Many people visit psychics with some degree of skepticism. Jill Lopate was no exception when, out of playful curiosity, she took her Chihuahua, Kai, to see a pet psychic. However, the Mendocino resident found herself having second thoughts once the psychic started talking.

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The 9-week-old Chihuahua fit in the palm of my hand. Handsome, with large dark eyes and a button nose, he had a snowy coat with fawn patches resembling butterflies. The name Papillon (French for "butterfly") seemed too obvious. My husband and I live in Mendocino on a headland overlooking the Pacific, so I chose the name Kai, which is Hawaiian for ocean. Some folks smiled at the highbrow name for so small a dog, while a few disdained my pocket pooch. "Why not get a real dog?" they asked.

Recently, the owner of a local pet store hosted a pet psychic. I was skeptical but also intrigued, so I booked an appointment. As I sat opposite the pet psychic, she immediately said, "Your dog loves to slurp noodles."

I gave her a dubious smile. Sure, but what dog doesn't like a good bowl of pasta? As Kai snuggled in my lap and stared at the psychic, I shared a concern. "He likes to dig at my mouth ..."

The psychic cut me off, her eyes sparkling, "Why yes, I believe he was a dentist in a past life."

I rolled my eyes, wondering what my dentist husband would say about that. And when she said she sensed that Kai had a nagging backache, I thought, "That does it. She's a fake. I'm the one with sciatica." But then I remembered the time Kai fell off my high bed. Terrified that he might have hurt his spine, I gave him baby aspirin, applied ice packs and took him to his veterinarian. Ever since, there were times that Kai appeared achy and snapped at his hind end after rough play.

"Just give him some baby aspirin and apply ice if he snaps at himself," she said as if reading my mind. "Oh, and Kai wants his photo taken with an abalone shell," she added.

"Kai and I go to the beach a lot," I started to say. "He sees me picking up shells and ..."

But she shushed me. "Wait, he's telling me something." When she leaned forward in her chair, Kai's head cocked to one side. "He said he hates that green sweater thing. It flops against his rear, which bugs him."

I winced. His winter fleece sweater coat was green.

"Well, that's 20 minutes," the pet psychic said. "Time's up."

I thanked her and went to the register to pay, still doubting the idea of a pet psychic. And yet, I had to marvel at her accuracy. Slightly embarrassed, I told no one about our visit.

Two days later, Kai and I were at the beach enjoying our usual routine: I threw tennis balls, he fetched them. At quitting time, I called Kai, who normally obeys, but this time he ignored me and ran into a small cave. Worried, I sprinted over, leaned in and got pelted with clumps of wet sand flying backward from between Kai's legs. What had caught his interest?

A giant abalone shell he had just unearthed.

That evening, recalling Kai's request as relayed by the psychic, I sat him in his bed, propped up the great shell and snapped photos.

Evidence indeed that Kai is a real dog.