The Penguin at the Doctor's

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The Penguin at the Doctor's
The penguin had dressed up. Coat, scarf, and a hat with a small feather. In one flipper he held his medical file, in the other a handkerchief. He was nervous, that was immediately obvious. Not because he was unwell—but because he had to admit he didn't know what was wrong.

The door opened with a soft squeak. The owl doctor was waiting in the consulting room: white coat, calm gaze, his glasses half in his beak. He gestured to the penguin to sit down on the slightly too-high chair. The penguin shifted a little, but finally sat upright, as he should.

"So," said the owl. "What's bothering me?"

The penguin looked down. "I don't know," he whispered. "Sometimes I'm cold even though it's warm. And sometimes everything is calm, but there's a storm raging in my head. I'm homesick, but I don't know where to go." The owl nodded. "That's not unusual for migratory birds."
"I'm not a migratory bird," replied the penguin.
"True," said the owl gently. "But maybe you tried anyway."
Then she fell silent. The penguin breathed in. And out.
And that was the beginning of the healing.
A penguin in a hat and scarf sits comfortably in an armchair, holding a tissue, while an owl in a lab coat reviews notes at a desk in a cozy library setting.