is a palace of perfect ideas. If anything, this doctor will be learning from me."
Mrs Higgins smiled.
"Ten o'clock. You're going."
So off they went, Reza tucked into his carrier — which he described as "completely lacking in velvet and executive design" — to a place called Paw-sitive Pathways: Feline Therapy.
The waiting room was... disappointing.
A scratching post in one corner.
A gently bubbling fish tank in another.
Reza sniffed.
"Suboptimal", he muttered. "No throne. No cushions. And those fish look far too cheerful. Suspicious behaviour."
Just then, the door opened.
Out stepped Dr Felicity Whiskerton — a sleek Siamese with calm blue eyes and a neat little badge on her collar.
"Reza Shadey", she said gently. "Do come in."
Her office was quiet and tidy.
In the middle sat a long, soft chaise longue.
Reza eyed it.
"Do I lie dramatically here", he asked, "or is there a more impressive option?"
"It works best if you tell the truth", said Dr Whiskerton.
Reza froze.
The truth?
He was always truthful.
Truthfully brilliant.
Truthfully magnificent.
Truthfully... right.
He hopped onto the chaise longue with a grand sigh.
"Very well", he said. "My primary concern is this: Mrs Higgins lacks basic management skills."
Dr Whiskerton nodded and picked up her notebook.
"Go on."
"Yesterday", Reza continued, "she attempted to sort her socks without consulting me."
He shook his head gravely.
"Socks must be organised by smell. Everyone knows that."
"I see", said Dr Whiskerton.
"And this morning", Reza went on, "a squirrel sat on my lawn. My lawn. I launched a perfectly executed chase — silent, swift, magnificent."
He paused, puffing out his chest.
"And what did I receive? No applause. No recognition. Just 'Get out of the rose bush, you silly sausage'."
Dr Whiskerton's whisker twitched slightly.
"And how did that make you feel?"
Reza sat up.
"Unappreciated", he declared. "Deeply, professionally unappreciated."
"And the sardines?"
"A crisis", said Reza at once. "A complete and utter sardine shortage. I am considering writing a formal complaint."
"To whom?"
"The World Sardine Council, of course."
Dr Whiskerton made a small note.
"And what would you like them to do?"
Reza's eyes gleamed.
"Send more sardines. Immediately. Possibly name a day after me. 'International Reza Appreciation Day'. And perhaps a small chant — 'Sardines now! Sardines forever!'. It has a nice ring to it."
Dr Whiskerton nodded slowly.
"Sometimes", she said, "big plans can be a way of trying to feel in control."
Reza blinked.
Then he laughed so loudly his belly wobbled.
"Doctor", he said, "I am in control. I am the boss, the planner, the entire committee."
He leaned forward.
"In fact... I believe I can help you."
Dr Whiskerton raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"Your patients", Reza continued, "are clearly underperforming. What they need is guidance. Leadership. A little sparkle."
Before she could reply, he had leapt off the chaise longue.
"Lesson one: sunbathing", he announced. "Always aim for the warmest spot. Strategic positioning is key."
He demonstrated by stretching luxuriously across the cushion.
"Lesson two: meowing. There are at least seventeen varieties. This one —"
"MrrrOW!"
"— means 'I require a snack immediately'."
From the waiting room, Mrs Higgins called, "You do not."
Reality flickered for just a moment.
Reza paused.
Then carried on as if nothing had happened.
"And lesson three: cushion fluffing. Two paws, circular motion, with confidence."
Dr Whiskerton watched him carefully.
"Fascinating", she said. "You've outsourced responsibility for everything that goes wrong. Very efficient."
Reza beamed.
"Exactly. Delegation is the mark of brilliance."
At last, Dr Whiskerton stood.
"Time's up, Reza."
Reza gave a satisfied stretch.
"I do hope you took notes", he said. "That was essentially a masterclass."
Mrs Higgins was waiting outside.
"How was it, dear?"
Reza strutted out of the room, tail high.
"A very successful session", he declared. "I've onboarded her completely. With a bit more training, she may become quite competent."
Mrs Higgins smiled and scooped him up.
Back in her office, Dr Whiskerton looked down at her notes.
Most of them were observations about one very fluffy cat with a very firm belief in his own brilliance.
At the bottom of the page, she added:
"Severe Narrative-Lock. Charming. Absolutely incorrigible."
Then, after a moment, she added:
"Note to self: bring stronger catnip next time."
That afternoon, Reza curled up in his favourite sunspot.
He dreamed of a grand parade in his honour...
...followed by mountains of sardines...
...all carefully organised by his very competent staff.
Mrs Higgins looked down at him and smiled.
Some cats, after all, are simply too magnificent to manage.
And Reza Shadey was quite determined to remain exactly as magnificent as he already was.
Night night. Sleep tight.