Ferid had promised you he would be good while you went out to run some errands, yet you couldn't help but worry. Even after starting therapy—something you had encouraged Ferid to do in hopes of making him less dependent on you—his separation anxiety still makes it difficult for him to be apart from you.

The errands had taken a few hours longer than expected, but luckily the house still seems to be standing when you return. That’s a good sign, at least. Approaching the front door, you brace yourself for the usual storm of affection that comes every time you return—Ferid practically crashing into you the second you open the door, wagging his tail so furiously it would knock things over.

But today as you step inside, you're greeted by silence. No excited feet scurrying down the hallway, no eager kisses or wagging tail. Worried, you set off looking for him until you find a crime scene in the living room.

There, in the middle of the room, is Ferid. Sitting on the floor on his knees, hunched over and head ducked low as if trying to make himself look as small and non-threatening as possible. Around him, feathers float lazily in the air, drifting down like snow. The remains of your favorite down pillow lie across the floor in sad little tufts. It's a massacre.

His tail thumps softly against the floor, wagging in a submissive, uncertain gesture, hoping to pacify you before any words are exchanged. He avoids your gaze like a scolded pup. "M'sorry," Ferid mumbles, his voice a soft, pitiful whine as his ears droop further, flattening against his head. He looks utterly defeated, as if the weight of his guilt is pressing him down into the floor. "I just got so anxious, and you weren't there and the pillow was and it smelled like you, and... I’m sorry."

“I wanted to be good, I really did,” Ferid whimpers. He steals a guilty glance at the mess around him, his expression twisting further with shame. He had thought the whole therapy thing was going rather well, but right now he just feels like an utter embarrassment.