Words by Layla Dunn // Photo by Alexey Sviridkin
I didn’t set out to become one of those people. You know the ones: toting a small dog in a handbag, looking like they’re just minutes away from requesting a puppuccino at Starbucks. But then came the panic attacks. The sleepless nights. The bone-deep feeling that life was an ongoing group project where everyone else knew the assignment but me. Enter: a small, slightly lopsided rescue cat named Clementine. She didn’t just curl up on my lap, she anchored me.
Which is how I learned there’s a difference between “this is my pet” and “this is my emotional support animal”. Spoiler: it’s more than just semantics, and—thanks to some laws and loopholes—it can make life a whole lot easier. Quick heads-up for my Australian friends: everything I’m talking about here applies to the U.S. only. We’ve got specific ESA rules and protections here, like under the Fair Housing Act, that sadly don’t exist in Australia (yet).
An emotional support animal is a domesticated creature: dog, cat, bird, rabbit, mouse, ferret, whatever, that helps someone diagnosed with an emotional or mental health condition. We’re talking depression, anxiety, PTSD, and their many messy cousins. The main difference between a regular pet and an ESA? Paperwork. An ESA comes with a letter from a licensed mental health professional confirming your animal is part of your treatment plan. Without that letter, Clementine is just my cat. With it, she’s basically Florence Nightingale in fur.
Before Clementine’s official promotion to ESA, my rental application rejections read like bad dating texts: It’s not you, it’s our pet policy. Landlords can ban certain breeds, enforce weight limits, and charge “pet rent”. But under the Fair Housing Act, ESAs are exempt. Once you have that letter, a landlord must let your ESA live with you—no pet fees, no breed discrimination, no “sorry, we only accept dogs under 10 kilos.”
In California, Montana, and Arkansas, there are extra rules: California’s AB 468 says you need a 30-day relationship with your healthcare provider before they can write an ESA letter. Montana’s HB 703 has the same 30-day rule and lets landlords ask for proof your ESA is vaccinated. Arkansas’s HB 1420 also has the 30-day rule, plus you have to renew your ESA letter every year. The catch? The letter must be legit, from a licensed provider—like the ones through Pettable’s providers. None of those “instant ESA letter, no questions asked!” websites. If it sounds like a scam, it probably is.
Before Clementine, I was constantly vibrating at the frequency of a car alarm. With her, I slowed down. Not magically, not perfectly, but measurably. And yes, there’s science to back me up. Research shows ESA’s can create structured routines, because cats don’t care about your Netflix binge, they want breakfast at 6:03 a.m. sharp. They can reduce anxiety and depression, offer comfort during high stress, and even improve emotional regulation. One study found students’ stress hormones dropped after just 10 minutes with cats or dogs. Ten minutes! I’ve spent longer than that staring into the fridge wondering what to eat.
The mental health benefits get all the press, but ESAs can also help your physical health. I don’t mean “my cat got me into CrossFit,” but they can nudge you into more movement—dog owners walk about 31.8 extra minutes a week just from daily strolls. They can lower blood pressure—touching and talking to your ESA can actually reduce your heart rate—and even help you sleep better. ESAs can make you feel safe enough to drop your guard and, finally, pass out. Some studies even show they help ease nightmares for people with PTSD. And yes, even cats create healthier routines. I now get out of bed every morning because Clementine sits on my chest until I do.
Thanks to telehealth, you can consult a licensed mental health professional from home and get an ESA letter if appropriate. Services like Pettable can connect you with a provider who will actually assess your needs—not just hand you a form like a dodgy back-alley deal. The key is honesty: if you’re struggling, say so. An ESA isn’t a cure-all (I still see my therapist, still occasionally spiral into a web of “what ifs”), but it’s a solid part of my mental health toolkit.
Clementine isn’t trained to fetch my slippers or detect seizures. She’s trained, by nature and by the promise of snacks, to be there. And sometimes, that’s exactly what you need: a non-judgy, soft-furred creature who doesn’t mind if you cry into their fur. If you’re wondering whether your pet could be more than “just a pet,” it’s worth looking into ESA status—especially if housing, mental health support, or just day-to-day emotional survival is on your mind. Because yes, Clementine still knocks water glasses off the table. But she also, in her own quiet, whiskered way, holds me together. And that’s worth all the paperwork in the world.
