Dr. Moo

1. UNUSUAL SIDE EFFECTS

Dr. Mookau leaned back in the opulently comfortable office chair behind his desk. “When did you first decide that you aren’t good enough?”

Prue sat up a little straighter. None of her previous eight therapists had ever asked that question. 

He’s right. Damn him, he’s right. But how did he know?

“I don’t understand the relevance of that question,” she said with contrived wide-eyed innocence.

“Take your time,” Dr. Mookau murmured in a soft, hypnotic voice. “Disconnect from your analytical mind. Walk backwards through your life until you find the answer.”

What is this, Sesame Street? This is not a misplaced key. This is … my soul. He has no right to go poking around in my soul.

She wanted to tell him what he could do with his stupid questions, but she had to have happy pills to navigate her life, and he was the gatekeeper.  A doctor. Someone who could prescribe pharmaceuticals. She had to pretend to be compliant, convince him that she needed something stronger than platitudes.

She took a deep breath, shut her eyes, and let herself be sucked into her personal time tunnel. The memory was there, sharp and clear, poised to ambush her.

“I was five. I saved my allowance and bought a bantam hen and rooster from Samantha, who lived on the farm next to ours. She was thirteen and had her very own flock. I got a bargain because they were sick. I thought I could to nurse them back to health. But they died.”

Dr. Mookau said nothing.

“I was sure they would get better because I loved them so much. I didn’t know how sick they were. My older brothers made fun of me. They called me Mother Teresa of the chickens. I hated chickens after that.”

Tears started coursing down Prue’s cheeks. Memory after horrible memory raced through her brain, squeezing her chest and making her legs tremble.

“I’m a failure at everything,” she wailed. “Do you have a pill for that?”

Dr. Mookau shuffled through the three pages of her medication history. “I think we’ve exhausted all reasonable pharmaceutical avenues.”

“Then give me an unreasonable one! Or just shoot me!”

She started sobbing in earnest, lost in shame. She had never cried in a therapist’s office before. She was a good, co-operative patient, and good co-operative patients didn’t make waves.

Dr. Mookau handed her some tissues and waited. After she managed to pull herself together, she started to apologize for wasting his time. He interrupted her gently but firmly.

“Let it all hang out. I want to get to know you.”

I want to get to know you. That’s what her grade ten science teacher had told her when he took her to his apartment instead of letting her go to basketball practice and raped her and she never dared to tell anyone. But Dr. Mookau was behind his desk, and a security cam was recording everything. He had asked her consent, saying that it could help both of them remember details later. She was glad that she had said yes, and didn’t have to worry. Unless he tampered with the footage. Would he, could he do such a thing?

What kind of name is Mookau, anyway? Moo-Cow? Did he ever notice how ridiculous his name sounds? Did people tease him about it before he was a big, important doctor?

“Our time is almost up,” Dr. Mookau said. “I don’t want to send you home empty-handed, so I’d like to offer you an experimental drug I received just last week. The clinical trials are very encouraging, but it does have some unusual side effects.”

“Dry mouth? Diarrhea? Nausea? I can’t take any more nausea.”

“Nothing like that. Personality changes.”

“Isn’t that what we’re trying to accomplish here? A magical transformation?”

“I’m not a magician,” Dr. Mookau said calmly. He took an envelope from his desk drawer and wrote her name on it. “One pill first thing every morning, after breakfast. Read the instructions carefully and follow them. The drug won’t work properly without behavioral supports.”

“Behavioral supports? What do you mean by that?”

“It means that you must participate in your recovery.”

She took the envelope suspiciously. “Will I ever get better?”

“Probably.”

“Probably??? You mean you don’t know? What kind of psychomanipulator are you?”

“Your last one, I hope.” Dr. Mookau walked to the door and opened it. “Make an appointment for two weeks from now, and we’ll see how things are going.”

She stood up, clutching the envelope that would shape her future. “Thank you.” She didn’t really feel thankful, but it seemed ungracious and dangerous to tell him the truth.

Prue walked out the door, jammed the envelope into her purse, and tried not to scowl at the elderly lady sitting behind the antique writing desk in the parlour. What museum did he get her from? She looks like a refugee from Downton Abbey.  She probably thinks that a fountain pen is modern technology.

Prue hated making mental health appointments. She would start imagining what the receptionist was thinking, and blush scarlet. 

The lady smiled at her. “Same time in two weeks, Dearie?”

Prue cleared her throat and found her voice. “Yes, please.” She shifted from foot to foot, wondering whether she should walk away, or wait until she was sure that the old dame remembered to write her name in her appointment book.

The old dame finished writing, looked up, and smiled at her. “Would you like to stay for a cup of tea and a chat? I’ve already checked in the last visitor of the day, and he’s waiting in the reception room.”

Prue stood stock still. She had never been invited for post-session tea before. Was that the usual modus operandi for therapists who saw their clients in their homes instead of a clinic? All her previous sessions had been in sterile offices, with outdated magazines and sometimes a coffee vending machine in the waiting room.

She looked around the parlour. It was immaculate and cosy, a symphony of dusty rose and grey, like a movie set. It might be nice to sit down in one of the wingbacked chairs beside the little round table and sip tea and chatter about ephemeral trivialities.

She cleared her throat. “I have to go. My husband is expecting me.”

“Too bad. I made cream puffs.”

“Perhaps next time.” Prue smiled apologetically and turned away. 

Cream puffs! I bet she uses real whipped cream. I wish I had time to stay.

She glanced at her watch. If she managed to get to the bus stop in the next four minutes, she would be able to pick up Kennth’s dry cleaning before the shop closed. She strode down the entry hall, yanked open the door and pulled it closed behind her. Down three steps, the sidewalk, turn left, down the street, hurry, hurry, hurry.

The Number 17 bus passed her when she was a dozen steps from the stop and continued on its way despite her frantic waving and shouting.
She slumped on the bench at the bus stop, utterly discouraged. The driver didn’t notice. They never notice. Nobody notices me. I’m just … a lump.

“You’re such a lump,” her mother used to scold her when she was working too slowly to please her, or struggling to figure out a math problem, or just sitting quietly at home instead of rushing off for social engagements. A lump. An inert, useless lump.

And she was still a lump. At least, that’s what Kenneth thought when she was too tired after work for scintillating conversation or creative sexual exploration. But if the truth were known, he was the one who was the lump. His intellectual flights of fancy precluded even the slightest effort to cook his own food or clean up after himself. He was just too uncomfortable dealing with mundane matters. His talent and energy were lavished on a single project: his WIP. Work in Progress. The once-in-a-century Great Novel that would take the world by storm. Its title changed every few weeks, as did the plot and characters, and the pen name that would grace the cover. Noble endeavours take time. Rome was not built in a day, Kenneth reminded her whenever she hinted that he should look for a job, even a part-time job to help with the bills. 

The Great Work had been in progress for over three years, and Prue had never seen a single page. At first, she assumed that Kenneth was keeping his treasured magnum opus safely locked in the big drawer on the right si of his desk. When curiosity overcame her better judgement, she jimmied the lock with a knitting needle and snooped. The drawer was empty except for the minutes of the latest meeting of the Latent Litterateurs Society, a single Argyle sock, and a bottle of peach schnapps.
 
 

THE EIGHT-POINT LIST OF IMPOSSIBLE TASKS

Prue opened her purse. It would be twenty minutes before the next Number 17 bus arrived. She might as well use her waiting time productively to peruse the instructions in the envelope Dr. Mookau had given her.

There were some small white pills in a glassine envelope. She counted. Fifteen. Enough for two weeks, plus one day in case she had to postpone her appointment. The instructions were printed on an ordinary piece of paper, folded in half.

She was expecting a lot of fine print with intimidating technical double talk, side effects and counterindications. Instead, the instructions were simple and direct.

SUFRAGEX – a simple and effective way to reconfigure your neurotransmitter receptors.
Swallow one pill whole with a glass of water every morning after a balanced breakfast high in protein and low in sugar. Sit quietly for a least fifteen minutes with a soothing hot drink.
Each day, perform at least one of the following behavioral supports. Put a checkmark beside the item every time you do it. The more the merrier!
1. Do something you like on an impulse.
2. Unless it would be hazardous to your health or safety, say exactly what is on your mind.
3. Set a boundary with a member of you family, a friend, or a co-worker. This far, and no further.
4. Refuse to go the extra mile for someone who is perfectly capable of walking.
5. Spend at least an hour every day pampering yourself, relaxing, or engaging in a creative activity.
6. Instead of trying to win arguments, figure out what leverage you have and use it.
7. Reach out to someone you find interesting or stimulating.
8. Imagine the person you would like to be, and think about how that person would behave in your place. Then play that role as convincingly as you can.
For more information and inspiration, read Dr. Moo’s motivational blog at http://drmoo.lifeinfusion.com.
Remember: one small step in the right direction is more powerful than a thousand good intentions.

Prue stared at the paper. She couldn’t imagine herself doing any of those things. She would take the pills and explain to Dr. Moo that her life had no room for self-indulgent behavioral supports because Kenneth’s needs were invariably more pressing and important than hers. He was the Great Artist; she was the drudge, the plodding engine that made it all possible. Kenneth assured her that it would all be worthwhile in the mythical future. When he was showered with awards, he would be sure mention her tireless support in all his acceptance speeches.

The drug won’t work properly without behavioral supports.

She put the paper back in the envelope. There was no point in trying to do those impossible tasks. She was too sick, and would be sick forever.

Will I ever get better?

Probably.

Was she a hopeless case, or not? Dr. Moo was supposed to know! That’s why she was paying him eighty dollars an hour, because he was supposed to know things.

Read the instructions very carefully and follow them.

She looked up. A bus was coming. Number 311, the one which went to the park with the artificial lake and the hotdog stand.

Do something you like on an impulse.

She stood up. “I’m having a hotdog for supper,” she said out loud. “May even two. And fries.” Kenneth could placate his own fussy appetite for once, and complain to empty air across the table. She was going to sit on a park bench and watch children playing and pretend that she was footloose and fancy-free and could do whatever she wanted.

She was half-way through her hotdog when Kenneth called. She answered automatically, her mouth full of warm deliciousness.

“Prudence, my love – where in the world are you?”

She kept chewing while Kenneth droned on about how worried he was, how much he needed undisturbed serenity to gather his thoughts for his presentation to the Litterateurs, how he had to eat soon because it would never do to arrive at the meeting on a full stomach…

“When will you be home?”

Prudence swallowed her mouthful. “I don’t know.” That’s what she had told him in the morning, but as usual, he hadn’t been listening. 

“You’re on your own tonight,” she continued. “There are forty-three pre-made dinners in the freezer, with an inventory.  Pick one and follow the instructions.”

“Oh,” Kenneth said in his mournful I’ve-been-shot-through-the-heart tone. “I was hoping you would stop at the farmer’s market and pick up some of those pierogis – you know, the ones with dill?”

“Sorry,” Prue said, even though she wasn’t.  "I had a therapy appointment, remember?"

“Did you at least pick up my dry cleaning? I really need my green shirt.”

“The shop is closed until tomorrow at eight. You have fourteen clean shirts in the closet.”

She took another bite of her hot dog.

“I suppose that navy one will have to do, although I’m not sure it makes the right statement … “ Kenneth paused dramatically. “You know, tonight was so important to me. I was really counting on you to be there for me.  But I’ll manage. I always do. I’ll stop for a bite to eat at the Chanterelle deli and make the best of a bad situation…” His voice trailed off into reproachful silence.

“Good luck,” Prue said with her mouth full, and pushed the red icon on her phone.

She sat back on the bench, took a swig of root beer, and started working on her fries. They weren’t cream puffs, but they were greasy and delicious.

A little boy waved at her. “Hi, lady!”

She smiled and waved back. Then she rummaged for a pen in her purse and checked off Number One on Dr. Moo’s list. Maybe those behavioral supports weren’t impossible after all.
 


SUFRAGEX DAY 1: A BALANCED BREAKFAST

“What in the world are you doing?” Kenneth asked, bleary-eyed in his pyjamas, frowning at his spouse, who was relaxing in the recliner in the living room. “I couldn’t possibly sleep with all that commotion in the kitchen.”

“I was making myself a substantial breakfast,” she said. “My new medication requires it.”

Kenneth nodded towards the kitchen, where she had been every other morning, crafting his gourmet breakfast to jumpstart his creative libido. “You haven’t made any cappuccino,” he accused dolefully.

“I’m having hot chocolate this morning.”

“I really need a pick-me-up after everything that happened last night. Greg Harrison created such a drama with his critique …”

“Darling,” Prue interrupted. “I am supposed to be still for twenty minutes while my neurotransmitter receptors are reconfiguring. We can talk after work.”

“If you sit there for twenty minutes, you’ll be late for work.”

“No, I won’t. I’m taking the car.” The keys were already stashed in her purse, to make sure Kenneth didn’t get to them first.

“But I’ll need it to pick up my dry cleaning!”

“The Number 17 bus stops half a block away from the shop.”

Kenneth stared at her as if she had grown a second head. Prue closed her eyes and counted backwards from fifty. When she opened them again. Kenneth had retreated.   

Prue checked off Number 4 on the list.  She knew it was too soon for her first pill to take effect, but she felt better already.
 
 

DAY 2: CREATIVE ACTIVITY IN THE HERE AND NOW

“You wouldn’t believe the time I had,” Kenneth expostulated as he arrived in the living room, his dry cleaning over his arm. “The driver refused to let me off at the shop even though she was stopped at a red light … then she refused to open the door for me and told me to use the rear exit … and that stupid apprentice brought the wrong clothes and it took twenty minutes to clear that up … and the next bus was crowded and I had to stand … Prudence, darling, what are you doing?”

Prue kept her eyes on her canvas. “Painting. I’m supposed to engage in creative activity.”

“Painting? Those supplies are very expensive!”

Prue’s paintbrush slashed a red streak through the middle of the rose she was painting. She put it down carefully before responding. “So are yours – booze, pot, gourmet goodies, not to mention membership fees and out-of-town conferences.”

“That’s different. Those are necessary expenses for my calling! Our future!”

Prue swiveled her chair around and faced him. “And these are necessary expenses for my mental health. Without it, I won’t be able to work, and there will be no money to pay the bills in our here and now.”

Kenneth flopped himself on the couch. “My dear Prue, you do love to indulge in gloomy speculations. It really drags me down when you think only of yourself. What’s for dinner?”

“Whatever you want. I won’t be doing any cooking until we’ve eaten all those frozen meals you insisted I prepare.” Prue took a deep breath and jumped into the murky waters of assertiveness. “After that, we’ll take turns cooking.”

“Me? Cook? Darling, you know very well that is not one of my talents!”

“Oh, I’m sure it is a latent talent,” Prue purred. “You’re so gifted – there are no limits to your versatility. Watch a few cooking shows on TV or browse through Cooking for Dummies. You’ll be a master chef in no time.”

She turned back to her painting, tuning out Kenneth’s protestations. After he had retreated to the study, she took a long bath and checked off Number Five. After a moment’s consideration, she checked off Number Two as well.

Her lips curved into a smile. Life was so much more enjpysble with Sufragex.
  
 

DAY 8: BARBED WIRE BOUNDARIES
“
It was so embarrassing,” Kenneth moaned. “It Barney Palliser hadn’t been with me, I don’t know what I would have done. And he wasn’t particularly gracious about paying the bill. It was my turn, after all.”

Prue opened her mouth and closed it again. Kenneth’s recital was far from finished, and he wouldn’t hear a word she said now.

“When I went to the ATM to get a few dollars to tide me over until the credit card malfunction was dealt with, I found nothing! Just four dollars and fourteen cents. There was supposed to be overdraft protection, wasn’t there?”

Prue mentally rehearsed her declaration of independence while Kenneth paced back and forth, droning on. Finally, he perorated dramatically, his arms outstretched.

“What happened, Prudence? Some sort of embezzlement? Should we call the police?”

“I secured my assets,” Prue said, “and canceled your subsidiary credit card.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I told you that I wasn’t paying for your treats any more. You will have to earn the money for that yourself.”

“Oh, you mean our little spat a couple of days ago?” Kenneth asked. “You were so unbalanced that you were babbling incoherently.  I can’t imagine what would possess you not to honour your commitment to support my literary efforts.”

“I agreed to support you and your … literary efforts … for one year. It has been three years, five months, and thirteen days. You have sucked up all my savings with your self-indulgence. I can’t do it anymore.” Prudence skewered her profligate mate with a steely glare. “I won’t do it anymore.”

Kenneth frowned. “Oh dear! There you go again, spinning out of control.  I’m not at all sure that your medication is appropriate. Your mental stability is in jeopardy, and I need to know that I can count on you. You will make some calls today and find someone who can help you, won’t you? In the meantime, I need a couple of hundred dollars for the Kindred Minds conference.”

“Sorry. The Bank of Prudence is closed to withdrawals. It’s time for you start making deposits.”

Kenneth put his hand on his forehead. “Oh – that tone of voice is giving me a headache! Could you just modulate yourself a tad? I just can’t imagine what is going on in that mind of yours. Did you have a bad day at work?”

Prue planted herself in front of him so that they were eyeball to eyeball. She spoke very softly, biting off each word. “I am not going to support you and your narcissistic delusions any longer.”

She picked up her purse, marched out the door to the parking lot and drove off, squealing her tires. After a few blocks, she parked and checked off Number Three and Number Six. 

“Only two more to go,” she said to herself. “What’s next?”

She picked up her phone, found the Life Transitions Institute number, and pushed CALL. “This is Prue Bennet,” she told the warm, familiar voice that answered. “Is that offer for tea still open?”

 
 
DAY 9, INTERRUPTED

“Have you seen my medication?” Prue asked Kenneth, although the gnawing dread in her stomach already knew the answer. She should never have left the envelope on her bedside stand overnight.

Kenneth kept fiddling with the cappuccino machine. Prue waited, weighing her options.

Finally he turned around and put his arms around her waist. She pulled back. He moved closer. His breath was warm in her face and smelled of schnapps.

“You know I love you more than anything in the world,” he murmured. “I just had to rescue you from that nightmare before you disappeared forever into a black hole of derangement…”

“You flushed them, didn’t you?” Prue shouted, breaking free. “Whatever made you think you had the right to do that?”

Kenneth gazed at her with long-suffering basset hound eyes. “I had no choice.”

Prue sank into the nearest kitchen chair, defeated. The Sufragex experiment was over. All her behavioral support efforts were for nothing. The sparks of hope in her heart extinguished one by one. Her life would never change.

She began to cry helplessly.

Kenneth put his arm around her shoulder. “There, there. We’ll sort this out. Just have a nice lie-down and I’ll phone the office and tell that boss of yours that you are having a terrible menstrual period…”

He continued his soothing chatter while he pulled her to her feet, guided her into the bedroom and helped her lie down.

“Just rest easy, my darling. If you need anything, I’ll be right here.”

He kissed her forehead and melted from the room.

Prue lay still, her thoughts chasing each other through her brain.

Kenneth always wins. No matter what I do, he always wins.
How long will Sufragex withdrawal take? How bad will it be?
Why couldn’t I leave well enough alone?

Her phone on the bedside stand started to play Music Box Dancer. Life Transitions. What could it be? It was shortly after eight, and consultation hours didn’t start until ten.

“Hello?” she said tearfully.

“Daisy here. How are you doing?”

“Horribly. My husband flushed my Sufragex. Could I get another appointment with Doctor Mookau right away?”

“I’m sorry, dear, he’s all booked up. But it will take a day or two for the effects to wear off, so you can still forge ahead. Have you tried Number 8 yet?”

“Number 8 is my favourite. I’ve thought about it a lot. But I’m scared.”

“Then you had better get started right away,” Daisy said placidly.
 


NUMBER EIGHT

Creighton Sutherland, barrister and solicitor, looked up from his computer. “Oh, hello, Prue. I wasn’t expecting you today. Your husband said you were sick.”

Prue replied in her best legal business voice. “Don’t take calls from my husband from now on.”

Her boss raised his eyebrows. “A snake in Paradise?”

“I’m here to work, not discuss my personal life.”

Creighton picked up his phone. “I’ll cancel the agency temp.”

Prue shook her head. “No. I need help to clear up the backlog. I can’t stay after work because I’ll be looking at apartments.”

Creighton considered, then put down the phone. “Fair enough. You deserve a break.”

“We need to talk before the temp arrives,” Prue said. She pulled her shoulders back and and launched her prepared speech. “I’ve checked around, and other paralegals with comparable and experience are earning considerably more than I am.”

“Is that so?” Creighton murmured with a small frown that struck terror into Prue’s heart. She pressed her knees together to stop them from trembling.

Pretend this is a movie where I control the script. Prue the Paralegal who becomes a lawyer and runs for president. Prue the Invincible does not back down or run away. She holds her ground until she gets what is rightfully hers.

“I apologize,” Creighton said. “I haven’t given you the credit you deserve for your outstanding work. This office would not be the same without you. How be I make you Senior Executive Assistant? We can put a nice little plaque on your desk.”

“I don’t want a fancy title. Just cash.”

She shifted her weight to the balls of her feet, poised to retreat, forcing herself to stay in character. It was all or nothing now.

“What did you have in mind?” Creighton asked.

“Thirty percent raise, retroactive for six months.” Prue heard her own voice, as if it were coming from someone else. The mythical Prue had taken over.

Creighton did not look as shocked as she expected. “And if I refuse?”

“I have two offers on the table.” That was not strictly true – the alleged offers were want ads she had found interesting the day before.

“How about twenty per cent, retroactive for three months?”

“Twenty-five, and we have a deal.” 

“Done.” Creighton extended his hand.

“I need that retroactive payment by the end of the day.” It would take cash up front to secure an apartment.

“I think I can manage that,” Creighton said.

She took his hand and shook it. “You won’t regret this.”

She started to walk out, and then turned back. “By the way, I want you to handle my divorce. Pro bono, of course, as a professional courtesy.”

Creighton cocked his head to one side, considering. “Why not? Write up the petition, and I’ll get things rolling.”

Prue smiled, a real smile this time. “Thank you. I’ll get right on it. Is there anything else you would like me to expedite?”

“The Fletcher contract, and that letter to Mrs. Dawson-Cooke. I’m so glad you’re here today. Nobody can write letters as diplomatically as you do. Pile it on.”

“Higher and deeper,” Prue grinned wickedly. Her positive vibrations were lighting up her whole body.

“You know, Prue,” Creighton said, “I have never seen this side of you before. I had no idea there was so much grit under that lovely exterior. Have you thought of going to law school? You would be dynamite in the courtroom.”

“That was my father’s dream,” Prue said. “For now, I’ll be satisfied if I can finish my undergrad degree.”
 


THE GENESIS OF DR. MOO

“You gave me a placebo!” Prue ranted. “You are a quack – a charlatan!”

Dr. M. smiled at her. “Well done! How did you come to that conclusion?”

“My husband destroyed my pills. I went through hell for three days worrying about side effects and waiting for my life to re-set in its old patterns. But I didn’t relapse. Then I started wondering why my pills smelled like Tic Tacs. I bet you’re not even a real doctor.”

“Oh, I am a real doctor. PhD in Italian literature.”

“Italian literature! Your professional association is going to hear about this!”

“Actually, there is no professional association yet. As far as I know, I am the only Life Transitions Specialist.”

Prue suppressed her impulse to laugh uncontrollably at her own naivete. “Life Transitions Specialist!" she snorted. "Just a fancy name for Life Coach, with no credentials required. That doesn’t give you the right to lie to vulnerable people seeking help.”

“How did I lie?”

“All that talk about experimental medication you just received, and the clinical trials…”

“I buy my Tic Tacs in bulk, and had just received a shipment. I was conducting my own experiment and clinical trial. The results were promising. I may not have made full disclosure, but everything I told you was true.”

Prue shook her head with grudging admiration. “You missed your calling. You should have gone to law school.”

“So how did your trial go? Did you get any results you were hoping for?”

“I completed all eight items on your list, some more than once. I asked for a raise and got it. I’m getting a divorce after over three years of emotional and financial abuse. I am moving into a new apartment in two weeks and I’ve started the paperwork for a couple of university extension courses.”

“That’s impressive. I can’t wait to see what you accomplish in the next two weeks.”

“I hate the way you manipulated me,” Prue said. “Why didn’t you just give me the list?”

“I did that at first,” Dr. M. said. “It didn’t work. People like a bit of hocus pocus.”

“So what happens now?”

“You’ve prepaid this session. You can storm out, or you can stay and talk.”

Prue sank into her chair. “You first. How in the world did you transition from Italian literature to Life Transitions?”

“I think it would be unprofessional of me to answer.”

“Come off it! You already broke the rules when you bent the truth.”

“You have certainly made significant progress in speaking your mind.”

“That’s true. I have to give you credit for that. But you’re changing the subject.”

“Okay. It’s a little embarrassing. Can I trust you to keep my story confidential?”

Prue smiled. “Just think of me as your legal counsel.”

Dr. M. shifted in his chair. “When I got my PhD, I thought my career would unfold magically. But I couldn’t get a job. I published madly – pretty good stuff, I thought – but I perished anyway. My marriage broke up and my student loan payments came due. My parents told me that they were not going to give me any more financial support, so I turned to my grandmother.”

“Daisy is your grandmother?” Prue exclaimed. “She’s a fine piece of work.”

“That she is. She owns this house. She offered me room and board in return for helping her preserve her independence. I said I needed cash for my loan payments, and she told me that the gas station on the corner was hiring.”

Prue felt the ball of resentment in her belly melting. “That must have been awful.”

“Actually, I was worried that I was too much of a geek to do anything practical. But pumping gas and minding the till were much simpler tasks than navigating university politics.”

“So how did you get into the therapy game?”

“I had a lot of conversations with Gran. I found them so enlightening that I started a blog. I monetized it, not expecting much, but every penny counted at the time. Some podcast guy noticed it and told his audience. After that, the whole thing just snowballed.”

“I read every one of your blogs,” Prue said. “The one about using my leverage changed my life.”

“People kept telling me how much they had gained from them. Some asked if they could meet me in person. Gran said why not? and offered to be my receptionist and business manager. She was getting pretty bored with being a little old lady in a big house with nothing interesting to do.”

The conversation unrolled effortlessly from there. Before Prue knew it, their time was up.

“Before I go, I have one more burning question,” she said. “It’s none of my business, but I’m curious. You said your marriage broke up. Are you dating now?”

“I’m dating my ex, actually. She says she likes the new me much more than the old one.”

“You’re so lucky,” Prue said wistfully. “Kenneth just wants to stuff me back into the same old box.”

“Would you like to make another appointment?” Dr. M. asked.

“No thanks. I’d rather talk to Daisy.”

“Good choice. After all, she’s the original Dr. Moo. I just follow in her footsteps.”

“I’m taking her for dinner at La Perfecta on Thursday night. You’re going to have to do your own cooking.”

Dr. Moo grinned. “No problem.  She needs to get out more. I’ve already made plans. I’m going to cook a pot roast and invite my parents over. Gran hates pot roasts because Mum always served them at our family dinners. My parents are staying at one of those all-inclusive retirement places and don’t cook any more, and Mum keeps saying how much she misses those pot roasts.”

“Your family dynamics are not perfect, I gather.”

“Far from it. Things were very rough for a while. Unrealistic expectations, inadequate communication, and a general lack of empathy. But we keep learning new coping skills.  My parents love my blog and keep bombarding the message board with questions and suggestions. They have no idea who the author is. They would never listen to anything that Gran had to say, but they think the mythical Dr. Moo is virtually infallible.”