mrs-roboto's Diaryland
Diary
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The Pet Psychic
Having grown
up in Brooklyn,
I spent many a summer day out at Coney
Island. For those of you unfamiliar with the area, Coney is a bit of a
ghetto but there was a beach, an amusement
park, sideshows,
and my all-time favorite, the gypsies.
My girlfriend
Sandra and I would take the subway four stops with nothing but $.75 in our
pockets and lofty expectations. We couldn't wait to sit before the gypsy and
have her stare into that crystal ball which would reveal our futures.
Our gypsy of
choice was a heavyset woman in her mid-thirties (although she looked 60),
with a hearty mustache that could rival Tom Selleck's in his Magnum
P.I. days. She wore layer upon layer of shiny crinoline skirts and adorned
her head in sheer scarves. She had a thick Eastern European accent which regularly
predicted fame, great riches, and handsome husbands for both Sandra and myself.
For a long time, I believed every word she said and couldn't wait a week to
hear her say it again but then I entered adolescence, started listening to
the Dead
Kennedys, and gave up fairy tales all together.
Somewhere in
the late 80's/early 90's there was a gypsy revival of sorts. I'm not really
sure what happened but gypsies were morphed into something New Agey and acceptable.
They changed their titles to mediums or psychics or whatever and all sorts
of people sought them out in droves. The props of yesterday (crystal balls
and unsightly facial moles) were replaced by incense, scented oils, and soft
lighting. The psychics themselves took on a soft, hippy sort of look and offered
spiritual guidance. Basically, everything began to suck!
Throughout
the last decade, psychics have been regular guests on talk
shows, helped solve crimes which had puzzled enforcement officials for
years, and allowed people talk
to loved ones who passed. I never found my self the least bit interested
in these individuals. They lacked the color and pizzazz of my childhood gypsy
and I found myself flipping channels whenever one was on my TV screen but
Tuesday night I finally found someone to fill the void of my Coney Island
gypsy. It's Sonya Fitzpatrick, the Pet Psychic!
That's right,
this woman can read your pet's mind! Tuesday night I watched her speak to
a dog that didn't like to be pet. He would shy away when a hand was extended
in his direction. The dog told Sonya that he had been in a home before the
one he now lives in and that they had gotten rid of him. Granted the new family
had already told Sonya that they got this dog at a shelter but I'm sure the
dog felt it was important to reiterate this fact. The dog also asked Sonya
to tell his new family not to approach him but that he would approach them
when he was ready to be pet. Wow, problem solved. Score one for the Pet Psychic!
Sonya was also
able to communicate with a bird who had this message for his owner: "Tell
my owner I like to sing and I would like a mirror in my cage," and she
was able to speak to a cat from the great beyond who wanted to let her former
owner know that she missed sleeping in the bed
with her but that she was doing fine in Kitty heaven. Boy, my eyes were moist
by the end of that psychic reading. I sure wish I could get Sonya to communicate
with my dog
although I'm pretty certain he's thinking "Gee, my new doghouse sucks."
So in closing today, I want to encourage everyone to watch the Pet Psychic on Tuesdays on
Animal Planet. She has restored my belief in the existence of a sixth sense and I also want to promise not to talk about animals in my next entry.
11:01 a.m. - 2002-06-05
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