Gabi Rome

Pop!

The toaster!

startles me, and I go into full fight or flight.

I can't breathe, I'm shaking, I'm hyperventilating, I fall to my knees, my cheek pressed against the cold tile of the kitchen floor, and I'm thinking, oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God.

And I wonder, can I die from a panic attack when I feel a tap on my forehead?

And through the tears, I see this little four-pound cat looking at me.

And I think, oh my God, did all those nights of bottle feeding actually create like a close emotional bond where she's like checking on me?

And then she taps me again.

No, this cat does not care about me or my emotional breakdown.

She heard a knock, and she would like her treat.

Please.

Silently, she's urging me, can you just get over it already?

I feel my heartbeat slow, and I have this moment where it dawns on me, I have a pet kitten?

She's not a guard dog, she's not a security system, she's a cat named Ruby, and she is not going to fix me.

I reach for the container of Friskies Party Mix Yums, and I realize I've been working on this internal issue with external solutions.

It's taken this beautiful, perfect selflessness of this cat to show me I need to get some help.

I need to see a doctor.

And I do.

It takes me years of therapy and hard work to get over it, but now,

I sleep great.