Larry’s Hilarious True Story from a Pet Psychic Appointment

Larry walked into the pet psychic appointment with the posture of a man entering a tax audit he had agreed to only because his wife promised lunch afterward.

He did not believe in pet psychics. He barely believed in chiropractors. He once referred to aromatherapy as “expensive steam with opinions.” Larry was not built for rooms with crystals in them. He was built for hardware stores, diner coffee, and telling waiters, “I’ll just have the regular,” in restaurants where he had never been before.

And yet there he was, seated on a pale green loveseat in a converted bungalow that smelled like lavender, wet dog, and the inside of a gift shop. Beside him sat his dog, Max, an elderly terrier mix with cloudy eyes, a suspicious underbite, and the deep moral exhaustion of a retired prison guard. Max had been acting strange for weeks. Not sick, exactly. Just dramatic. He refused to sleep in his usual bed. He stared at one corner of the kitchen every night at 9:40. He growled at the laundry basket. He had also started hiding Larry’s socks under the guest room pillow, which Larry took personally.

Larry’s wife, Diane, decided Max was “trying to tell them something.”

Larry said, “He’s a dog. If he wants to tell us something, it’s either about ham or squirrels.”

That sentence cost him a Saturday afternoon with a pet psychic named Celeste.

The story, when Larry tells it, has the rhythm of a great funny stories podcast segment. It starts normal enough, then takes one left turn, then another, and by the time it lands, everyone involved has lost control of the room, including the dog. It is exactly the sort of thing that belongs in a comedy storytelling podcast, because the funniest part is not that a pet psychic said something absurd. The funniest part is that Larry, a man allergic to nonsense, accidentally became the most invested person there.

The appointment begins badly, which is usually how the best stories begin

Celeste greeted Max first.

Not Larry. Not Diane. Max.

She crouched by the door, placed a hand over her heart, and whispered, “You came.”

Larry later said, “That was when I knew we were in trouble. The dog came because I clipped a leash to him. This was not a quest.”

Celeste was in her late fifties, maybe early sixties, with silver hair, a linen scarf, and the calm voice of someone who had never once chased a raccoon out of a garage with a broom. She wore several rings, all large enough to open canned goods. Her office had framed photos of dogs, cats, one iguana, and what appeared to be a ferret in a graduation cap. A small sign on the bookshelf read: “Animals speak. We must learn to listen.”

Larry noticed there were no magazines. That bothered him. Any waiting room without magazines, in Larry’s view, was trying too hard.

Celeste led them into the consultation room and asked Max for permission to communicate.

Max immediately licked his own foot.

Celeste nodded as if this were a notarized document.

“He says yes,” she said.

Larry looked at Diane. Diane gave him the look that means, in marriage, “Do not ruin this for me.” It is a look more powerful than any psychic energy in the room.

So Larry sat down and behaved, at least by Larry standards. He crossed his arms, uncrossed them because Diane glared, then folded his hands in his lap like a man waiting for sentencing.

Celeste closed her eyes. Max panted. A small tabletop fountain burbled in the corner with the confidence of a device that had never paid an electric bill.

After about twenty seconds, Celeste opened her eyes and said, “Max is carrying a sadness.”

Larry whispered, “He’s carrying thirty extra pounds.”

Diane elbowed him.

Celeste continued. “He feels misunderstood.”

Now, to be fair, many dogs are misunderstood. Cats are not misunderstood. Cats are correctly understood and simply do not care. Dogs, though, carry emotional complexity in a way that makes even skeptical people soften. Max, for instance, had three barks. One for strangers, one for delivery trucks, and one for when Larry sneezed, which seemed to offend him as a matter of principle.

Celeste asked if there had been any changes in the home.

Diane mentioned they had moved the living room furniture two months earlier.

Celeste closed her eyes again. “He says the chair is wrong.”

Larry sat upright.

“What chair?” he asked.

“The chair by the window,” Celeste said.

Diane’s mouth opened slightly. Larry blinked. https://soundcloud.com/true-tales-with-larry There was, in fact, a chair by the window, and Max had stopped napping there after they moved it from the left side of the window to the right.

Larry did not like this development. A skeptic can handle vague statements. “Your dog wants more love.” Fine. Everybody wants more love. “Your dog enjoys walks.” Congratulations, you’ve met dogs. But “the chair is wrong” was specific enough to be annoying.

Larry said, “Diane probably told you that.”

Diane said, “I didn’t.”

Celeste looked serene. Max looked smug, or as smug as a terrier can look while slowly sliding off a cushion.

Then Max allegedly brings up Larry’s pajamas

The first rule of any great true stories podcast is that the teller must reach the moment where the audience thinks, “No, absolutely not.” Larry’s pet psychic story gets there early.

Celeste turned to Larry and said, “Max wants to talk about nighttime.”

Larry sighed. “Of course he does.”

“He says you make noises.”

Diane covered her mouth.

Larry said, “I snore. Lots of people snore.”

Celeste tilted her head, listening to invisible dog radio.

“No,” she said. “Not snoring. He says you sing.”

Larry went quiet.

This was a problem because Larry did sing at night, but not in the way you might imagine. Larry had a habit, while half asleep, of narrating little songs to himself when he got up to use the bathroom. Not full songs. More like muttered commercial jingles from a radio station run by a raccoon. Diane had told him about this for years. He denied it because a person has to maintain some dignity.

Celeste said, “He shows me blue.”

Larry’s face changed.

Diane leaned forward. “Blue?”

Celeste nodded. “Blue clothing. At night.”

Larry wore blue plaid pajama pants. Every night. They were old enough to vote. The elastic had surrendered in stages, but he refused to throw them away because, as he put it, “They know the shape of me.”

Diane made a sound. Not a laugh yet. More like a tea kettle deciding whether to get involved.

Celeste closed her eyes again and said, “Max says the blue pants are frightening when you walk in the dark.”

Larry erupted.

“Frightening? I’m the one feeding him! I’m the one buying the expensive senior dog food that smells like a shipwreck. He’s frightened of my pants?”

Max wagged his tail once. Perfect timing. A professional comic could not have hit the beat better.

That was the first crack in Larry’s disbelief. Not because he was convinced Celeste was communicating with Max, exactly, but because the accusation felt emotionally accurate. Max had always been wary of Larry’s pajama pants. More than once, Larry had shuffled into the kitchen at midnight and Max had barked at him like he was a burglar from a children’s book.

Larry, who listens to a lot of comedians podcast episodes while driving, later said this was the point where he understood why funny true stories work better than invented jokes. A written punchline can be clever, but life has props. Life has an elderly dog accusing a grown man’s pants of being haunted.

The sock scandal enters the record

Diane had come prepared with questions. She wanted to know why Max was hiding socks. She wanted to know why he stared at the kitchen corner. She wanted to know if he was in pain. Larry wanted to know whether the session fee included parking, though there was no parking fee.

Celeste chose the sock question first.

She asked Max, silently, why he had been taking Larry’s socks.

Max sat down, scratched his neck, and looked at Larry with what can only be described as union negotiator energy.

Celeste said, “He says they smell like you.”

Larry said, “That’s not a psychic insight. That’s an indictment.”

“He says he takes them because you leave.”

There was a pause.

Even Larry softened a little. He had recently gone back to working at the office three days a week after a long stretch at home. Max had become used to Larry’s presence, used to the daily parade of coffee refills, muttered complaints, and lunch meat negotiations. Now Larry disappeared for hours, and Max had responded by stealing socks like a tiny grief bandit.

Diane reached over and squeezed Larry’s hand.

Larry let the moment sit for almost two full seconds before saying, “He could’ve taken a cleaner item.”

Celeste smiled gently. “He chose what was strongest.”

“Emotionally?”

“Odor-wise,” Larry said.

To her credit, Celeste laughed. That matters. Some people who work in mystical spaces take themselves so seriously that humor bounces off them like a tennis ball off a garage door. Celeste, whatever else she was doing, understood that a dog’s emotional life is still attached to a dog’s nose. You can discuss spiritual attachment all afternoon, but the socks remain the socks.

This is where the story starts sounding like one of the best comedy podcasts, because the room had two separate realities running at once. Diane was having a tender experience about Max missing Larry. Larry was trying not to admit he was moved. Celeste was mediating between species. Max was licking the furniture.

Every good funny podcast about real life stories thrives on that exact imbalance. Nobody in the story is wrong enough to be dismissed. Nobody is right enough to be safe.

The kitchen corner mystery

The kitchen corner had become a nightly ritual. At 9:40, Max would leave the living room, trot into the kitchen, sit facing the same corner, and growl softly. Not loudly. Not alarm-bark loudly. Just enough to make the house feel like the first ten minutes of a low-budget horror film.

Larry had inspected the corner multiple times. No mice. No loose vent. No weird smell, except the normal kitchen blend of old onions and appliance heat. He even pulled out the small cabinet beside the stove, which caused him to discover a petrified french fry and a twist tie from a loaf of bread they had not purchased since the previous administration.

Celeste asked Max about the corner.

Then she did something that Larry admits was theatrical but effective. She sat very still, opened her eyes wide, and said, “There is a man there.”

Diane gasped.

Larry said, “Absolutely not.”

Celeste raised a hand. “Not a threatening man.”

“No men,” Larry said. “Threatening, friendly, medium build, no men.”

“He wears a cap.”

Larry stared at her.

Diane stared at Larry.

Larry’s father, who had died several years earlier, used to wear a cap. Not sometimes. Always. He had caps for weather, caps for errands, caps for watching baseball indoors. If he was awake, there was a cap involved.

Celeste said, “Max sees him near the kitchen because he comes when food is prepared.”

Larry’s father had loved food with a devotion usually reserved for saints and championship teams. He could hear a refrigerator door open from another floor. He believed soup was not a meal unless bread attended as legal counsel.

Larry was quiet long enough for Diane to worry.

Then he said, “If my father is haunting our kitchen, he is not standing in the corner. He is criticizing how I slice tomatoes.”

The tension broke. Diane laughed. Celeste laughed. Larry laughed too, partly because he needed to, and partly because the alternative was thinking too hard about whether his dead father was attending Max’s evening growl sessions.

Was Celeste guessing? Maybe. A lot of older men wore caps. A lot of family memories gather in kitchens. A seasoned cold reader can follow emotional crumbs with impressive speed. Larry knows this. He is not a fool. But he also knows what it felt like to sit in that room and hear a stranger describe the emotional weather of his house a little too closely.

That is the sweet spot for hilarious true stories from real life. They do not require the audience to believe everything. They require the audience to understand why, in the moment, belief became temporarily convenient.

Larry tries to test the psychic and immediately regrets it

No skeptic can leave well enough alone. Larry decided he would ask a question Celeste could not possibly answer.

He leaned forward and said, “Ask him what his favorite food is.”

Diane rolled her eyes. “Larry.”

“What? It’s fair.”

Celeste nodded and closed her eyes. “He shows me meat.”

Larry spread his hands. “Every dog shows you meat. That’s like asking a teenager what they want and hearing ‘money.’”

Celeste listened again. “Round. Pink. From your hand.”

Larry frowned.

Diane began laughing.

Larry had a habit of giving Max bits of bologna while making sandwiches. Not turkey. Not ham. Bologna. He would fold the slice into quarters, tear off a small piece, and hand it to Max with great ceremony, as though awarding a medal for bravery. Diane hated this because Max had digestive issues and bologna is not exactly veterinary medicine.

Larry tried to recover.

“Fine,” he said. “Ask him what I call him when no one’s around.”

Celeste paused. Max yawned.

“She says I’m hearing ‘the mayor.’ Does that mean something?”

Diane slapped the arm of the loveseat.

Larry looked betrayed by the universe.

He did call Max “the mayor.” Specifically, he called him “Mr. Mayor” when Max stood at the front window watching neighbors. This was not a family nickname. This was private Larry nonsense, the kind of thing a person says when they believe their dignity is unobserved. He had never told Diane. Diane, delighted, turned to him with the expression of a woman who had just found a winning lottery ticket in an old coat.

“You call him Mr. Mayor?”

Larry pointed at Max. “He conducts neighborhood business.”

Celeste beamed. “He likes it.”

“Of course he likes it. It’s a title.”

There are moments in a funny true stories that actually happened where the central character realizes the story is no longer happening to them. It has taken possession of the room. Larry walked into the appointment thinking he would tolerate an hour of incense and vague pet compliments. Now his dog had allegedly exposed his pajama singing, his bologna crimes, and his municipal role-play.

A lesser man would have shut down. Larry doubled down.

He asked Celeste to ask Max why he barked at the vacuum cleaner.

Celeste said, “He thinks it is arrogant.”

Larry paused, then nodded. “That’s fair.”

What makes the story work on a podcast

Some stories read well on the page. Others need a voice, a pause, a tiny embarrassed cough before the reveal. Larry’s pet psychic appointment belongs to the second category, which is why it would fit so neatly inside a funny stories podcast or a stand up comedy podcast where the host knows how to let silence do half the lifting.

The details are vivid without needing decoration. A skeptical husband. A sincere wife. A strange office. A terrier with the face of a disbarred accountant. A psychic who may be gifted, lucky, observant, or some blend of all three. The stakes are low enough to be playful but personal enough to matter. Nobody dies. Nobody gets arrested. Nobody loses a job. But Larry does lose the illusion that his private household habits are private, and for comedy, that is often better.

The best funny podcasts understand that embarrassment is funniest when it is specific. “A man gets exposed” is not enough. “A man learns his dog is afraid of his blue pajama pants” has teeth. Add the fact that the man secretly calls the dog Mr. Mayor, and now you have a story with upholstery.

Comedy podcast shows often chase big chaos, celebrity disasters, travel nightmares, public humiliation, weddings gone feral. Those can be great. But a small domestic story can be just as strong if the details keep sharpening. In this one, every revelation tightens the trap around Larry’s self-image. He is not a mystical guy. He is not sentimental in public. He is certainly not the sort of person who pays someone to translate a terrier. Yet the more he resists, the funnier and more human he becomes.

That is why listeners keep hunting for the best comedy podcast with funny true stories. They want the laugh, sure, but they also want recognition. Everyone has a version of Larry’s situation. Maybe not a pet psychic, but some appointment, party, work meeting, or family dinner where skepticism walks in wearing boots and leaves in socks.

The difference between mocking and noticing

The easy version of this story would be mean. A man goes to a pet psychic. Pet psychic says silly things. Everyone laughs at the pet psychic. Roll credits.

That version is cheap, and it misses the better comedy.

Celeste is funny, but she is not the joke. Diane is earnest, but she is not foolish. Larry is skeptical, but he is not cruel. Max is a dog, and therefore both innocent and deeply ridiculous. The humor comes from collision, not contempt.

Anyone who has spent time around comedians knows the difference. Good comics do not simply point and sneer. They notice pressure points. They spot the gap between how people want to appear and how they actually behave. Larry wants to appear rational, immune to woo-woo, above the lavender fog. But he also sings to himself in pajama pants and gives a dog civic honors. Diane wants emotional validation from the appointment, but she also clearly enjoys seeing Larry spiritually pantsed. Celeste wants to help, and whether or not you buy her method, she pays attention.

That balance matters in a storytelling podcast because audiences can smell cruelty. They may laugh at it for a minute, but they do not settle into it. The funniest podcasts often carry a surprising amount of affection. The host may tease the guest. The guest may roast themselves. But under the joke is a warm little engine of forgiveness.

Larry’s story works because he tells it on himself. He does not present himself as the sane man surrounded by lunatics. He presents himself as the guy who thought he was observing the circus, then realized he was wearing the red nose.

The bill, the blessing, and the final message from Max

Near the end of the session, Celeste asked if Max had any final messages.

Larry, by this point, had stopped pretending not to care. He leaned in.

Max had fallen asleep.

This did not deter Celeste. If anything, she seemed to consider it a clearer channel. She rested her hand lightly near him, not touching, and closed her eyes.

“He wants more softness,” she said.

Diane nodded. “His bed?”

“Maybe. He shows me something flat. Not enough cushion.”

Larry whispered, “He has three beds.”

“He says one is decorative.”

This was true. Max had a stylish little dog bed in the living room that matched the rug. He never used it. Diane bought it. Larry hated how much it cost. Max treated it like an art installation.

Celeste said, “He wants the old blanket.”

Diane looked at Larry.

The old blanket was a hideous brown fleece throw Larry kept in the basement because Diane refused to allow it upstairs. It was pilled, lumpy, and the color of gravy. Max loved it with the passion of a medieval poet. When Diane redecorated, the blanket vanished from the living room, and Max apparently began his campaign of psychological warfare against furniture, laundry, and kitchen corners.

Larry saw his opening.

“So this whole thing is because my wife stole his ugly blanket?”

Diane said, “I didn’t steal it. I retired it.”

Larry turned to Celeste. “Ask him if he wants to press charges.”

Celeste, still serene, said, “He wants restoration.”

Larry slapped his knee. “The mayor demands restoration.”

That line became the official slogan of the household for weeks. If a remote control went missing, “the mayor demands restoration.” If Larry found an empty milk carton in the fridge, “the mayor demands restoration.” If Max stood by the treat drawer looking ancient and wronged, “the mayor demands restoration.”

The appointment ended with Celeste giving Max what she called a grounding blessing. Larry described it as “jazz hands, but respectful.” Diane paid. Larry did not ask whether there was a coupon.

On the way home, Max slept in the back seat with his nose tucked into Larry’s sock, because apparently boundaries remained theoretical.

What changed afterward, embarrassingly enough

Here is where Larry hates the story getting complicated.

They moved the chair back to the left side of the window. Max resumed napping there within a day.

They brought the ugly brown blanket upstairs. Max slept on it that night like a king returned from exile.

Larry stopped wearing the blue pajama pants during midnight kitchen trips. Not because he believed they were frightening, he insists, but because “they were due for retirement,” which is what people say when a dog psychic has defeated them.

The 9:40 kitchen growling faded too, though not completely. Sometimes Max still wandered in and stared at the corner. Larry began saying, “If that’s you, Dad, blink the microwave.” The microwave never blinked, but one night it did beep for no reason, and Larry slept with the hallway light on. He denies this, but Diane has witnesses, if by witnesses we mean Max, who is unreliable but present.

Did the pet psychic solve the mystery? That depends on how generous you feel. A practical person could argue that the whole thing had ordinary explanations. The chair mattered because dogs love routine. The blanket mattered because scent and texture comfort older animals. The socks mattered because Max missed Larry. The kitchen corner may have held a sound, smell, reflection, or habit none of them identified. Celeste may have read body language, made educated guesses, or benefited from Diane’s reactions.

A more open-minded person might say Max got his message across through the available channel, which happened to be a woman with rings large enough to deflect hail.

Larry’s position is more nuanced and much funnier: “I don’t know what happened, but I’m not wearing those pants anymore.”

That is the perfect landing. Not conversion. Not debunking. Just enough uncertainty to keep the story alive.

Why pet stories are secretly comedy gold

Dogs and cats improve comedy because they behave with total conviction and no explanation. A dog can refuse to walk past a mailbox for six months, then suddenly forgive it. A cat can scream at a closed door, walk through it when opened, then scream from the other side because freedom disappointed them. Animals commit to bits humans would abandon out of embarrassment.

That makes them ideal for funny life stories. They create conflict without malice. They turn ordinary homes into stages. A terrier hiding socks is funnier than a person hiding socks because the terrier cannot be cross-examined. He simply looks at you with black marble eyes and lets you confront your own failures.

Pet psychic stories add another layer because they force adults to negotiate belief in public. Nobody wants to look gullible. Nobody wants to look heartless. So everyone performs a little. The believer leans forward. The skeptic leans back. The pet licks a chair leg. The psychic says, “I’m sensing unresolved energy,” and the skeptic thinks, “That could be the chili.”

For comedy podcasts, that dynamic is a buffet. It has voices, tension, stakes, and reversals. It offers room for impressions. It lets a host interrupt with questions like, “At what point did you realize your dog had a better emotional vocabulary than you?” It gives listeners the pleasure of judging and relating at the same time.

If someone were sorting through the best comedy storytelling podcasts to listen to, Larry’s tale would stand out not because it is the wildest, but because it is built on recognizable human wiring. We love our pets. We project onto them. We deny projecting onto them. We rearrange our lives around their preferences while insisting we are in charge. A dog weighs eighteen pounds and somehow becomes a landlord.

A brief field guide to why Larry’s story lands

Comedy people often talk about truth in a way that sounds grand, but in practice it is simple. A story feels true when the details are inconvenient. Larry’s story includes exactly the kind of details a person would remove if they were trying to look cool. The singing. The bologna. The blue pajama pants. The private nickname. Those are not flattering details. That is why they work.

Great real life stories podcast segments often share a few traits:

1. The main character wants to control how others see them.
2. The situation exposes a private habit or belief.
3. The supporting characters have their own clear agendas.
4. The details become more specific as the story progresses.
5. The ending changes something small but undeniable.

Larry checks every box. He enters as a skeptic, gets cornered by specificity, tries to regain control, loses more ground, then leaves with actual household policy changes. That arc is cleaner than many scripted sitcom plots, and it came with a dog sleeping through the climax.

The best podcasts about funny true stories understand that listeners do not need every thread tied into a bow. In fact, a little unresolved weirdness helps. Did Max really communicate through Celeste? Did Celeste read the room with uncanny skill? Did Diane accidentally reveal more than she remembers? Did Larry’s father hover near the stove in a cap, hoping someone would improve the tomato slicing? The story is better if each listener gets to pick a theory and defend it too loudly over coffee.

The adult appeal of ridiculous honesty

There is a reason phrases like funny true story podcast for adults and podcast about hilarious real life experiences keep resonating with listeners. Adult life is full of absurdity, but most of it arrives wearing sensible shoes. Insurance forms. Parent-teacher nights. Vet bills. Home repairs. Marriage negotiations over blankets nobody should emotionally need. A good story catches the absurdity before it gets filed under errands.

Larry’s appointment cost money, took an afternoon, and produced advice that could have come from a practical dog trainer if you stripped away the incense. Restore the blanket. Respect the routine. Notice the dog’s anxiety. Stop terrifying him with midnight pants. Yet because the advice came through a pet psychic, the whole event became unforgettable.

That is often how funny real life storytelling podcast episodes earn their keep. They preserve the texture around the lesson. Nobody wants to hear, “Dogs like familiar bedding.” People will listen all day to, “A psychic told my husband our terrier considered one dog bed decorative and demanded the return of a gravy-colored blanket.”

The wording matters. The room matters. The fact that Larry tried to challenge the psychic and accidentally confirmed the bologna situation matters. Comedy lives in the unnecessary specifics.

What Larry says now

Larry claims he remains skeptical. He says this often, usually too quickly.

He says Celeste was “probably just observant.” He says Max was “an expressive dog.” He says Diane “fed the woman clues,” though he cannot identify when. He says the appointment was “nonsense, but useful nonsense,” which may be the most Larry phrase ever spoken.

Yet he also moved the chair.

He also restored the blanket.

He also stopped calling Max “Mr. Mayor” only when no one was around. Once a secret title becomes evidence in a psychic proceeding, you might as well go public. Max, for the rest of his life, received formal greetings at the window. “Morning, Mr. Mayor. How’s the district?” If a delivery truck passed, Larry would say, “We’ll take it under advisement.”

Diane says the appointment made Larry sweeter with Max. Larry disputes the word sweeter. He prefers “more administratively responsive.”

When Max eventually grew very old, the brown blanket stayed in the living room no matter how ugly it looked. Larry stopped pretending not to notice when Max needed help climbing onto it. He would bend down, lift him carefully, and say, “There you go, sir. Council is in session.”

That detail usually quiets the room for a moment when Larry tells the story live. Then he saves it, because he is funny and because sentiment makes him itchy.

He adds, “And if my father really was in the kitchen, I hope he appreciated that I finally learned to slice tomatoes thinner. Although if he’s been watching the way I load the dishwasher, I assume I’m haunted for life.”

Why this belongs among the funniest true stories

The funniest stories are rarely just funny. They are funny plus embarrassing, funny plus tender, funny plus “I cannot prove this but I also cannot forget it.” Larry’s pet psychic appointment has all of that. It has the shape of a joke and the aftertaste of a family memory. It is silly enough for a comedy podcast, specific enough for a true stories podcast, and warm enough that the laughter does not curdle.

It also understands something pet owners know but seldom say plainly: we are all a little ridiculous around the animals we love. We invent voices for them. We interpret sighs as legal arguments. We apologize when we move their beds. We spend money on toys they ignore in favor of cardboard. We claim authority, then rearrange the furniture because a twelve-pound creature looked disappointed.

Larry went to Celeste expecting to endure an hour of mystical foolishness. He left with a household labor dispute, a haunted-pants allegation, a restored blanket, and the uneasy knowledge that his dog may have been paying closer attention than anyone realized.

Whether you file it under comedy podcast material, crazy true stories, funny real life stories, or simply “things marriage makes you do on Saturdays,” the tale keeps earning its laughs because it never strains for them. It lets the people be people, lets the dog be a dog, and lets the psychic say, with a straight face, that an elderly terrier considers a vacuum cleaner arrogant.

And honestly, Max may have had a point.