Whooves, Doctor of Psychology

by nowego

Chapter 2: Day 2

Day 2

Today was full. And exciting. And strangely charismatic.

Where to begin... well, I guess at the beginning would be best.

I woke early–or rather, got out of bed early. I didn’t actually sleep much; I never do in new environments. While mid-way through digging the coffee cups out of their box, this rare period of silence was broken by an odd noise that took me a minute to place. It turned out to be the doorbell. In Canterlot, at the office, we have buzzers, and I regret to say the ringing of the doorbell at my personal dwelling was all too rare. Here, I am in the process of relearning myself, as my “office” is going to be what was the sunroom, an east-side room with large picture windows on three sides.

The pony ringing my bell was a mailmare. I was surprised at this, as I had only been here overnight so far, and wasn’t expecting any payments or bills yet. But I underestimated the strings the Princess was able to pull; she arranged for a subscription to my favorite paper, Equestria Daily, as well as forwarding any mail which arrives at my old address (among these articles were several well-wishes and goodbyes from other Canterlot psychologists, who were probably actually happy to see me go, and a letter from my younger brother [more on him later]).

The mailmare herself was a gray pegasus that I would have liked more time to looking at. She appears to suffer from a condition commonly known as a “Lazy eye.” I personally don’t know much about the condition, but I do know that it is considered common courtesy not to stare. So I instead diverted my gaze to her cutie mark (as though staring at a mare’s flank is any better!) but was surprised when it revealed what appeared to be bubbles–not anything related to mail as far as I know. But, I’m not about to judge someone based on their cutie mark. I know ponies are a good bit confused when they find out I’m an earth pony doctor with an hourglass for a cutie mark. More on cutie marks later.

The blond-maned mare delivered my mail, and then looked at me hopefully and said, “Muffin?”

I really wasn’t expecting that.

Nevertheless, I recovered fairly quickly and regretfully informed her that I didn’t have any food for breakfast at all, much less muffins specifically. She looked incredibly pitiful and crestfallen, but she left without another word, dodging off between some houses. I decided I’d do some research and contact some colleagues about her condition... and perhaps purchase some muffins if I got the chance.

I had only just located the espresso machine when my first visitor arrived. None other than Rarity. What a surprise. Anyway, upon spying her through the peephole, I made a vain attempt to stall for ten seconds while frantically pushing boxes hither and thither. The only good this did was allow me to stumble upon my glasses.

For the record, I don’t need glasses. Perfect 20/20 vision. The sole reason I wear them is to make myself look professional–and older. It is insane (not clinically, just figuratively) what I have to go through to get the respect my degree should get me.

Reaching the door, I adjusted my glasses straight and pushed my short mane into a decently respectable position. I yanked the door open.

“Ah, welcome! Miss... Rarity, I presume?”

“Why yes,” she said, entering. “And you are Doctor Whooves, then?”

I have to admit that my ego puffed itself up at that. Not many ponies bother with my title.

“Yes, of course. Unfortunately, I’m not entirely set up for business yet... please excuse the mess...”

“Oh, that’s quite alright. Where is your office then?”

“Yeah, um... that’s kind of the problem. I don’t even have the couch out of the shrink wrap yet.”

“Oh!” She stopped short. “Well, no matter.”

Her horn began to glow, and suddenly an elaborate red plush couch was summoned into existence. This was my turn to stop short. I’d seen transformation magic before, and even some summoning of smaller objects, like a bouquet of flowers or other trivial details, but an object of such scale as a entire couch would take some practice... oh. Definitely one of those clients.

I pulled up a chair and snatched a clipboard, but had barely sat down before she dived into a ocean of self pity and indecision and a whole lot of drama that really didn’t need to be shared.

See, the majority of clients that we psychologists handle in Canterlot suffer from phobias. Irrational fears. Emotional damage. Real problems, in other words. Let me put it this way: there are stupid questions. Very. Stupid. Questions.

Rarity is indeed one of those clients–one of those ponies that just need to vent. Typically, these are mares with a weakness for gossip. Not that I mind. I actually managed to set down the clipboard and return to unpacking while she continued. Right about when she was trying to figure out what ponies are supposed to wallow in, I found one one of the articles I consider key in my career, and also related to my cutie mark... my hourglass.

Of course, Rarity had already been going for a while, but nonetheless I flipped it and let it start going...

...something tells me it’s time for a story.

Well, I’ve always been interested in the way other ponies think. In school, when I was just a colt, I once broke into the filing cabinet and read all the class papers that had been collected earlier that day. Then I went and talked down half the ponies that got good grades, and watched when the papers were graded and handed out. I even recorded the results, and found that those that I had talked down were happier with their grade than those that I hadn’t said anything to. I continued these experiments until I got caught one day switching some labels in the cafeteria, and consequently got sent to the office.

Now, there’s many different ways for fears and mental barriers to form, but I have a particular knack for reaching into ponies’ pasts, one of the most likely places for the basis of a particular behavior to exist.

The Headmaster was a particularly grumpy and old stallion with a reputation for harsh and severe (or as severe as schools allow) punishments and consequences. Upon entering his office, however, I saw an ancient picture of of a colt and his father. I smiled. I knew I could talk my way out.

And I did. I got the old hoot owl to open up about his past, his bad relationship with his father, got him to talk about the regrets he had about not talking to his father before he died. The poor stallion was in tears at one point.

As it turned out, it didn’t get me out of trouble, but it did earn me my cutie mark. My skill is looking into a pony’s past. After my cutie mark appeared, my parents got me an hourglass identical to it, and I use it in my work to time visits.

Anyway, back to Rarity’s visit.

I did some more unpacking for the next two hours while Rarity talked, occasionally replying with the typical “...and how did that make you feel?” and other cliches–normally, I would never use these, except that this is exactly what clients like Rarity want you to say. Upon the approach of the third hour, I began dropping hints that she should leave (I prefer not to be rude when I don’t have to).

And, Rarity being the classy pony she is, picked up on them right away. “Oh, dear, I must get going! I have the... thing... at the... place.”

I nodded.

“Do you have any questions for me?” she asked, dawdling at the door.

I thought for a moment. “Yes,” I said. “I do have one actually.”

She brightened. “Oh?”

“Where can I get some good muffins?”

After she left, I deemed it safe to leave for the day, so I took her advice and went to a place called Sugarcube Corner to procure some muffins. It was only on the doorstep of the giant mock-gingerbread house that I remembered whom it was home to. I froze, and was about to turn and find someone else who could bake, before the pink party pony shot out the door and tackled me. Again.

“Yay,” she whispered enthusiastically. I didn’t know that was possible, but she did it. “Somepony decided to show up for their party!”

“Um, yes,” I whispered back. “Why are we whispering?”

“Because the Cake’s foals are sleeping.”

Now, I’ve had my Pinkie welcome party before, so I know what they’re like. I guess this one was some kind of welcome-back party.

“Pinkie, how can we have one of... your parties, if we have to whisper?”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about a thing! Auntie Pinkie Pie has everything under control!”

At this point I was thinking, yeah, right.

But, she actually did. Somewhat. The entire party had been moved to Twilight’s library. What better way to get close to Twilight, just sit around and talk, getting an idea of her mental health?

Eh, maybe not.

Pinkie really outdid herself this time. As the door to the tree-house opened, her cannon roared, sending confetti over the crowd of jamming ponies. A disco ball sent bits of colored light throughout the room, each chip of light shaking with the beat of some modern music I didn’t recognize... something I think they call dubtrot. Not entirely sure.

A pink hoof shoved me into the organ grinding mob. I bounced my way through, trying to find Twilight Sparkle. Surely she wouldn’t stand for this, right? It is a library after all; but I wasn’t sure I could find or recognise anypony in there. The lights distorted the colors of coat and mane alike, and the heavy beat drowned out any attempt at conversation.

I did, eventually, find Twilight though. Not that it helped any.

That pony was doing the most ungraceful, revolting dance in existence, eyes squinted shut. I think I would have just stood there and stared, if the hectic crowd hadn’t pulled me away first.

And it wasn’t even lunchtime yet.

I fought my way back to the door, avoiding Pinkie, and burst out into the real, rational world. I felt queasy, and wasn’t entirely sure Celestia’s fears were unwarranted. Not that I couldn’t handle my weight at a party, I just wasn’t expecting it. In a library. On an empty stomach.

I headed back to Sugarcube Corner. Upon arriving, I entered as quietly as I could, the bell above the door barely ringing. Looking around, the place seemed normal off hand.

“Hello?” I whispered loudly.

“Hi there, what can I do for you?” replied Mr. Cake, emerging from the back.

Seeing he wasn’t being as deathly quiet as Pinkie had seemed to deem necessary, I resumed a regular voice. “Yes, actually. I’m looking for something in the direction of muffins. And seeing as it’s about time, perhaps lunch as well.”

Mr. Cake nodded and began sifting through boxes on the shelf. “Um... uh...” He dug deeper. Eventually, he pulled out a box and set it on the counter, feigning a smile, sheepishly. I lifted the lid part way with a hoof.

“Mr. Cake, sir... these are cupcakes.”

Mr. Cake dropped his facade. “I’m sorry. What with the twins to take care of, we’ve been a bit behind, and I haven’t gotten around to restocking after the breakfast crowd.”

“Oh, of course... I understand. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could pick some up, though?”

“Well, most ponies would bake ‘em themselves.”

I froze in temporary paralysis. Something you should know about my talents: cooking isn’t among them. I can barely make toast without setting off the fire alarm. After a few seconds, Mr. Cake seemed to observe my reaction.

“I’d be glad to share our recipe with you...”

...And that’s how I ended up at home with a recipe in writing I couldn’t really read, a host of new equipment (I already had an oven, just no muffin tins. Mainly I used the oven for drying socks and the occasional book), and all the supplies I would need.

First step: unplug the fire alarm.

Now, picture the regular process of baking muffins, plus everything going wrong that could, and multiply it by six. Four tries and three hours later, I had a precious pan of half a dozen oatmeal muffins. I’m not entirely sure how I did it, so chances are I won’t be doing it again (successfully) any time soon.

I had forgotten entirely why I was doing this (for some mailmare I don’t even know!) until I stumbled over my stack of mail. I hoofed through today’s issue of Equestria Daily (over 100,000,000 subscribers!), before picking up the letter from my brother.

He is a pegasus, so besides having to write by muzzle, he also lacks an affinity for writing and literature in general. I know I shouldn’t stereotype, but in truth it’s not really that. I did grow up with him, after all. So naturally, upon seeing his letter, I assumed it was something important; it would have to be, for him to write about it.

It was a note saying he was going to be back in Canterlot for the next weekend, and he was wondering if we could get together. He doesn’t know I moved yet. Derp. Note to self: send out change of address cards.

I decided to stay in for the rest of the day, and try to finish getting moved in! Even now, as I record this, there are a few stray boxes that I haven’t gotten to yet. I did, however, manage to get the office put together, complete with unwrapped couch, armchair, clipboard, glasses, and all of my other equipment necessary for breaching the mind. I was about to turn to the kitchen, when there was that sound again. Oh. Right. Doorbell.

I was surprised to find my next-door neighbor at the door, Lyra.

“Hello, ma’am. Can I help you?”

“Well, Bonbon and I just smelled something burning and wanted to make sure...” She looked past me into the kitchen, where my multiple failures were self-evident. “Oh my! Um, is everything okay?”

I chuckled. “Cooking just isn’t my finest talent, that’s all. Apologies for the smoke.”

Lyra smiled. “No problem. I’m almost as bad, but fortunately Bonbon does most of the cooking. Say, if you want, maybe she could give you some tips sometime?”

“Sure, I’d like that. But hopefully this won’t become a permanent hobby. More out of necessity at the moment.”

“Aaah!” she exclaimed, smile widening. “Bachelor cooking. I’ll leave you to your cleaning then.”

It is my opinion that, if pegasi have a certain innate preference for abstinence from literature and anything that isn’t “awesome,” then unicorns are part troll. Just an observation from a poor earth pony.

After she left, I followed her advice and did clean up the horrific kitchen–which left me beat and hungry to boot. I managed to retrieve an apple from the ill-stocked pantry, which I am finishing even now as I make this record.

Things are shaping up to be quite exciting... actually, scratch that. Things are already spiraling down into hectic chaos.

Time to catch up on some sleep–hopefully, I’ll actually be able to do that tonight. I hate moving.

Goodnight.

Comments

[Super]

[MagicMissingno]

Well this is the first piece that mentions the new foals.

Anyways, I'm tracking. I can't wait to see where this goes. Maybe somepony has autism!

[Glassed]

Uuuh, getting better and better
-Glassed

[Draco Dei]

SPOILER ALERT!!!

but an object of such scale as a entire couch would take some practice... oh. Definitely one of those clients.
-

My skill is looking into a pony’s past.
-Ah, and when he pulled out the hourglass, I thought he earned it when he found the final piece of the general skill-set he would need for his career: Knowing when to tell the person that you are done talking for the moment.

It was only on the doorstep of the giant mock-gingerbread house that I remembered whom it was home to.
-Ha!

and the heavy beat drown out any attempt at conversation.
-drowned

I felt queasy, and wasn’t entirely sure Celestia’s fears were unwarranted. Not that I couldn’t handle my weight at a party,
-Fears about the mental stability of the EoH, or was she worried about our main character and I missed it? The second seems more likely overall, but the context of the second second sentence makes me wonder about the second possibility.

occasional book)
-He gets books wet often enough to mention that he dries them in the oven?

if pegasi have a certain innate preference for abstinence from literature and anything that isn’t “awesome,”
-I think that is mostly just Rainbow Dash and Roid Rage... but it is ambiguous enough that if you want to go with that then it works.

[Jade Mer]

I totally agree with everything the good Doctor says. MOVING IS TERRIBLE. Who the heck invented it?! They should be killed and made into cup- I mean muffins!

[RadBunny]

First step: unplug the fire alarm.

TRUE THAT!

[TheIronPone035]

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"Glasses are cool." - The Eleventh Doctor