I roll up to the front desk of the local zoo and place my work badge on the counter. “Hi, my name is Mina Forstatter. I’m the therapist who has been assigned to work with…” I try my best to keep a straight face. “I’ve been assigned to work with Queenie the Orangutan. Look, did you guys submit this referral as a joke or something?”

The middle-aged woman behind the desk – the nameplate reads “Lara” – takes a quick glance at my badge, then smiles up at me sheepishly. “Not a joke, no. You do know American Sign Language, right?”

“Yeah, why do you ask?”

“So does Queenie. I’ll let her tell you her own story.”

***

Lara leads me through concrete-and-steel service hallways and imposing doors that read “EMPLOYEES ONLY” in block letters. Eventually we come out into a large enclosure full of greenery and hairy orange apes. The smell, while vaguely sour, brings back memories of elementary school field trips.

“The orangutans all understand at least a bit of spoken English at this point, so we found a spot for you and Queenie to meet where you won’t be interrupted.”

Do privacy laws even apply to animals? Am I a terrible person for thinking that?

We walk over to an area of the enclosure that’s partially encircled by a halo of plant life. An orangutan – which, god help me, looks exactly like all the others here – lounges among the branches of a palm tree.

“Queenie,” Lara signs, “This is Mina, the therapist we found for you. Mina, this is Queenie.”

The ape in the tree turns lazily and waves to me.

“Hello.”

“Well,” Lara says aloud, “I’ll leave you to it then!”

For several increasingly awkward moments, I simply stand in the enclosure, staring at Queenie like an absolute buffoon. Then, regaining my bearings, I take my work laptop from my bag and start setting it up. “Hello, Queenie,” I sign. “Like Lara said, my name is Mina. I’m a licensed counselor. Everything you tell me will be private between the two of us, with the exception of situations where you’re thinking of harming yourself or someone else, or in cases of child abuse.”

“Ok,” Queenie signs back.

“Could you tell me a little bit about why you’re seeking my services?”

The orangutan pauses for a moment. Then it begins to make a sort of grumbling sound under its breath. The sound is soft enough that if I were any further away I wouldn’t be able to hear it. After a moment, it signs to me, “I feel angry.”

I have a very sudden awareness that Queenie isn’t exactly a small animal. The orangutan is smaller than I am, but still seems sizable enough that it could cause some pretty significant damage if it wanted to. Especially considering the fact that it’s been a long while since I last went to the gym. My hand itches to reach into my work bag for the pepper spray I keep there.

Instead, I take a deep breath to calm myself and occupy my hands with talking to Queenie. “What is it that you feel angry about?”

“I feel angry with myself. I don’t like who I am.”

I take a closer look at Queenie, this time picking up on more of her posture. She looks withdrawn in a way that is remarkably human. “That’s understandable,” I sign back. “There are a lot of people who find themselves feeling that way.”

“Am I a person?” Queenie asks me with her hands.

Damnit.

“What do you think?” I sign back.

“I don’t know.”

I take another deep breath.

“Well,” I sign to my new client, “Let’s figure that out together.”

Keir Hudson considers his work as a social worker, his work as a writer, and his work as a human being to be extensions of one another. He has published work in the “Dreamscapes and Daydreams” anthology from Wingless Dreamer, as well as in the online publications Humans of the World and Half and One. He is in the process of writing his first novel..