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Apr. 16, 2007
"Connect to the earth and to God," Terri Jay instructed me earlier in the day. "Make sure you have no ego, no stake in the outcome and that you're just listening. "Then share the information you receive." Jay is the animal psychic at Pet-A-Palooza 2007, the annual festival for four-legged Las Vegans. And Dawn Weir is relying on me to communicate to her the innermost thoughts of her pooch, Gidget. The grounding thing is difficult for me in a quiet room (to say nothing of the no-ego thing). But other dogs are barking, KMXB-FM, 94.1 air personalities Mark and Mercedes are shouting, and "Turkey in the Straw" is being played, over and over, by a nearby ice cream truck. "You can do it," Jay said. The Washoe Valley resident and former horseback-riding therapist said she didn't know she could read minds until 1990, when she picked a disabled child off his wheelchair to place on a horse. "He said, 'Ouch, I have a cramp in my hip,' " Jay recalled. "I said, 'Sit this way and it'll take the cramp out.' He said, 'Hey, you can hear me!' "It didn't dawn on me at the time that he was nonverbal." Jay -- who also reads people for a living -- said she wanted to be able to thank her horses, and instruct them how to better deal with the children. So she hit Barnes & Noble and taught herself. "Believe me, I am the biggest skeptic in the world," she said. "But we all have these abilities. Usually in your childhood, you start seeing things and your parents go, 'No, honey, Grandpa's not standing by that wall. Grandpa's in heaven.' "But everybody is born with nine senses," Jay said, "five physical senses and four spiritual ones." You may think this is animal crackers, but I refuse to cast aspersions. Although I don't believe most people who claim to have psychic powers, I want to believe -- like agent Mulder -- that those powers exist. Jay already has had some impressive moments. I watched as she announced that civil engineer Marcy Reidl's Rhodesian Ridgeback, Mojo, hates when the ground shakes and "the loud beeping" starts. (Reidl said her house sits across the street from a construction site where, beginning at 6 a.m. every weekday, trucks beep while backing up.) "And why am I getting jelly beans?" Jay asked her. (Reidl said Mojo was introduced to them today.) Jay also correctly identified my own dog, Sammie, who came along today for the free samples, as coming from a rescue. (You don't find too many purebred dachshunds there.) I have no problems casting aspersions on my own attempts at pet shining, however. During my own session with Mojo, I missed on nearly every "message." He misses another dog you used to have, I told Reidl. Did you have another dog? "No," she replied. Another person that you used to live with? "No," she replied. Grass? "No," she replied. Jay earns $20 for each 10 minutes in person, $75 per hour for phone consultations from her home. "I can go three or four days with no readings," she said, "then do four or five days with six or seven readings each." Of course, if you have your own TV show, like Sonya Fitzpatrick -- star of Animal Planet's "The Pet Psychic" -- you earn much more. And Jay said she's shopping around her own show about pets and people. Most of Jay's clients wish to solve a behavioral disorder. Henderson resident Steffanee Young came this morning because Max the mutt refuses to drink water. She has to wet his food, grind up ice cubes or shoot it down his throat. Jay sensed that Max was once shocked by standing water with a current in it. "I'm trying to tell him that the water won't hurt him," Jay said. Max wouldn't listen, Jay added, so she suggested feeding him outside the house, through a hose. "Communication doesn't mean compliance," Jay said. "You can tell an adolescent to clean his room. That doesn't mean he'll do it." I'm ready for my Vulcan dog meld with Gidget. But I've learned from Mojo. No more specifics. Ridiculous overgeneralizations will be my MO. Gidget, I proclaim, loves food. "Of course!" blurts Weir's 5-year-old son, Bobby. "Shh," Weir quiets her son. Continuing my amazing revelation, I tell Weir that Gidget is hot in the summer. (Incidentally, I refer to her as "he.") Bobby hits his forehead with his hand. The kid's right. This is an exercise in dog poop. I am Dr. Doo-VERY-Little. Toy. When I completely give up, this pops into my mind. And, frankly, it's creeping me out. Red toy, the message continues. Gidget misses her red toy. I swear I'm not making this up. I announce this to Weir, whose face lights up. She describes a red and white "rope thingie with a squishy thing on one side." She says Gidget was upset about the discarded plaything for weeks. This does not impress Jay as much as it does me -- since believing in this stuff seems normal to her. "I want you to drop in a lot deeper and go through this dog's muscular-skeletal system," she says. Jay has a more pressing matter to communicate. "Kidneys?" I guess. I'm reading blanks. "The dog's back is out," Jay says. "She's in pain." Weir reveals that Gidget has had two hip replacements, one at 6 months and the other at 7. Jay recommends chiropractic treatment and acupuncture. Show off. Fear and Loafing appears every Monday in the Living section. Levitan's previous adventures can be found at www.fearandloafing.com.
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