Purrgatory is the waiting room with fur. One face, edge to edge — the mane radiates off the head in yellow and gold strokes like a sun that decided to be an animal, held in by a running black scrawl that loops around the whole skull like handwriting that never lifts the pen. The eye-masks are two orange fields; the eyes inside them are half-closed, white with a blue half-moon dropping below each lid, lashes drawn on in single gold strokes. Asleep, or pretending, or past needing to look. The nose is a plum-dark triangle. The ears are lined pink, cut like party hats. Below it all, the largest tooth-grid in the practice: two rows of thick white squares in an orange lattice, framed in gray, spanning nearly the full two meters — a grin, a gate, a wall you wait in front of. Whiskers scratch out over the green and ochre panels at the jaw like tally marks. Third canvas of the Pantheon. The old gods keep arriving with smiles on.