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Posted on March 4 at 10:55 p.m.
Thanks for clearing that up. Prior to reading your article I was virtually immobilized. Animal communicator, or pet psychic? Psychic or communicator? Direct communication, or brave my way through the deceased animal/human/spirit telepathy highway, relying on some unenthusiastic, or otherwise unreliable, disinterested, animal loathing, malcontent spirit, to find out why my goat refuses to return to tap class? On another note, I'd like to see all pet communicators and all pet psychics come together, join hands, paws, or flippers, and work together as one united, fraudulent scheme, rather than risk having the entire, specious sham undermined by end fighting.
On It's All About Telepathy
Posted on December 20 at 11:17 a.m.
I must have missed the Hanukkah gift wish list the Jewish animals submitted. It seems like the Christian animals are getting a little more attention and ink this year. At a time of such despair, tough economic and other challenges, it’s really encouraging to know that the word of Jesus Christ, (or at least the true meaning of Christmas), has finally reached the reptiles.
On Pets’ Christmas Lists
Posted on December 16 at 10:06 a.m.
Animals and delusional fantasy offer the only refuge for someone this deeply disturbed. While most children are successful in transitioning from the comfort of the make believe world they create with stuffed animals, dolls, toy soldiers, etc., this mentally hobbled individual, whose issues with abandonment have resulted in significant emotional injury, simply replaced her inanimate social group with living and dead animals. The alleged empathy and understanding she professes with respect to animals, as well as what she refers to as the gift of communication with the animal kingdom,are nothing more than reflections of her disconnect with reality perpetuated by the enablers who humor her with unyielding support and pay her fees to find out why kitty is depressed.
On AKA Animal Communicator
Posted on November 21 at 6:09 p.m.
I am so fortunate to have come across your article today, (five days before Thanksgiving). I've been absolutely frantic the past several weeks. I have always enjoyed the holidays but this year is entirely different. I was completely dumbfounded as to the basis for the incredible anxiety I've been experiencing until I happened upon your holiday/stress/pet article. Having read your piece I felt an immediate sense of relief. I realized the source of my angst was concern for my pet. The more I thought about it the more I realized my pet was actually channeling his distress and anxiety to me. Believe it or not this will be his first major holiday, and he's been a mess. I'm taking a copy of your article home to share with him. I just realized he has nothing to worry about. I'm going to find a quiet place, invite my little buddy in and carefully go over what he should expect this Thanksgiving holiday. There's just one tradition I'm having a little trouble with. I'm wondering what you advise others to say to their pet turkeys to prepare for Thanksgiving. I mean, I’ve gotta say something before he sees one of his buddies browning there in the oven, stuffed with all that bread and such. Needless to say, when I do read the article to Tombo I'm going to skip right by that part where you describe the little treat you use to bribe your animal.
This must be a horrific time for a pet psychic. All those turkeys left alone for eleven months of the year, and all of the sudden, BAM! Must be your busiest time of the year. How does that conversation really go when you tell your dog you’re bringing him home some turkey? I mean, what do the turkeys say to you when they hear you talking to your dog about bringing home turkey for him to eat as a treat? How do you work that one out pet psychic?
On De-Stressing Pets During the Holidays
Posted on November 5 at 7:48 p.m.
With each passing week the journey into insanity reaches new depths. Our psychotic, dual personality, homophobe, has now ventured into unchartered territory. I have so underestimated the canine community. To think that the same flea bags I see sniffing each other’s backsides, licking each other’s good china, and feeling no guilt while squeezing out a doogie on my freshly cut lawn, are actually erudite existentialists seeking the same thing as the rest of us; a gay hairdresser.
On Survived by Petey
Posted on October 20 at 7:43 p.m.
Nothing short of astonishing. To think that you were successful in reaching the very lion that appeared on the animal show you refer to, out of the more than 20,000 African lions that remain living in the wild. I sometimes have trouble reaching friends by phone despite the fact that I have their cell phone number and we live in the same town. What catapults your incredible feat well beyond such uneventful and pedestrian pursuits such as that boring research involving grapheme nanopores, or the recent developments in proton therapy with respect to the treatment of cancer, is how you are able to tune out the billions and zillions of other living and deceased animals busily chattering away in order to home in on the actual, cub devouring, star of the lovely documentary you curled up on your couch to watch with Joey the over- medicated, encopretic cat, and whatever other animals are trapped in your house of psychosis. Wouldn’t it be really embarrassing if you were actually punked by a couple of silly hamsters and a cockroach pretending to be the highly evolved, African lion who appeared on the documentary? Put a couple of whacky hamsters together with a sinister cockroach and who knows what hijinks they’ll get into?
On Cannibalism of a Lion Cub
Posted on September 27 at 9:08 a.m.
Part TwoI had heard just about enough so I thought I’d break up what I’ll just refer to as the west coast United Nations generally assembly. I walked right up to the rabble rousers and said, “Hey, take it somewhere else. You got a problem with the animal psycho, move this little debate to her back yard. I’m not the one who gave Joey the steroids, she is! Why don’t you just get on your owner’s computers and engage in constructive criticism rather perpetrating a canine conspiracy in my back yard? And which one of you keeps leaving large “presents” on my lawn for me to discover while I’m setting up the badminton net? Talk about insensitive!!”Laura, these dogs were really pissed. The German Shepard voted to call you out publicly and got a little carried away when he veered into somewhat of a Third Reich sounding diatribe, and the English bulldog voted to stage what he referred to as “bloody protest” on your porch.All I’m sayin’ is take the time to really listen to Joey. If he’s rolling his eyes at you, questioning his mortality, and has come to peace with the concept of death and dying, (as cats often do at this stage of their lives), trot on downtown, pick him up a medical marijuana card, grab some herb, and fire up the kitty bong. However, make sure you leave the house while he partakes. You’ve obviously been spending too much time playing around with your own dosages. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for adding ganja to your pharmaceutical diet.
On Kitty Seizures
Posted on September 27 at 9:07 a.m.
Part OneListen, I went out to empty my trash last night and literally stumbled onto something I felt compelled to pass on. As I lifted the lid to my trash bin I overheard voices coming from a location near my backyard. The voices were muffled at first, but as I cautiously approached I distinctly heard what I recognized as a somewhat heated discussion. The closer I moved to the direction of the sound, the more distinctive the voices. One voice, rather deep and harsh, which could only be described as that of a Cockney thug, seemed at first to dominate the conversation. As I moved even closer, the Englishman was interrupted by a female voice, speaking English, but with a very heavy French accent. I thought it odd that these two would be carrying on with such a lively and committed dialogue, late at night, and in my backyard, until two more voices join the conversation. One of the voices sounded to me like a mix between the voice of the little fellow from the lovely Lucky Charms television ads and the guy who did those unforgettable Irish Spring commercials. The second of the two voices interrupting the one I will refer to as Frenchy, was that of a very clearly excitable Glaswegian. Extremely vigorous but exceedingly unintelligible. I moved ever so cautiously, closer and closer, careful not to expose my presence. At that very moment a number of new voices joined what I began to realize was a heated debate. While the conversation was in English, each participant’s voice carried with it the rich characteristics of distinct international locales. German, Italian, Australian, etc., all very involved and quite upset.The debate, it seems, involved your most recent article. A significant majority concluded your failure to immediately recognize and treat Joey’s hyperthyroidism was nothing less than abuse. They found the action you took in quickly jumping onto what they referred to as the “pharmaceutical conga line”, predictable, and even further evidence of your insensitivity. I clearly heard the German accent guy say, “Yah!! It’s only a ‘slight heart problem’ and an ‘issue’ vit von’s liver, vin it’s not your own liver!!” The German accent guy followed his comments with something in German that sounded overwhelmingly obscene, but I don’t speak the language of the Fatherland so I’m left to my own imagination. “Felt comfortable playing around with his dosages, did she?” the Lucky Charms guy kept stammering, while Frenchy said, “I’d like to play around with her dosages.” (Continued)
Posted on September 18 at 9:44 p.m.
Ahhhhh..., memories. What a wonderful story. I can almost picture a little girl, cradled in her father's arms, in shock from having just been attacked by one of the dogs her parents had repeatedly insisted she avoid. The blood flowing from the puncture wounds masking the injury and causing all who witnessed the vicious attack to be convinced the sociopathic, over bred, miserable, neurotic animal had permanently disfigured the young schizophrenic.Of all of the wonderful interactions the animal communicator has had with vast members of the animal kingdom over the past 30 to 40 years, she chooses maimed-by-a-Dalmatian-when-I-was-4 as her exercise in melancholy. I'm thinking Pogo was actually the Nostradamus of the canine community, and that the attack had nothing whatsoever to do with any particular sensitivity to his under belly or neck. Pongo's vision of the little girl's future, (i.e. delusional and annoying rantings, suggestive of some magical ability to speak with animals), was so intolerably irritating it was all he could do to keep from killing the objectionable little brat. By the way, I’m pretty certain Dalmatians actually speak Gaelic.
On Dog Bites Girl
Posted on September 4 at 8:27 p.m.
My deceased goldfish, "Goldie", just told me she was trying to get a hold of you but she couldn't wait. Apparently there's this really long line of bunnies, dolphins, mice, and other animals waiting to speak with you. It;s been that way ever since you got picked up by the Independent.
On Missing My Dog