2 days ago
A Pet Psychic, My Weird Little Maltipoo, and Myself
If you'd told me five years ago that I'd be spending a sunny Los Angeles afternoon on Zoom with a pet psychic while Franklin, my one-and-a-half-year-old Maltipoo puppy, contentedly chewed a carrot toy on my lap, it's safe to say that I wouldn't have believed you.
With the exception of a forgettable trio of fish and a hamster I inexplicably named Shaquille who was not long for this world, I didn't grow up with pets. My childhood pleas for a puppy were unsuccessful; ultimately, my mom and dad were right that said puppy's care would have 100% fallen on them. Later on, as my friends brought home bodega kittens in their backpacks, or put down roots and became dog moms and dads, I happily visited or dogsat. But I didn't feel quite ready to take the plunge myself.
I was 31 when that changed, and my partner Rax and I brought home a little white dog named Franklin. We'd been talking about it for years: Rax grew up with a little white dog of the extra-crusty variety, and I, not having much dog experience myself, glommed onto his dream. But it all became real when we visited the home of his foster parents, Tiff and Bob, and Frank jumped into my arms, pawing at me with a Little Orphan Annie intensity that we'd soon come to learn was unusual for him. (He's not a huge fan of new people, as he'll readily demonstrate with low-pitched yet consistent growls.) But the sweetness he showed to me and Rax that day was all the proof we needed that he (and his little green dog bed shaped like a frog) should be ours.
We've now had Frank (sometimes Franklin, never Frankie) for almost a year—his generic leather collar long since replaced by a beaded Susan Alexandra one from my best friend, Jazmine—and in that time I've managed to become the kind of person who desperately, urgently needs to know if my dog is happy with the life I've given him. (I also get my tarot read and regularly spend $20 a pop on Erewhon juices, but what can I say? Los Angeles will change you, if you let it.) So when the opportunity arose to take Frank to a pet psychic and call it a work expense (!), I instantly sought out the advice of Jennifer Moore of an LA-based animal communicator and retired psychotherapist whose warm, attentive vibe seemed just right for drawing out the hairy (or furry?) details of Franklin's past.
The thing about adopting a dog is that most of the time, you never learn much about their origins. We knew Frank had been attentively cared for by Tiff and his prior foster mom, Jeanie, who turned him from a shellshocked rescue into the loving and lovable dog we know now more or less singlehandedly. But we didn't know precisely where all that original anxiety came from. Given I was delving deep into my own psyche in therapy every week, I reasoned, wasn't it worth spending an hour and $200 of reimbursable money to do the same for Frank?
