The Pet Communicator, a cat named Kitty Kitty and Me
I have a cat named Kitty Kitty, who meows all the time. When she enters or leaves a room, before or after mealtime, when I enter or leave a room, or when I sit down, stand up, or—basically—am at home, Kitty Kitty’s got something to say. Often, at the top of her lungs. Sometimes her point is clear: “It’s dinner time; feed me!” or, “I would like to announce, I have just entered the room.” Other times, I have no idea what she’s talking about.
When I learned about Debra Harrison, an acupuncturist and “pet communicator” in Hawaii Kai, who says she can speak telepathically with animals, I felt I had found someone Kitty Kitty had to meet.
I called Harrison, and she agreed to talk to my cat, with the caveat that she does not read pets’ minds, predict their futures, or find them when they’re lost (lost pets, it turns out, are really bad at describing their whereabouts). For those sorts of things, I would need a pet psychic, and what Harrison does is completely different. “I only pick up what the animal is communicating to me,” she explained.
That should give her plenty to work with, I thought. I pictured Kitty Kitty meowing away in Harrison’s studio, not letting her get a word in edgewise. I was disappointed to learn that Kitty didn’t need an appointment to actually meet Harrison, who prefers to work remotely. “If a pet is present, then my conscious mind makes up ideas,” Harrison said. “This kind of communication is something that happens on a subconscious level. You don’t want your conscious mind interfering.”
Harrison asked me some routine screening questions. What’s your cat’s name? How old is she and what does she look like? Indoor or outdoor? What’s her personality type? I described Kitty as an irritating chatterbox, who doesn’t get along with other cats, but who is good at killing mice, and who sometimes displays her beheaded prey in the driveway. When I told Harrison what I had named my cat, she said, “Really? That’s what you call her?”
Harrison charges $85 per session, and defines a session loosely. She talks to a pet as many times as necessary to get to the bottom of whatever it is the pet owner wants to know. I told her I wanted to know what Kitty’s incessant meowing was all about. Also, I wanted to find out why somebody had been throwing up on the rug so much lately.
Harrison had three telepathic conversations with Kitty Kitty, and three follow-up telephone conversations with me. Naturally, Kitty had a lot to say, but the biggest shocker was this: her real name is not Kitty Kitty. “It would probably be a good thing for you and her to sit down and figure out a new name for her,” Harrison said “On the soul level, that is not her name.” Kitty wouldn’t tell Harrison what her real name is, but Harrison suggested I try “Hunter,” or possibly “Allie.”
Among the other revelations: Kitty Kitty—or whoever she is—says that I am a very busy person, that the neighborhood cats have bad attitudes, that there are a too many dogs around, that I am a confused person, that I don’t really understand her, that visitors come around when I am not home, and that all the furniture is mine and she needs something that belongs to her. Furthermore, she likes chicken.
As for the non-stop meowing? “She says all the noise she makes is to get your attention,” Harrison told me. “And, telepathically, what I’m getting from you is that you’re not really connected with her?”
Trying not to sound too indignant, I turned to the vomit. “She did not want to talk about that,” Harrison said, and suggested I try changing her food. If that doesn’t work, she said, I should probably take her to see a veterinarian.
I’m sure that’s good advice. But whatever my cat’s true soul name is, she will always be Kitty Kitty to me.
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