The Greatest Scam in History
By 
I was reading the obituary for Carole Wilbourn, cat psychologist, and I thought, what a brilliant scam. This is a woman who made millions of dollars a) pretending to understand the post-understandable cats, b) selling rich people on paying them to talk to their cats, and c) writing books about cat psychology. And you thought the entire era of Freud was bullshit! This is some next level work, good for her. A few choice bits:
Cats hate change, she often noted. Even a new slipcover on the sofa can undo them. Cats are selfish. Unlike dogs, who strive to please their master, a cat strives to please itself. To mangle a cliché, happy cat, happy (human) life.
Wow, what insight.
Ms. Wilbourn developed her specialty over a half-century after founding The Cat Practice, billed as Manhattan’s first cats-only hospital, in 1973 with Paul Rowan, a veterinarian. She said she was the first feline therapist in the country, a claim that is not known to have been disputed.
She was the author of six books, including “Cats on the Couch” (first published in 1982), which offered case studies to help cat lovers better understand their furry friends. She treated patients as far away as Australia and Turkey (by phone), and made house calls as far away as Maui.
What does one charge to go hang out with a grumpy cat in Hawaii?
Ms. Wilbourn’s go-to prescriptions also included New Age and classical music, recordings of whale songs and an abundance of treats, like catnip (a natural antidepressant, she pointed out). She also suggested canny behavior modifications by the humans, like having a new romantic partner feed the cat. She often recommended, in the days of landlines and answering machines, that humans call their pets and leave them cheerful messages. Her services did not come cheap. House-visits in Manhattan hovered at $400.
“If I lived anywhere besides a big city like New York,” she told The New York Times in 2004, “I’d be on food stamps.”
At least she recognized her clients were rich idiots with money to burn. But hey, that diagnose of catnip, I definitely need to pay $400 to tell me that if I want to distract Smitty, I can drug him. However, if I played him fucking whale sounds, he’d just go hang out in the closet. Besides, this is a cat raised on free jazz! He knows what’s up!
We live in an amazing country.