Cat therapy

My friend A and I have a habit of thinking up businesses we would start if we were to leave grad school. And find ourselve with a large amount of money of course. Where the money comes from doesn't really figure in usually, although sometimes we embellish our fantasies with notions of rich aunts or other family members we could get the start up cash from. So far, these are my favorites - mobile cat therapy, the bed and not breakfast, the bathroom book, and the hip coffee shop that this poor excuse of a college town desperately needs.

Cat therapy is when you sit someplace warm and comfy with cats just piled up on you purring and snoozing away all your problems. No one does content like a happy snoozing cat. This picture is my cat therapy moment at A's parents' house this past winter. Oh boy did I need that this winter. The therapists featured in this photo are (left to right) Meepers, Zenj, and Myth.

Mobile cat therapy would involve a large van with 70s style shag carpetting on the interior and maybe some couchy type bench seats against the walls or, forsaking formal seats entirely, huge piles of multicolored chenille pillows and sueded fabric beanbags. The back of the van would be separated from the driver/passenger compartment so the cats would not be loose running around where you need to drive. And the cats would need to be screened, obviously, to be cats who are ok with being in cars. They do exist. We had one when I was a kid. His name was Tim and he adored riding in the car, but only out of the carrier. While this was a risky endeavor, it wasn't as reckless as it sounds. Because Tim liked the car, he would pick a spot and settle down to watch the road as opposed to scrambling up your leg or worse down below the steering column. More recently, I had stopped at CVS to run some errands. When I got out of my car, I noticed the car I had parked next to had an adorable grey british shorthair snoozing on the dashboard. He came to the side window when I practically squealed "Hey kitty kitty!" (which, to the horror of a couple of my grown up female friends and all but two of my ex-es, I do far too often). The owner came out soon and introduced me to him, saying he loved to go everywhere with her and even came to work with her.

People could call the cat therapy office and make appointments to have a therapy session on their break from work, school, or between jobs. We'd definitely have sliding scale fees where we overcharge our rich clients so we can ask only a small and affordable amount from the less economically advantaged. Probably we could throw in some kind of rich person enticement to justify charging them so much, give them 10 extra minutes, chamber music, a smoothie, and a power bar and call it the "Executive package" or something. I've considerd whether or not to have a special suit to put people in, something soft and kitty irresistable. This would help to reduce the unbusinesslike wads of fur that would inevitably stick to whatever the client was wearing while undergoing a treatment. But it is a little impractical. How would it fit everyone? Is it sanitary to have many clients sharing one cat cuddle suit? Potentialy, we could just advise our clients to bring special comfy clothes to work to have on hand in case they need to take a cat therapy break. Like those people who work out on their lunch break (or perpetually intend to). They bring gym clothes to work. They could just as easily bring a pair of comfy pajamas or something.

The bed and not breakfast is pretty elaborate financially and involves some high risk daydream investments but the result is an extremely nice diversion to think about now and then. I want to live someplace nice and comfortable, someplace big and weirdly designed like those victorian homes with turrets or whatever on them and old fashioned indoor pool/spa rooms that could be converted into a series of solariums (solaria?), greenhouses, and lounges. But I'd be surprised if I ever get my shit together enough to actually buy even a modest two bedroom house for myself. And even if I do, I'd get lonely in a big house. I like having folks around but I don't plan on having a family. Ah...maybe a bed and breakfast I thought at some point. Then there is the drawback that I hate mornings. I like having elaborate breakfasts prepared for me because they at least interest my exceptionally low morning appetite, but I usually feel so horrible in the morning that I can't eat much even when the eating includes things like crepes and portabella mushroom omlettes and roasted garlic and rosemary potatoes. There is no way in hell I could get up and make all that food for other people. So I would have an inn that served a very restricted menu of light late evening dinners and cocktails in a bohemian salon setting.

The inn would also be a cat shelter and pet boarding facility. Of the sheltered cats, those who don't have social anxiety issues would be allowed in the guest areas of the house and the boarded pets and slightly less person-sociable felines would stay in the (vast) cat friendly romper rooms, outdoor enclosures, and/or kitty condo like facilities that have been built for them.

Guests could bring their own cat with them to stay either in the guest room or in the cat boarding area, depending on the cat's general disposition and behavior. And guests could request rooms by resident shelter cat. "Do you have a long haired orange tabby suite available for the labor day weekend?" they would ask my diligent manager who would be attending veterinarian school and working here for free room and board plus a stipend when finances allowed. The dining room would be open to non-guests and any profit would be put back into running the shelter and inn.

The bathroom book is one of my favorites because I truly believe that this is necessary. It would be like one of those AAA guide books but it would have maps, reviews, and ratings of roadside bathrooms for different regions or well travelled roads in the US. I see a huge market for pregnant women. Hell, for women in general because we can't (easily) go at the side of the road, and we have to either sit or hover in a bathroom, regardless of how wretched the bathroom is. Men have the anatomical luxury of not needing to make this often uncomfotable choice, or as A put it, "we can just stand on the other side of the room and fire away" at the offending potty. Lucky bastards.

The inspiration for the bathroom book came when I went to a wedding this Fall with my ex, T. I had just gotten my period literally hours before and I was in excruciating pain. We'd been at an all day conference on campus which I had to duck out of to run to my office to get changed and then sprint to the car, dress shoes and all. Then I was whisked off to the wedding in east buttfuck CT, with no discernable bathrooms and god awful cramps all the way. When we got there, everyone was socializing outside while they waited for the event to start. Just when I was about to give up and enter the inn (one of those special event inn type places) searching for a place to go collapse in my bloated agony, the wedding started. Outside, of course. It was a crisp fall evening. Beautiful, but I was dying. Finally it was over and I ran into the place, grabbed a large glass of red wine, and demanded the bartender actually point me at the nearest bathroom.

It was amazing. It needed a rating system just so it could be at the top. It was warm. Not overheated in the way that makes a sick person feel sicker. Just nice and warm. And it was pretty, soft pastel colors and antiqued gold finished fixtures. It was a private bathroom with a firmly locking door which, when closed, shut out all sounds from the party on the other side of the wall. On the back of the toilet was a basket with an assortment of pads, tampons, and pocket packs of tissues. Hell, there was probably a midol in there. Even the air fresheners were pleasant. No lysol or glade chemo-fest aerosol cans. Clear bottles of pump spray scents like "green apple and moss" were set out on the counter, which was at exactly the correct level for easy use of the sink while allowing for a full enough view at the mirror to be sure you hadn't tucked your skirt into your pantyhose. I wanted to stay there all night. I decided it should definitely get five rolls.

This paragon of potty made me decide I had seen the gold standard, the commercially affiliated restroom platonic ideal of which all other bathrooms are just variously pale incarnations. Someday I will do the bathroom book. And maybe someday I will have my coffeeshop or my bed and not breakfast inn with many cats and the most welcoming bathroom around.