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CLAIRE VOYANT
A visit with the pet communicator
Don't step on a crack, or you'll break your mother's back. The Magic 8 Ball. Cooties. The tooth fairy. These are childhood superstitions.
As we grow older, we need explanations for why things happen in our lives, guidance when we are lost. Accordingly, we graduate to higher-level, although equally fantastical mechanisms to help us make sense of the world around us: Horoscopes, psychic
hotlines, organized religion, lucky charms,
Punxatawney Phil.
Recently, I found myself searching for a solution to an insidious problem of my own. Little did I know the quest would cause me to take a leap of faith analogous to the one those Nike-wearing crazies took when Halle-Bopp streaked by. Ok, it wasn't that extreme, but it felt like it to me.
I have a cat. Her name is Claire. Claire began peeing where she shouldn't. Like on the bed and on the couch.
You can imagine the severity of this problem. Beyond the obvious negatives of this situation, I felt completely uncomfortable in my own home. I made a quilt of garbage bags for my bed and covered my couch in plastic. But these were just band-aids. I had to solve this problem and I had to solve it now. For good.
I turned to all my experts on animal behavior for advice. I took Claire to the vet and, $250 later, found out there was no physical problem. I called on all my cat-loving friends who gave me well-intentioned but totally useless advice: Clean the litter more often. Change the brand of litter altogether and don't get the scented kind. Yell at her. Confine her. And from the friends who didn't love cats so much: Kill her. Some of this I tried. None of it worked.
Then my slightly kooky but very practical friend Kim suggested something that seemed utterly ridiculous on its face: an animal communicator. When I actually considered it for more than half a second, I knew that I was desperate.
A quick Internet search yielded a nationwide directory of animal communicators. Not surprisingly, the highest concentration of them is in New York City. I called the first three on the list, left messages, and waited. Donna called me back first and said she'd charge $40 for a half-hour session. She explained the procedure -- I call her , give her information about my cat, she connects with my cat telepathically, and then we have a sort of conference call. I figured I had nothing to lose and set up an appointment for the following Wednesday.
On Wednesday night, I turned my bullshit detector on high and called Donna. She asked me three basic questions: What is your pet's name? What does she look like? Where do you live? Once armed with the answers, she took a deep breath and went silent for about 20 seconds. I watched Claire's eyes slowly close. Donna broke the silence with, "I've got her. I asked her if she was Claire and she said yes."
While Donna and I talked, Claire stared directly at me. "Have you changed her food lately?" Donna asked.
"Yes, I've been giving her new food for the past two days," I answered.
"May I ask why?"
I explained that the pet store was out of her regular food, so I'd switched flavors. Donna went silent again and Claire's eyes fluttered.
"She's showing me a piece of salmon. Is the new food fish-flavored?"
"No," I admitted, "they were out of ocean fish so I bought lamb and rice."
"You need to feed her more fish. Preferably fresh salmon or tuna. Let me see what else she has to say." With that, Donna went back to her Claire-voyant state. Amazingly, so did Claire.
Donna came back with more questions about Claire's life: her litter box, the variety of litter, the layout of the apartment, toys she likes, times of days when she's most active. I dutifully answered, hoping for great insights into my cat's inner world. Instead, Donna came back with, "She's bored. She's trying to get your attention so you'll spend more time tending to her needs."
My cat suffered from ennui. And to tell me this, she was peeing all over the apartment. (This reminded me of a Monty Python skit in which they try to entertain a bored cat. They try trick after trick until finally they decide to demolish a building in front of the cat. The cat just yawns in response.)
Donna went on to say that Claire was bored with the apartment, not interested in her food, tired of the litter box and generally uninspired. "Oh, and by the way," she said, "there's a man in your life. Claire does not like him for you." Wham. Immediately I was transported back to the world of the Magic 8 Ball. Me: "Does David Graham like me?" 8 Ball: "Ask again later."
It took me a while to digest the words. "Claire does not like him for you." Ok, so my boyfriend and I were having problems. We had been for months. I was beginning to admit that the relationship was on its last legs. Here I was emotionally flailing about while my cat had my problems all figured out. To top it all off, I had to pay some long-distance quack forty bucks to translate for me!
I mulled it over for a few weeks before deciding that Claire was right. I didn't like him for me either. So I broke up with him. I also changed Claire's food and gave her more treats, more attention and new toys. I started taking her for walks in the hallway.
She hasn't peed since.
So next time I have a problem, will I ask Claire for her advice? All signs point to yes. She's certainly more reliable than the Magic 8 Ball.
By Madhu Krishnappa
020601