How Does That Make You Feeline?

 My cat's psychiatrist is an idiot. After three sessions, he took me aside and explained to me how fat Olive actually is. We both agreed that if she could get her weight down, I would love her more, maybe even as much as I love my other pets, which according to the doctor might also help with her promiscuity. He suggested a diet plan and positive reinforcement. We had a short conversation about introducing her to cigarettes, and I left his office unimpressed with his impression of Jim Carrey as The Mask. 

 Olive and I then headed home with a handful of advice, and a nicotine patch that would only stick to the inside of her ear."We're not stopping for ice cream", I said sternly, without being asked. Olive replied nothing. 

 I carried her from my bike, unlocked the door, and let her out of her shoebox once we were inside. My other cat, The Pope, darted away from the food bowls that she desperately tries to nourish herself from when Olive isn't looking. Olive's obesity was hurting everyone around her. It was time to make some life saving changes. 

 I filled her bowl, and neglected all other responsibilities to monitor her every action. Every time she resisted her friskies, I rewarded her with a tasty treat. I was feeling closer to her already, and then she threw up."Let it all out", I patted her on the back,"It's going to get worse before it gets better." I gave her another cigarette and a treat for not coughing. 

 It was only a few days later, at the cat park, that I started seeing some real signs of improvement. I was taking pictures of her on the exercise equipment when I bumped into her psychiatrist and his family. I was thrilled with Olive's progress on the monkey bars, but in his opinion, one isn't enough. We discussed my financial options for putting her down, and came to the conclusion that it would be cheaper just to continue her therapy. It wasn't until Olive pointed it out that I realized his wife had pinkeye, but I held any further questions until our next scheduled office appointment. 

 Olive must have had a real breakthrough at that next appointment, because she came out crying, and I almost forgot to inquire about the doctor's wife. It turns out that the condition runs in his wife's family and she recently passed it on to their son."It comes and goes", he sighed, before changing the subject back to business."Olive's test results show that her cuteness has been rapidly declining. If something adorable doesn't happen soon, the next step will have to be surgery." Olive was still crying, and silently farted, with that "I hate myself" look in her eyes. 

 She was still fat, and lazy, with an irritating lack of control over her sexuality, and no, she wasn't cute anymore, and she exhales just as regularly from one end of her body as the other.. but it was that moment, there, while that doctor wrote a refill for her mood leveling prescriptions, that I suddenly, finally, loved her. Those hopeless eyes reminded me of a starving child I saw in a commercial, as I robotically checked my pockets for change."Let's go smoke some crack, Olive!", I sang."Get back in the shoebox, we're not stopping for ice cream."

 "Smokin'!", said the psychiatrist as he tossed the half written form in the trash bin."I guess you won't be needing this anymore!" We all laughed together, even Olive, through her tears inside of the box. 

 ...Long story short, she never saw another doctor again, ever, for any reason, and we lived happily ever after for all the remaining years of her life.