Minsun Park
There's no shortage of opportunities to anthropomorphize your pet in Los Angeles. Doggy bakeries, daycares, clothing boutiques and pet spas have sprouted up on every corner to tempt doting pet owners to part with their disposable income. I used to laugh at this excessive pet pampering until I sheepishly disposed of some of my own income to consult a pet psychic for psycho cat.
How did it come to this? I swear I'm not the mythical crazy cat lady -- you know, that 300 pound new age spinster surrounded by dozens of feral cats in feline squalor. I'm happily married with a four-year-old son and I live a terrifyingly typical suburban existence. I do happen to have three cats, but they don't wear jeweled collars, cat leashes or visit pet spas. I make the effort not to blur the boundaries between the bipeds and the quadrupeds in our household.
If the behavior of our children is the ultimate litmus test for our parenting prowess, then I'm proud to say that my son is well-socialized, happy and healthy. But judging by the appalling behavior of my youngest cat Dickens, apparently I'm the feline Mommy Dearest. Despite my best efforts, Dickens grew up to be an insufferably spoiled, insolent, indolent, fat and demanding cat.
Ask any cat lover what they love about cats and they'll cite independence, low-maintenance, graceful, smart, quiet and clean. Dickens has none of these qualities. In fact, he is the Anti-Cat. If Garfield and Odie were to have a love child, it would turn out something like poor Dickens.
He has bizarre OCDs such as repetitive litter scratching, and goes around the house covering up random objects with imaginary cat sand. He also has a strange compulsion to dunk his paw into unattended drinks. After knocking back a few too many drinks laced with hair and gritty cat litter, I've resorted to drinking out of straw cups like a toddler.
But what really affected our lives was his incessant howling. Over the years, we've lost countless hours of sleep over his night time howling. There wasn't a room in the house we could lock him up where we couldn't hear his vocal stylings. In desperation, we set up a pet bed in the garage so we could get some sleep.
Several vets have checked him out thoroughly and haven't found a physical cause. So we tried all sorts of remedies -- from homeopathy, prescription sedatives for anxiety, night lights in case he had issues with the dark, to extra litter pans and nothing worked. If anything, the nightly practice increased his vocal range and volume.
Finally, my newest vet, Dr Lisa Woolf, acknowledged that he seemed "confused" and suggested we try a pet psychic. "You never know," she shrugged, "maybe he's trying to tell you something."
Oh please. Pet psychics? I'm less skeptical about psychic abilities than I am about Dickens having anything remotely resembling a thought to read. After all, this is a cat that routinely gets lost in his own house and meows pathetically for assistance.
But the upside of having such a "special" cat is that he's also the most affectionate cat that ever lived. He faithfully waddles after us like a dog and slobbers all over our faces to gives us kisses. The other cats seem embarrassed for him. I couldn't bear to give him away. Not that anybody else would take a neurotic, asthmatic feline who does kitty karaoke every night.
So I called Jean Connelly, a Sherman Oaks based psychic who came highly recommended by the owner of my neighborhood holistic pet food store and by my veterinarian.
First of all, Jean set me straight that the term "pet psychic" was pass? and referred to herself as a "Telepathic Animal Communicator." She felt the "psychic" label came with too much sensationalist baggage. "I don't do readings or play parlor games. I have an actual intuitive, interactive conversation with the animal. I talk to them and I listen to them."
I asked her how this interactive conversation was possible and she replied, "The best way for me to explain telepathic communication is to compare it to a radio frequency. It's done on wavelengths. All animals communicate with each other. I just happen to have the ability to hear it too." In addition to verbal communication, she also receives answers from feelings and pictures. I was intrigued despite myself, and set an appointment for her to make a house call for my kitty.
In preparation, I did some research and consulted the Committee for the Scientific Explanations of Claims for the Paranormal (CSICOP), a non-profit educational organization founded in 1976 by scientists, writers and academics such as Carl Sagan, Isaac Asimov and James Randi, to encourage the critical investigation of paranormal claims. According to Joe Nickell, Senior Research Fellow for CSICOP, psychics use five common cold reading techniques.
Noting the obvious.
Making safe statements.
Asking questions. This ploy gives the illusion of providing information when in reality, they're asking for it.
Utilizing the "Barnum Effect." Named after showman P.T. Barnum, who provided something for everyone; this involves offering vague statements which most people can apply specifically to themselves.
Returning messages to the animals.
The telepathy begins
Jean arrived at my house bearing bribes, er... gifts for my cats in the form of Greenies dental treats and furry toy mice. She was a grandmotherly woman with short, iron grey hair and the cats clustered around the goodies like it was Christmas morning. She asked me some brief questions about the ages of my cats, how long I've had them and whether they were indoor or outdoor cats. I was very guarded about my replies, in case she was fishing for information.
After a brief centering prayer and meditation, she began to concentrate on communicating with Dickens telepathically. I kept imagining the voice of Morris the cat (minus the ennui and pithy inner dialogue) with the vocabulary of the feeble-minded Lennie from "Of Mice and Men." Jean began to scribble furiously on her yellow notepad, transcribing her conversation. Just as I began to squirm impatiently, she read aloud from her notes. "I asked him how he was feeling and he said: 'I'm feeling good. I'm a good kitty. In fact, I feel great. I love to play. I'm a hunter. I chase things. I'm a hunter and I can growl.'"
I watched Dickens wheezing after the toy mice and tripping over himself. I replied skeptically, "He's an indoor only cat. The only thing I've ever see him hunt for is a napping spot." Jean shrugged and said, "Well that's what he keeps repeating over and over. It's funny, but that seems to be his individual thing, his identity." I was about to protest when Dickens came strutting over with his fuzzy mouse and deposited it proudly at our feet like a great white hunter.
Jean raised an eyebrow and nodded at me as if to say, "See!" I tried hard not to roll my eyes. So now I'm supposed to believe that cats have rich, inner fantasy lives? However, I couldn't help being impressed that apparently Dickens could speak in complete sentences, albeit short and simple. I had expected something more Tarzanesque like "Me kitty. You human. Me hunter."
Suddenly, my other cat Dora jumped up on the coffee table and stared intently at Jean. They locked eyes as if they were having a staring contest. Jean started scribbling furiously on the notepad again as Dora continued to stare at her. Jean turned to me and said, "Dora interrupted my conversation with Dickens to tell me something important. She says that she throws up a lot and doesn't like it."
My scalp prickled because she had hit a bull's eye. Dora has inflammatory bowel disease and we've spent a frustrating two years trying to identify a trigger for her constant vomiting episodes. In fact, minutes before Jean arrived, I had been scrubbing Dora vomit out of the carpet in my office. But there was no way that she could've known that. I tried to rationalize that cats are notorious for throwing up hairballs, so this could be construed as a safe statement, a lucky guess.
Jean asked Dora how she felt and if there was something we could do to help her get better. "Dora says she doesn't feel sick. But it's as if the food gets stuck partway down after she's eaten and comes back up. I asked her if there was anything we could do for her, but Dora just assured me that she just eats way too fast and knows that she needs to slow down. She says not to worry because she knows what she has to do."
I was taken aback at the accuracy and specificity of this last statement. Unknown to Jean, Dora is a street cat we adopted seven years ago and she still inhales her food as if she doesn't know when her next meal is coming. Her vomit contains whole pieces of kitty kibble intact. She asked me if I had a message to give to Dora. I shrugged and thought what the hell? "Tell her, I'm glad she's part of our family now" I said lamely. Jean relayed the message and told me that she also reassured Dora that she would have a home with us as long as she lived and didn't have to worry about her next meal.
Dora jumped down from the coffee table as if she were satisfied with the conversation and despite myself, I was oddly moved. We focused back on Dickens and asked him why he howls. Jean closed her eyes and said, "He says that he learned it from the dogs outside where he used to live." I tried to figure out which howling dogs he could be referring to and then it occurred to me. We have a major coyote problem in the hills. Packs of them come down every night and howl right outside my window like it's Transylvania or something.
Jean shook her head and emphasized, "He said it was where he used to live." I explained that we used to live in the Hollywood Hills and had a coyote problem there too. She seemed satisfied because the image of the "dog" she kept seeing looked kind of like a coyote. "Dickens says that he sings at night because it's his job. It's keeping the coyotes from coming inside."
Jean asked me when he howled at night, and I told her usually around 10 pm and then again around 5 am. She said this correlates with the nocturnal hours that coyotes keep. They howl when they come down from the hills and howl when they go back up in the pre-dawn hours. "Maybe Dickens thinks his howling is working because they go away every morning."
"Oh how sweet," I said insincerely through gritted teeth, "but please tell him it's not necessary." We debated back and forth for a few minutes with Jean as the interpreter until I suddenly became disheartened. Not because we couldn't come to a resolution, but mainly because I had the depressing epiphany that I was arguing quite vociferously with a kitty cat.
Dora interrupted our conversation again to make a couple of last requests, "Could you leave music playing for us when you leave the house, please? And can I have chicken?" When I asked what kind of music, Jean shrugged and replied, "She wasn't specific; she just wants gentle music, nice music." I was disappointed that my cats were into easy listening, elevator music. I was hoping their music tastes would be a little hipper because I really didn't want to inflict Kenny G on any living creature.
The aftermath
Although I began the session feeling smugly self-congratulatory at my cagey, objective approach, by the end, I was somewhat disarmed and charmed by the whole experience. It was "Charlotte's Web" come to life. Well, maybe without the polysyllabic SAT words that Charlotte could bandy about. (And, come to think of it, minus the spider and the pig and all the other farm animals.) But Jean was the personification of Fern Arabel, 50 years later, still talking to the animals with child-like delight and collecting social security.
Jean did resort to some of the cold reading techniques identified by Nickell. She did ask some questions, make some safe statements and vague generalizations and even offered to return messages to the cats. She was also wrong a couple of times. For instance, she said that Dickens was missing a friend and asked me if we ever had another cat that went away. When I couldn't corroborate that theory, she quickly switched gears.
But she was also right and very specific much of the time. Most importantly, it's been two weeks and things have improved drastically since their conversation. Dickens has come out from his exile in the garage and for whatever reason, doesn't howl while we're asleep anymore. It's been downgraded to the occasional sulky whimper.
Dora's vomiting mysteriously seems to be in remission, which no amount of drugs or dietary changes have improved in the past. She even nibbles at her food with lady like delicacy instead of hoovering it down in her usual fashion. But then again, the poor thing is now on this organic cat food so full of twigs and berries, who could really blame her for picking at it?
I'm not sure if I'm a true believer in animal telepathy. But there's no denying the results. Sure, there could be alternative explanations and it could all be coincidental. But just in case, I begrudgingly leave a little music playing when I leave the house. Show tunes seem to be Dora's favorite.
http://www.sheknows.com/articles/home-a ... ho-pet.htm
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