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A healing touch?

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If my cat Baron could talk, he’d be the feline equivalent of the angry guy in the bar, whiskey in paw, griping to anyone who will listen. “Nine months ago, my humans ruined everything,” he’d say. “They have this new roommate, some tiny bald guy who cries a lot and tries to pull my tail. Oh, and then we moved to Westchester. Westchester!”

Baron, a 12-year-old tuxedo cat, has always been quirky and a bit nervous. But these days, he circles constantly, never relaxing. Even when he sleeps, his body looks tense — and he no longer cuddles up on the bottom of our bed, like he used to. He gets too close to the baby, bites our toes and thinks outside the box — the litter box.

“You should try kitty Prozac,” said the vet. Uncertain that Big Pharmacy needs to extend to the animal kingdom, I ignored Dr. Feelgood.

Instead, I tried the homeopathic Bach’s Rescue Remedy for Pets. It did nothing.

Then, I considered calling Jackson Galaxy, the goateed Cesar Millan of the cat world and the host of the Animal Planet show “My Cat From Hell,” but he always takes the cat’s side, and I didn’t want to be portrayed as a Joan Crawford of the feline set.

And that’s when I decided to contact a kitty reiki practitioner, thinking “Why not?”

Quietly, lest my co-workers overhear me uttering the words “FELINE REIKI,” I made an appointment with Susan Squittieri, a 43-year-old Nyack, NY, practitioner who I found by Googling “feline reiki NYC.” Squittieri specializes in reiki — a health practice based on the belief that beings possess a universal life force that can be balanced with a healing touch — for both animals and people. We agreed that she would perform a 40-minute reiki session on Baron, followed by an animal communication session based on mental telepathy. The cost would be $70 for the reiki, and $30 for each 15 minutes of the subsequent animal communication session.

Sure, the idea of feline reiki is easy to mock, but I do think animals are incredibly receptive to different types of energy.

I was willing to keep an open mind and give it a try, if Baron was.

When Squittieri came to my house on a recent afternoon and sat on my living room floor, Baron seemed to sense that she was the boss. He came over to inspect her, and when she placed her hands firmly on Baron, he settled into the rug.

“He doesn’t know how to relax anymore,” she says.

“He’s trying to keep constantly on his toes.” (Him and me both.)

She strokes him, waving the air above his head to clear the energy. As she places her hands on him, I see him calm down. He looks heartbreakingly relieved.

She stops to silently ask him a few questions.

“He says he feels like the atmosphere here is stuffy,” she says. “Stagnant.”

Apparently the cat hates the suburbs. “Why does he follow me around, sticking to my leg?” I ask.

“You are his blanket,” she says. “His vision isn’t great, and he’s clinging to you. He’s doing it out of love.”

I tell her to tell him that I’m scared of tripping over him — especially when I’m holding the baby.

She relays this information.

“He wants you to know,” she says, “that he loves you and he is grateful. But he’s really concerned about you and your happiness.”

I take this as a commentary on the fact that I have chosen to work part time. Then, I realize that I am defensive about being judged by a cat, a cat that has more to say.

“He really wants you just to melt all the time,” she says. “Don’t worry about anything. Get out of your head; wake up smiling.”

This seems like pretty solid advice, even from someone who eats dust bunnies.

By the time Squittieri leaves, we have aired all our issues, and we are both more relaxed. Baron seems calmer, less jittery and more confident as he strolls through the room.

I realize that my recent attitude toward him has been inattentive, frustrated and tense. Baron and I spend a few minutes hanging out on the rug together quietly, just the two of us. I don’t know for certain whether his energy has shifted — but mine has.

pets@nypost.com