Last October, I came back from a month away and my cat wouldn’t speak to me. He refused to come in the house; if he saw me, he ran away. He’d always been a partly outdoor cat with an independent streak, so at first I wasn’t worried. Maybe he hadn’t liked the woman who sublet my house in my absence. Or he was punishing me for going away. Maybe he was just savoring the last weeks of a lingering Texas summer—the slow descent of twilight, the fat mice moving in the grass. But a few days passed, and then a week, and he continued to avoid me. Two weeks after I returned home, I spent an afternoon sitting very still, watching him sunning himself in my neighbor’s backyard. He looked healthy and self-satisfied, in fine feline form. But then he must’ve felt my eyes on him; he stood up and hopped easily over the fence, disappearing back into whatever secret space he was spending his time in.
I enlisted my friends to prowl the neighborhood with me, calling his name—as if he had ever been the kind of animal who came when called. I ventured as far as I dared into the thick brush beside the railroad tracks, trying to lure him with catnip. I bought insanely expensive wet food, organic and grain-free, the kind of cat food that comes garnished with herbs, and set it outside the front door. When that didn’t tempt him, I bought the cheap Dollar General stuff, ambiguous gray globs suspended in jelly. The message I was trying to send was: Whatever you want, buddy, as long as you come home. But he didn’t come home.
My neighbor saw him more than I did—he liked to show up at sunrise to watch her feed her chickens. They had reached a kind of truce, but as soon as I showed up, he’d dash off to one of his hiding places. One morning at the beginning of November the buzzards were gone—supposedly the sign of that the year’s first freeze is coming. That night, the weather turned. The wind sounded like an enemy trying to get into the house, and there was frost on the grass in the morning. My neighbor reassured me that Musa had come by to watch the chickens get fed and didn’t seem any worse for wear. The inaccessibility of his secret life drove me crazy. Where was he sleeping? What was he eating? Did he know he was breaking my heart?
In December, my friend Brandon came over one day to drop off a book; when he asked me how I was, I started crying and I couldn’t stop. I felt foolish, and also so, so sad. “Are you sure this is about the cat?” he asked. I could see his point, but I was pretty sure it was. I called my mom for a pep talk. “Maybe you just have to accept that he wants a different kind of life,” she said. I hung up on her, and didn’t even call back to apologize.
Two weeks before Christmas, I was explaining to a friend in town that if I seemed more distressed than usual, it was just because I was trying to accustom myself to the fact that my cat didn’t want to be my cat anymore. “No way,” she said. “Here’s what you do: You just call Dawn.” And then she gave me the cat psychic’s phone number.
On the surface, it’s ridiculous to say my cat stopped speaking to me, because, of course, he has never spoken to me—I’m not a shaman, and I don’t live in a Disney cartoon. But people who have pets will know what I mean; when you live with animals, you’re engaged in constant, low-level communication with them. (...)
When I looked her up online, Dawn proved to be much more than just a cat psychic. Her website included photographs of all kind of animals, from horses to small rodents. There were also links to her children’s books about a giant rabbit; according to her bio, she enjoyed fabric art, rollerblading, and spending time with animals.
On her website, Dawn was careful to denote where her abilities began and ended. She could communicate directly with animals via telepathy, helping her clients to “learn how [their animals] are feeling, what they need, and who they really are.” Initial phone consultations lasted forty minutes—“perfect for getting to know everything you have wondered about one animal friend”—and cost $65. I am not by nature a person who believes in psychics, although I’ve often wished I were. Compared to my friends who text with their shamans and go on desert vision quests, I’ve always felt boringly earth-bound, unreceptive to miracles. I had consulted a psychic once before, when I was twenty. She said I was an old soul, but it didn’t mean much to me; I had the feeling she told everyone that. But I was desperate, and therefore receptive. I reserved the next available slot.
I enlisted my friends to prowl the neighborhood with me, calling his name—as if he had ever been the kind of animal who came when called. I ventured as far as I dared into the thick brush beside the railroad tracks, trying to lure him with catnip. I bought insanely expensive wet food, organic and grain-free, the kind of cat food that comes garnished with herbs, and set it outside the front door. When that didn’t tempt him, I bought the cheap Dollar General stuff, ambiguous gray globs suspended in jelly. The message I was trying to send was: Whatever you want, buddy, as long as you come home. But he didn’t come home.My neighbor saw him more than I did—he liked to show up at sunrise to watch her feed her chickens. They had reached a kind of truce, but as soon as I showed up, he’d dash off to one of his hiding places. One morning at the beginning of November the buzzards were gone—supposedly the sign of that the year’s first freeze is coming. That night, the weather turned. The wind sounded like an enemy trying to get into the house, and there was frost on the grass in the morning. My neighbor reassured me that Musa had come by to watch the chickens get fed and didn’t seem any worse for wear. The inaccessibility of his secret life drove me crazy. Where was he sleeping? What was he eating? Did he know he was breaking my heart?
In December, my friend Brandon came over one day to drop off a book; when he asked me how I was, I started crying and I couldn’t stop. I felt foolish, and also so, so sad. “Are you sure this is about the cat?” he asked. I could see his point, but I was pretty sure it was. I called my mom for a pep talk. “Maybe you just have to accept that he wants a different kind of life,” she said. I hung up on her, and didn’t even call back to apologize.
Two weeks before Christmas, I was explaining to a friend in town that if I seemed more distressed than usual, it was just because I was trying to accustom myself to the fact that my cat didn’t want to be my cat anymore. “No way,” she said. “Here’s what you do: You just call Dawn.” And then she gave me the cat psychic’s phone number.
On the surface, it’s ridiculous to say my cat stopped speaking to me, because, of course, he has never spoken to me—I’m not a shaman, and I don’t live in a Disney cartoon. But people who have pets will know what I mean; when you live with animals, you’re engaged in constant, low-level communication with them. (...)
When I looked her up online, Dawn proved to be much more than just a cat psychic. Her website included photographs of all kind of animals, from horses to small rodents. There were also links to her children’s books about a giant rabbit; according to her bio, she enjoyed fabric art, rollerblading, and spending time with animals.
On her website, Dawn was careful to denote where her abilities began and ended. She could communicate directly with animals via telepathy, helping her clients to “learn how [their animals] are feeling, what they need, and who they really are.” Initial phone consultations lasted forty minutes—“perfect for getting to know everything you have wondered about one animal friend”—and cost $65. I am not by nature a person who believes in psychics, although I’ve often wished I were. Compared to my friends who text with their shamans and go on desert vision quests, I’ve always felt boringly earth-bound, unreceptive to miracles. I had consulted a psychic once before, when I was twenty. She said I was an old soul, but it didn’t mean much to me; I had the feeling she told everyone that. But I was desperate, and therefore receptive. I reserved the next available slot.
by Rachel Monroe, Hazlitt | Read more:
Image: Vaughn Pinpin
