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But whatever. The longer it takes him to fix my bathroom, the longer I get to stay at the mansion and finagle ways to kiss him again.
And, of course, the more time and energy I have to devote to Gary’s mental health.
I narrowed it down to a woman named Beatrice, which seems like a good name for a pet psychic. Like, if I was a dog, I wouldn’t mind a lady named Beatrice poking around in my mind.
Beatrice tells me that, in order to connect to Gary’s energy, she needs pictures of him. These, she insists, should be “candids” of him in “various stages of personality,” which I take as a challenge. I have plenty of pictures of Gary, but I don’t know if they show “various stages of personality.” It gives me the excuse to stage several photoshoots of Gary throughout the governor’s mansion, which causes a few side-eyes from the staff. And a direct eye roll from the governor himself.
He paused yesterday in the entry of the formal reception room in the mansion where I was draping a very old cloak that I found in a very old closet around Gary. I also added a small crown, a plastic one that I dug out of a different closet. Warren took one look at Gary and then at me, and then he sighed.
“This doesn’t concern you!” I interjected before he could utter a single word.
“I feel like dressing up your cat is cause for concern.”
“For who?”
“Well, Gary for starters.”
“It’s not. He’s fine. Besides, this is the very least he can do for me.” I snapped a picture and gave Gary a treat from my pocket. He gobbled it up and tapped his paw on my hand, requesting another.
“Are you… are you attempting to train the cat to do something specific?”
“Of course not, I’m just capturing various candid shots of him.”
Warren tilted his head to the side, in an gesture I’d already come to recognize as his tell for questioning my sanity. “How is a cat wearing a cape and crown candid?”
“It really captures his inner self, don’t you think?”
Warren started to reply then opted for simply shaking his head and walking away.
How he couldn’t see that we were perfect for each other, I don’t know.
Anyway.
I send the pictures of Gary, along with a few that were taken at my place. I figure the psychic might be able to detect a change. I can’t, but then again, I’m not a professional.
Finally, it’s time for our Zoom call. Beatrice materializes on my laptop screen, her long, pale blonde hair and wide blue eyes standing out against a serene grey wall filled with… succulents. I kinda expected crystals or something, but I guess succulents are pretty legit too.
“Hey,” I say, and Beatrice smiles.
“Hello, sweets.”
It’s hard to tell if Beatrice is forty or seventy. I have a feeling she’s also got that Zoom feature turned on that smooths out your wrinkles, but besides that she just seems both young and wise at the same time.
“I’m really excited to talk to you about Gary,” I say, jumping right in. “I feel like—”
Beatrice holds up a hand. “Let’s not cast our own ideas about Gary, dear,” she says. “Let’s let his energy speak for himself. Now, remember, energy is energy, whether it’s over the phone or Zoom or in person. So give me a moment to find that energy. I’m going to ask you a series of ‘yes’ or ‘no’ questions.”
“Maybe?” I ask with a laugh.
Her eyes flash. “Never maybe.”
Oh, shit. Apparently, this pet psychic stuff is more intense than I thought. Maybes aren’t allowed? But my whole life is a maybe. Maybe I’ll get my plumbing fixed. Maybe my business will take off. Maybe the governor will decide to throw me up against a wall and defile me.
Can the pet psychic read that? Shit. Shit.
“I can go get him,” I say. “I think. He’s somewhere in the house.”
Beatrice shakes her head. “That won’t be necessary. I have the pictures. And I can feel his energy. I just need to sort it out. There’s another animal energy present, and I need to make sure we’re talking about him.”
She’s picking up on Duke! Holy shit. I found a real, honest-to-God pet psychic.
“Now,” she says. “Gary’s going to communicate with me primarily through images. The first one I’m seeing is… something triangle-shaped. Small. Are you feeding him kibble?”
I nod. “Yes, yes! That’s the shape of his food.”
“He despises it, dear,” she says. “He’s very distraught. You used to feed him something else. Wet food. That’s what he’d like you to switch to.”
The little bastard. He should be grateful for that kibble. It’s organic! But still, good to know. If he wants wet food, he’ll have it. I furiously scribble ‘wet food’ onto a notepad.
“He’s also showing me a large backyard,” she says. “Lots of trees. He’s excited about this place.”
