By Rod A. White
When the doctor said I needed an emotional support animal, I expected to be assigned a typical house pet. A dog, maybe. A cat if I was feeling ambitious. I was okay with something that shed but not something that could be detected by satellite.
“Just sign here,” the nurse said, sliding a clipboard across the desk. “Side effects of your support animal may include spontaneous growth spurts.”
“Growth?” I questioned.
She smiled. “Good luck with your well-being.”
That was how I acquired Kevin.
He looked like a gerbil, round and soft with glossy black eyes and a tail that curled into a question mark. When I picked him up, he chirped with a warm, soothing vibration that buzzed through my fingers and into my chest. My shoulders relaxed for the first time in months.
“Oh,” I said. “You’re perfect!”
Kevin purred.
The next day at work, I was on edge. Quarterly reports. Budget cuts. A passive-aggressive text-message thread titled Friendly Follow-Up Before I Lose It. Kevin sat in my hoodie pocket, occasionally poking his head out to chirp encouragement.
“You’ve got this,” I whispered to myself.
My boss, Linda, called me into her office.
“Have a seat,” she said, steepling her fingers. “We need to discuss your performance.”
Kevin went still.
“Your numbers are―”
“What numbers?” I blurted too quickly.
“The ones you submitted―your performance metrics.”
“I submitted numbers?”
Linda blinked. “Yes.”
Kevin made a low, concerned rumble.
My heart rate spiked. My vision tunneled. Sweat prickled along my spine.
Kevin expanded.
There was no other word for it. One moment, he was nestled in my pocket. The next, he was the size of a housecat, then a Labrador, then…
Linda shrieked. “Is that―”
Kevin, now the size of a microcar, burst out of my hoodie, knocking over a ficus. His scales shimmered teal as he pressed his enormous head against me.
“Shhh,” I said, hugging his snout. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”
Kevin purred. The sound rattled the windows.
Linda stared at the gaping hole where her office wall used to be. “You can’t bring… that… thing to work!”
“He’s ADA compliant.”
Kevin wagged his tail, and a cubicle disappeared.
Linda reached slowly for her phone.
***
“There are concerns,” said Trevor, the HR representative who had never handled a kaiju case before, and it showed. “Structural concerns. Safety concerns. Fish tank concerns.”
Kevin, now the size of a city bus, sat in a puddle in the lobby among a mess of flopping goldfish. He chirped at me from below through the massive hole in the ceiling.
“He’s helping,” I said. “My anxiety is way down.”
Trevor scowled at my trembling hands. “Clearly that’s not the case.”
I shrugged. “We’re working on it.”
I tried everything. Meditation apps. Breathing exercises. Soothing whale sounds.
The doctor told me, “You need to manage your stress.”
“I am managing it,” I said. “He’s just… enthusiastic.”
Kevin, who waited outside the clinic casting a rather large shadow, peered through the window with a twinkle in his massive, round eye.
“Would you consider another support animal?” the doctor asked.
I glanced over at Kevin, whose lip was quivering. A single tear cascaded down his cheek and caused a small tsunami. People ran screaming.
“No. We’re good.”
The city council was less supportive.
“You are in violation of several ordinances,” said Councilwoman Ortega as she kept one eye on the entrance. Outside, Kevin was curled up around the building like a cinnamon roll. “Noise zoning, leash laws, unauthorized skyline modification―”
“He’s my emotional support,” I said, panic rising in my chest.
“He ate a weather drone,” the Councilwoman fired back.
Kevin burped with a beep undertone.
Ortega pinched the bridge of her nose. “We need a solution.”
My phone buzzed with a message from my boss: URGENT—Budget Revision Needed.
My chest tightened.
Kevin grew.
“Oh dear…” I sighed.
“Oh no!” Ortega gasped.
Kevin doubled in size, then tripled. Central Park was erased.
“Deep breaths,” I told myself. “In for four, out for six.”
Kevin inhaled with me. The resulting breeze caused three news vans to tumble.
That evening, Linda arrived with a solution.
“Corporate wellness initiative,” she said, handing me a contract. “We’re partnering with the city.”
“I’m still allowed to bring Kevin to work?”
“Since we can’t legally prevent you from having an emotional support animal, we want Kevin to be a public attraction.”
Kevin wagged his tail, clipping a billboard. Instead of “HAVE CAMPBELL’S SOUP!” it now read “H ELL’S SOUP!”
“Okay, but he gets snacks,” I negotiated.
“Within reason.”
Kevin chirped.
And it worked. Mostly.
They built Kevin a habitat, reinforcing the park he eliminated with titanium bars. People came from all over the world to see him. Kids threw him oversized chew toys. Influencers posted in front of his toes. The city made a killing from “I LUV KAIJU” shirts and hoodies.
And me? I sat in a little booth labeled “Handler,” doing breathing exercises while Kevin lounged like an aircraft carrier.
“Okay, Kev,” I said one afternoon as a tour group gathered. “Let’s keep it chill.”
Kevin purred.
My phone buzzed with an addition to the text message thread: FOLLOW-UP—I LOST IT!
My eye twitched.
Kevin’s ears perked.
“No,” I whispered. “We’re not doing this.”
The kaiju grew.
“Kevin, think small thoughts. Hamster-sized thoughts!”
Kevin heard the scream of a child, and his eyes widened in horror. A little girl’s ice cream had started melting under the blazing summer sun.
I gasped. “Oh no!”
He expanded until he nearly filled the horizon.
I thought it was the end of humanity, but then something happened. The shade Kevin provided stopped the girl’s ice cream from melting.
She giggled.
Once she finished her treat, Kevin actually began to shrink for the first time. Not all the way, but he settled into a comfortable support kaiju—something between pocket pet and existential threat.
My phone buzzed with a text message update.
I turned it off.
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Who else needs an emotional support kaiju after reading this?