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The backyard at the governor’s mansion. Yes, I’m sure he’s thrilled about it. Plenty of space for him to corner innocent—and not-so-innocent—chipmunks.
“Yes, that’s the backyard at the place we’re staying,” I say. “But he’s not—”
Beatrice holds up a hand. “Let his voice through, dear. No need to interrupt.”
No need to interrupt? I’m the one paying for this, not Gary. And Gary is not allowed outside, no matter what he’s telling Beatrice. Unless… maybe he’d like a little harness?
Beatrice’s mouth forms a line. “He feels constricted by you.”
“Constricted?” Definitely not a harness then. Good thing I didn’t bring it up and embarrass myself.
She nods. “You’re not allowing him freedom. He’s showing me a closed door.”
“Well, yes, that’s for—”
“He’s also showing me a room with a lot of books,” she says. “There’s also a man in there. He’s… well, that can’t be right.”
I stare at her. A man? Gary is using the pet psychic to show me the governor?
“Hmm,” she hums, staring at me through the screen, as if she can see me attempting to seduce the governor of New York in a room with a lot of books.
She can’t. Right?
“He said he was lonely before you found him.”
The cat, I remind myself. We’re talking about Gary, not Warren. But… Oh. My. God. That is true! I did find him! At the shelter! And he did look extra-dramatically lonely in his shelter profile. You know, in that way only an orange tabby can?
“He thinks you don’t feed him enough,” Beatrice is saying, clearly moving past Gary’s tragic backstory. “He’s showing me empty bowls.”
Well. That’s a lie.
“Can we go back to the room with the books?” I interject. “I think he was trying to tell me something important back there.” Something really important, like how to land him a stepdaddy.
Beatrice stares at me, nonplussed. “Darling, it doesn’t work like that. I can only communicate what Gary wishes to speak about.”
“I—”
“He’s acting out,” she says firmly, “because he does not feel you are in control of your life. And thus his. He wants security. He’s showing me something about water?”
I gasp.
This psychic is so legit. She knows about my plumbing issues. Gary’s probably worried I can’t provide for him. What with the move to the shoddy brownstone and leaky plumbing.
“I’m getting that fixed!” I quickly tell her, lest she have me reported to some kind of animal welfare agency. Poor Gary, I had no idea he was carrying this kind of stress around.
“He wants action and direction, hon. He wants decisiveness.”
Wait. Decisiveness? From me? The little shit. What’s he doing that’s decisive? Choosing which nook to snooze on? Which small animal to dangle in front of me?
“I’m very decisive,” I insist, insulted by my cat, via a pet psychic.
“Hmm,” Beatrice murmurs, clearly unconvinced.
“Never mind.” I sigh. “I just want to help Gary make better choices. Before he kills something.”
“You can’t help him,” she says, “until you help yourself. Good day, sweetie. Our time is up.”
“Wait—”
“Oh.” She pauses, hand already reaching for the end meeting button. “The dog. He wants something. Something special. He’s feeling a bit left out. But whatever you do, do not forget about the wet food for Gary, hon. I suggest you move quickly on that, because he’s got his eye on a rabbit.”
Oh. My. God. I did just see a rabbit on the back patio.
Holy shit. She’s good.
Chapter Seventeen
I spend the first hour after my pet psychic appointment stewing. Luckily, I have to go to work, so at least I’m able to take some of this energy and put it into ripping seams.
I’m indecisive. According to Gary. A cat. Which is the most ridiculous thing ever to be said by a cat about a person.
I knew cats were judgmental, but I never expected them to pass said judgment through a pet psychic and onto the person who feeds and houses them. The person who, for the record, decisively picked them out at the shelter.
So ungrateful.
Gary, for his part, was lounging near the dog door when I left. The dog door that I locked, thank you very much. He gave me a smug look, like he knows something I don’t know about how to operate the dog door, but he doesn’t have opposable thumbs, so whatever, joke’s on him. And I only gave him one kiss goodbye as opposed to the usual five or six. Which… is probably more of a punishment for me than him, so also whatever. If he’s going to critique me, I have a right to reserve my affection for those who deserve it.
Like Duke, for example. Duke adores me. He follows me around whenever he can, licking my hand when I’m reading, nuzzling me with his head. Pure and complete adoration, which is exactly what a person should expect from a pet.
If only Gary would take notes.
