Definitely In The Wrong Profession

["Let Inga Tell You,"  La Jolla Light, published January 1, 2026] 2026

OK, I know it's not nice to make fun of other people's occupations, but I really have trouble with animal psychics. Part of that trouble is my regret that I never entered this lucrative field myself especially in a place where there is both lots of money and lots of pets.

Some years ago, I had an acquaintance who shall remain nameless who told me that her dog kept getting out of the yard while she was at work. Now, it seemed obvious to me that the poor animal was lonely and didn't like being left alone all day. To entertain itself (and hopefully seek some companionship), it spent its time digging a hole under her fence to escape.

Finally, the acquaintance engaged the services of a pet psychic to meet with the dog and see what its issues might be. She first met with the psychic, explained the problem and then had the canine clairvoyant meet privately with the pup.

My acquaintance couldn't sing the praises more highly of the psychic afterwards.

"It was amazing!" she effused. "She said that Bowser was feeling sad while I was at work and felt incredibly stressed and was just trying to come and find me."

"Um,"  I said. "But isn't that kind of what you told her? (I didn't add: "and freaking obvious?")

"But not exactly like that!"  insisted my acquaintance. "I couldn't believe the details Bowser told her! I never would have guessed!"

Personally, it seemed that the money spent on the pooch portender might have been better spent on enrolling it in doggie daycare. But that's just me.

During this conversation, I kept having a deja  vu to a long-ago psychology class about a therapeutic style called "emphathic paraphrasing."   This involves restating, using different words, someone's thoughts and feelings in a way that demonstrates understanding and compassion. It makes the client feel heard and is a genuinely powerful therapeutic tool.

So are pet psychics simply experts at empathic paraphrasing with maybe a side of fabrication?

In fact, this reminded me of another situation that I wrote about a long time ago when a neighbor's cat, known as Butterscotch, was left behind when they moved. Tracked down, they said they thought someone else might also be feeding him so they d felt OK departing without him. (Gah!)

Butterscotch showed up like clockwork at our doorstep every night meowing piteously until I came out to the front porch with a can of people tuna. Meanwhile I posted his photo on "Do you know me?"  fliers around the neighborhood. We couldn't keep Butterscotch ourselves as my younger son was anaphylatically-allergic to cats.

A day or so later, two women called. "Yes, that s our cat Tiger,"  they said. "He adopted us a few months ago but disappears for days at a time. We've spent $600 on his vet bills."

When Tiger/Butterscotch showed up at my doorstep that night doing his starving homeless cat act, I stared him down and said, "I'm on to you, you kitty con artist. Just how many homes do you have???"

Several, as it turned out. Once the tuna train ended at my house, he began frequenting the master bedroom of another neighbor, Jeff, whose French doors were often open. Jeff had no interest in a cat but Tiger/Butterscotch was not to be dissuaded.

I connected Jeff up with the two ladies on the next street. As often as Jeff returned the marmalade manipulator to their house, Tiger would be back to Jeff s an hour later. The two women were distraught at Tiger s rejection (especially after their financial investment in the furry felon's medical care) and finally concluded there was only one thing to be done.

They called in the cat whisperer. 

The kitty psychic ($150 hour) closeted herself with her feline client for a private consultation. Tiger, the cat shrink reported when she emerged, was distraught that there was now another male cat on the women's block who was more dominant than he. His male ego bruised, he had sought refuge at Jeff's where there was less competition, not to mention gratuitous male bonding. (The cat whisperer didn't specifically mention it, but I'm sure Tiger told her that he, like Jeff, was a rabid Yankees fan.) While Tiger didn't want to appear ungrateful for the ladies many kindnesses, at this stage in his life, he needed a more guy-centric environment.

"Well," said Jeff, who didn't want to admit just how attached he and his girlfriend were to the cat at this point, "if it s really what Tiger wants..."

Easter Sunday was to be the official changeover day. Jeff's girlfriend made a nice brunch and the two tearful ladies showed up, Tiger in tow, for the official handover of distemper shot records. They surveyed Tiger s new home, and approved. Food was served. But when it came time for the relinquishment to become final, the ladies had a sudden change of heart. What if the Feline Freud had misunderstood the tabby terror's wishes?

Tiger was put on the phone during an emergency call to the cat psychic whose skills fortunately included aural communication over optical fiber. The ladies were assured that Tiger had re-asserted his wishes to live with Jeff.

And that was that. Jeff was now the proud owner of a kitty bigamist.

Personally, I was always suspicious about the story of Tiger being threatened by other male cats on the block but who was going to dispute it? Definitely not Tiger who lived a long and happy life at Jeff s.

But I do feel that maybe I'm in the wrong occupation. And by the way, I'd be willing to do it for $125, treats included.