Session With a Dog Psychic
A local sage plies the minds of two pure-bred pooches.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Over the course of the $40 half-hour, there are many things the dog psychic says about Baby B and Little G. For instance, Baby B really wants to be a vegetarian. Little G, meanwhile, is weary of the chlorinated hose water her dog sitter’s been giving her. (Note: Canine names were changed to protect their psyches from public prejudice.)
But one piece stands out as particularly titillating: Baby B, a 2 1/2-year-old boxer purchased from the pages of the Auto Shopper, was once a Pekinese of regal pedigree, a prized pet owned by a family in the Chinese Dynasty.
Longtime seer-for-the-slobbery Rosemary Brown Sanders proceeds to report that this is why Baby B has a special sympathy for small dogs. And she doesn’t stop there: Like a lot of dogs, Baby B at times wants to be a horse. She has danger issues with cars. And she thinks the whole beach belongs to her.
But before Sanders dives behind Baby B’s expressive eyes, it’s Little G’s turn to share the phone booth-size parlor pieced together in a corner of Pilgrim’s Way Book Store in Carmel, where Sanders fields appointment three times a week. (A quarter decade into her psychic work, Sanders estimates that about a third of her work is animal related– “with all kinds of cockatiels, mules and horses, snakes, lizards, toads, you name it. They’re easy to read for. Like babies, they’re very pure in how they think.”)
At turns stroking Little G’s Springer spaniel coat and asking the dog sitter (me) to “ask questions, ask questions,” she sets about diagnosing what could be done to help free Little G (and/or her dog sitter) of any prevailing angst. The hose water was an easy one. Instead of tap: “Water from New Zealand– in the big blue bottle,” she says. “You can get it at Trader Joe’s.” For a shinier coat and better digestion, “a little fat works really well– a bit of organic butter, the size of a pea, from Whole Foods” would do the trick.
Then, human hand on canine chest, she pulls out a stunner: Little G is heartsick, desperately missing a beloved toy. “I’m seeing a little blue ball,” Sanders says.
I feel my skepticism start to fade a whisker. Damn, I can’t help but think, Little G does love that thing– she’ll play with it for hours. And I haven’t seen it in days.
Sanders appears capable of delivering more heavyweight help than anticipated, so I ask how to revise Little G’s most annoying habit, where she shivers and generally drags her nubby tail when it’s time to get in the car, no matter how much she will enjoy the ultimate destination. Simple solution, Sanders says: telepathy.
“She doesn’t like being left in the car,” she says. “Give her visuals of all the fun things you are going to do: Run a little movie in your mind. Dogs are very telepathic.”
After a few more insights of varying utility unfold– she accurately reads Little G, who visits a nursing facility regularly, to be a healer– a squawking timer tells us it’s Baby B’s turn.
“She wants more raw vegetables– carrots, dark green food,” Sanders says. “She really doesn’t like her food. It is playing havoc with her gas.
“Stir in a raw egg for her and, once in a while, give her a lil’ chunk of raw meat, good stuff, not too much gristle, from Whole Foods.”
Baby B’s mama and I soon learn that the heatstroke-prone boxer wants to take a trip to the desert– “like New Mexico”– and that there is more to the cute pooch’s reincarnation history, including a shared past between owner and owned.
“[Baby B] is an old soul, with many past lives– and has reincarnated two to three times with you.”
The small-dog sympathy call, born of her royal past life, however, feels a little off– it’s actually something the dog has struggled with and we intended to ask Sanders about. Ironically enough, a little poodle wanders in with her owner as our session concludes. Baby B considers the four-legged fluff ball for a moment, then lunges at it with an ugly bit of bared-tooth snarling.
“Not so much sympathy that time,” somebody murmurs.
But to Sanders’ credit, the telepathy exercise works with Little G. The reason why, however, remains uncertain– whether Little G was wooed to cruise by the silent film playing on my cerebellum’s silver screen or simply because mounting frustration was replaced by silence, closed eyes and a silly meditative smile.