I’m sure I’m not alone among dog owners who wish they
knew the thoughts of their pet. So, on a recent trip to the pet store, I was
pleasantly surprised to meet a lady who is able to answer my questions about
what my dog Peetey is thinking.
She’s a dog psychic and her name is Claire. Cable TV
has the Long Island Medium and Los Angeles has the Pet Shop Medium. Her website
touts her service as “helping you have a deeper connection with and an
understanding of your best friends, your pets.” Who wouldn’t want that, right?
Her site says that she is able to get inside the head of your dog and discover
the root of any training, behavior, or health issues.
She told me that she connects telepathically with
animals and figures out what is going on with them. In Peetey’s case, there
might not be much actually going on. There can’t be a dog around that sleeps
more than he does. If sleeping were an Olympic sport, he’d be Michael Phelps
and Usain Bolt combined. Also, he never barks. There could be a family of
raccoons living in my attic and he wouldn’t make a sound. Nor is he the least
bit curious with the world outside the front door. But, he does have some leash
aggression, not to mention a desire to turn small puff-ball dogs into appetizers.
Those are two issues I’d like fixed, but I’m more interested in simply knowing
if Peetey is happy.
Using Claire’s skills seemed like the perfect way to
find out, until I saw her rates. She not only charges an arm and a leg, but
also a paw and a flank too. A half-hour reading costs $90. Or I could plop down
a meager $180 for a full hour. Her website also boasts that she can communicate
with pets in spirit. That sold me. The opportunity to hear from the dearly
departed Starbuck was worth the money. So, I called her up and booked a
30-minute appointment.
I fretted for the five days prior to the meeting. What
if she was unable to connect with Peetey? He isn’t the sharpest canine in the
kennel. He may have a big head, but once Claire climbs inside, I think she’ll
be shocked at what’s missing. Maybe there’s just not enough going on in that
giant noggin of his to warrant a reading? Or if they do connect, what if he
says that he is really unhappy living in my care? Maybe he’ll complain that I
don’t walk him enough or that my yard is too small.
Additionally, I wasn’t even sure if I believed that
Claire was legitimate. Ok, I didn’t believe it at all, and I was worried that
she was going to be able to channel my doubts and put me through an exorcism.
Moreover, how was I going to verify what she said? Find another dog medium for
a second opinion? It seems like she could easily just say that I have a great
dog and that he’s completely content in my care. She could also say that
Starbuck is living in a doggie nirvana, sleeping on giant pillows, running
through fields of gold, and sniffing butts to his heart’s content. I considered
canceling my appointment.
But instead I showed up on time. She led me to the back
of the pet store where she had curtained off a section of the storeroom. I thought
maybe there’d be a couch for Peetey to lounge upon or perhaps a crystal water
dish that she’d use to summon his inner puppy. Instead, there were two chairs
for her and me and a rug and water bowl for Peetey. We sat and talked while he
explored. I told her as much as I could about his behaviors. She would pet him
and speak calmly to him whenever he wandered over. Twenty minutes into our meeting
she asked for a picture of Starbuck and switched the conversation to him. Ten
minutes later she announced that Starbuck says hello. He is cancer-free and
happily chasing his tail and sleeping on the backs of heavenly couches.
“Great news,” I said. “But what about Peetey?”
“Oh, I couldn’t get a reading from him,” Claire said. “He’s
a sweet boy and seems to be content, but telepathically, he’s about as dull as
Mariah Carey on American Idol. Will that be check or charge?”
I knew it. My biggest fear was realized. I took Peetey
home without telling him he had failed his test. I left him in the house while
I ran and errand. When I returned and opened the door, there he was to joyfully
greet me, his tail wagging furiously.
Later, when I climbed into bed, the evening ritual
began. Like he does every night, Peetey leapt onto my bed and buried his face
into my chest. I scratched his head and he collapsed like a sack of potatoes
under my loving hands. He curled into a ball against my side. Soon he was
snoring.
I looked over at him before hitting the light. I was
certain he was happy. It doesn’t take a mind-reader to figure that out.
