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Twenty people, mostly women, were sitting round in a large circle, with the teacher at the front of the room. He began to tell us how he’d found he could talk to animals. He said he’d realized he’d had this amazing magical power since he was a child, and as a teenager he’d often speak to horses and have conversations with them. What have I got myself into? I thought. He can talk to animals? No, that’s not right: no one can talk to animals, except Doctor Doolittle of course. Then he shared an emotional story of how his miraculous gift had helped a distraught animal and it wasn’t long before 19 people were crying.
And then there was me. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but isn’t this man telling us he actually speaks to animals, and, er, hears what they say back to him? It took all my will-power to stop myself from walking out. I was astonished, soaked head to foot in disbelief, yet everyone else seemed taken in. They must have been bewitched when they came in. Was I the only one who didn’t believe this con man?
By the time we’d reached lunchtime I was hungry and grumpy. I was even more sceptical than when I’d walked in at nine o’clock. The morning had been dominated by animal stories and a couple of ‘getting in touch with your senses’ exercises, but we hadn’t even glimpsed a cat or a dog, let alone talked to one.
During lunch, I made a beeline for the teacher. ‘We’ve got an awful lot to cover if we’re going to be speaking with animals this afternoon,’ I said.
He just smiled and carried on eating his vegetarian scotch egg.
Shortly after lunch I was pleased to see my words had had some effect. We were put into pairs and told to swap the photos that we’d brought of our animals at home. So my partner had a photo of my cat, Texas, and I had a photo of her … well, I didn’t know what. I was given the photo face down and told to guess what animal was in the picture.
How the heck am I supposed to know? I felt foolish and awkward. As much as I didn’t believe in all this hocus-pocus, I didn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of such a large group of strangers, and because my childhood passion had always been animals, there was a part of me that was curious to try it for myself. All my inner demons flew out of my mind and began stabbing me with their spears. What if I’m the only one here who can’t do this? I’ll make an idiot of myself. I don’t want to get it wrong. It’s not real. I took a deep breath and fought my demons: I’ve got nothing to lose. I’ve paid my money now. I’m here, so I might as well give it a go. What if he really can talk to animals? I want to do that too! And I’m probably never going to see these people again anyway.
I looked at the white back of the photo and scribbled a word on my notepad. It was the first word that came into my mind – I just heard it, almost as though it had been whispered in my ear: ‘Rabbit.’
When I turned the photo over, I found myself staring into the soft shiny eyes of a deep rich sepia-coloured rabbit. Lucky guess. It was hardly likely to be a giraffe. The demons had returned, spears at the ready.
My partner told me this rabbit was called Mister Butch. Then the teacher instructed us to ask our animal a few rudimentary questions: ‘What’s his favourite food?’ ‘What’s his favourite activity?’ ‘Where does he like to sleep?’ ‘Who is he in love with?’
The room fell silent as everyone knuckled down. Everyone except me, that is. My mind was racing with doubt, my demons were gaining ground and the opposition was retreating. As I looked down at Mister Butch, my internal dialogue went like this:
‘I’ve been told to talk to you, but you can’t hear me. You can’t hear me because you’re a photo, a photo of a rabbit, and rabbits can’t talk. Let alone photos of rabbits. You can’t hear me, can you, because rabbits don’t talk.’
‘Who do you think is listening to you?’
I heard this response like a voice inside me, but it was a male voice and it wasn’t happy, it was confrontational. Was the rabbit in the photo really talking to me?
‘Did you just speak to me?’ I asked warily in my mind as I looked at Mister Butch in the photo.
‘Yeah! I can hear you, all right!’ came that voice again.
Butterflies were fluttering around my stomach. For the first time I wondered whether I could believe what I was hearing internally.
‘You can really hear me? As I talk to you, you hear me?’
‘Yeah, I said it already: I can hear you. Who the hell do you think is listening?’
I took a moment to gather myself. They’re starting to get to me. All this talk has started to have some strange kind of effect. Yet a part of me really wanted it to be true because I really loved animals and, more importantly, I had a sad dog at home and I wanted to make his life happier. I decided to get the most out of the afternoon.
‘OK, Mister Butch, if you can hear me, tell me what your favourite food is,’ I quizzed.
‘Leaves.’
I scribbled it on my pad. Then I heard the negative voice in my mind again: Well! If that wasn’t obvious!
I carried on. ‘And what’s your environment like?’
In my mind I could see a picture of a plush lawn, then the image changed and I saw a bed, and then it changed again and I saw a two-seater sofa. I wrote it all down.
‘Are you in love with anyone right now?’
There was another brief picture, this time of an espresso-coloured rabbit. It came and went ever so fast.
‘And what’s your favourite activity?’
There was another flash of that sofa.
Quite a long time had passed whilst I was doing this exercise, but it felt like just a few minutes. The moment came to share the information I’d written down with Mister Butch’s guardian. Even though I felt as if I’d made up every word of it, I went through each response.
My partner told me some of the things didn’t make sense, but some of them were correct. Mister Butch’s big love was an espresso-coloured rabbit and apparently I’d really tuned into his strong character: he was an impatient rabbit with attitude. As it turned out, he’d also done this before: he’d communicated with our teacher. No wonder I’d been able to sense his disapproval as I’d groped about in disbelief – he was an old pro. My partner even elaborated on the image I’d seen when I’d asked the question: ‘What’s your favourite activity?’ She told me Mister Butch would come inside and sit on her sofa at the same time every Saturday evening. He would expect the television to be on and switched to his favourite programme, You’ve Been Framed. When we shared our communications with the entire group, the other students thought this snippet was hilarious and our teacher was even able to corroborate the story: he’d been to visit Mister Butch at his home and witnessed his TV addiction for himself.
As outlandish yet wonderful as this experience seemed, I still found it hard to believe that I had communicated with a rabbit using a photograph. Let alone a rabbit that watched TV. I thought his guardian was just being kind and encouraging, and maybe it was the law of averages that had produced a couple of accuracies.
Then it was my partner’s turn to tell me everything she’d received in response from my cat, Texas. This complete stranger started to describe the layout of my living-room, the colour of my sofa and Texas’ favourite place to sit in the garden. How could she know this? How could she get all this from a photo?
And if this complete stranger was able to receive accurate information from Texas, was I, maybe, just maybe, also receiving accurate information from Mister Butch?
My God, this is really happening. I’ve just talked to a rabbit. From his photo.
It was the most miraculous idea: animals can talk and we can hear them.
My body and mind felt in conflict with what I’d experienced during the day and my belief system prior to it. In a daze I drove home, feeling excited, awestruck and completely overwhelmed. I felt that I was sailing out into the ocean without a paddle, surrounded by the deep blue sea. I didn’t know which way I was heading or how far I would travel. I didn’t know how many fathoms of undiscovered secrets lay beneath me. These were unchartered waters. I began to think of how my friends might respond if I were to tell them I’d just had a conversation with a rabbit.
And yet, even though I had this logical fear, I couldn’t help but question my sceptical beliefs. The idea of being able to communicate with animals was changing my perception of reality. It was changing how I viewed animals. If people were to realize they could talk to animals, just think how much happier animals could be. They’d be able to tell us what they wanted and how they felt. If everyone learned to talk to animals – my God, that could change everything. Animals everywhere could be recognized as feeling and thinking creatures who can make their own decisions and form their own relationships. I was getting so excited, but then I had a thought that brought me crashing down to reality: What about all the animals behind bars in zoos? I suddenly felt a heavy weight in the pit of my stomach. And all the animals in shelters with no one to love them and make them feel special – what must they be feeling? My chest heaved and my eyes filled with tears as I thought of cosmetic testing, the fur industry and vivisection.
This discovery didn’t feel quite so delightful anymore. Joy had been replaced by unbearable anguish. And that’s when I realized the journey into animal communication might not be so easy after all. It was coupled with enormous responsibility. The joy of communicating with animals would always go hand in hand with the anguish of how my fellow human beings would treat them. I realized that during my communications with animals, I would hear what they thought and feel what they felt. On the one hand, that would be their loving connection with people. Yet, travelling down the same path, I’d also feel all their suffering: their feelings of sadness, confusion, betrayal and loneliness, even their anger.
In just one day I felt my life had changed and I was looking at the world with fresh eyes.
Returning Home
At home I had the daunting task of telling my partner about the day’s events. How do you tell someone you’ve just been conversing with a rabbit? There are no manuals to advise and I’d be surprised if the answer can be revealed by a web search. And I was still finding it hard to understand what had happened myself.
Jo had made us some tea and we were relaxing in the living-room drinking it when she asked me how the workshop had gone. I laughed nervously.
‘OK,’ I said.
Then there was a palatable silence as I tried to grasp the right words. I just didn’t know how to tell her. I decided the only way forward was just to say it.
‘I think I’ve just been talking to a rabbit. I think I can talk to animals.’
I held my breath, waiting for her reaction.
She looked across at Morgan and raised her eyebrows, then looked back at me and smiled. ‘Well, that’s going to be an interesting hobby,’ she said. Little did she, or I, know at this point that it was going to evolve into something much greater. Then she added, ‘How do you know? Give me proof.’
I told her the details I’d received and that some of them had made sense. I said I didn’t know how it had happened, it just had. I also told her that a complete stranger had talked to Texas and described the colour of our sofa and his favourite lookout post in the garden. How could that be possible?
‘Wow,’ she said, ‘that sounds amazing.’ Then, without a moment’s hesitation, ‘What did the rabbit say?’
I should have known Jo would react positively. She had always loved animals – dogs being her favourite – and I think that connection helps you see there is more to an animal than sit, beg and roll over. Since that moment I have always been supported on my journey into animal communication. I am lucky in that way.
That evening I knelt on the floor in front of Morgan and looked into his deep espresso-coloured eyes. He looked straight back at me and I had the feeling he was saying, ‘So now you know.’ The veil had been lifted and I could see him clearly, not only as a feeling and thinking dog but also with the realization we could connect with each other on this intuitive, heartfelt level for even deeper and clearer understanding.
Listening
I now know that animal communication is not so much about talking as listening; it’s about being a receptive vessel. I now realize I’d been subconsciously preparing for this. Over the years I’d been drawn to jobs where it was important to listen. Before I began to communicate with animals I volunteered on a helpline. Every weekend for approximately three months I attended training, culminating in a mock-up practical test at the end. The tutors would only allow you in the phone room if they felt you were ready and once there you received a buddy who would give you one-to-one support and guidance in the first few weeks. After I’d finished working in the theatre in the evening I’d head over to the helpline headquarters and stay up all night manning the phone. The ‘graveyard’ night shift was very unpopular, so I’d often be there on my own. People rang with a whole range of problems, some extremely upsetting, some shocking, some traumatic, and then there were people who just needed to talk to someone who would listen without their own agenda or any judgement.
Looking back now, this provided the groundwork of how it feels to truly listen and I am sure it was one of the building blocks for communicating with animals. And of course I had worked with actors and creative types in the theatre, which meant I had learned to juggle different personalities within a pressured profession where deadlines were absolute.
Sharing My Discovery
Sharing my discovery wasn’t easy. I was nervous about telling my friends. I felt awkward saying the words, ‘I’ve discovered I can talk to animals,’ sort of embarrassed, and also scared of how they would respond.
I began by telling two close friends whom I’d known for the longest time. One of them, also called Jo, took a little while to get her head around it, but at the same time felt there was no reason why it shouldn’t be possible. She said, ‘I think when you’ve had a pet you feel really close to, it doesn’t seem such an alien idea that someone would find a way of communicating with animals.’
But my other friend from theatre school, Caroline, went silent on the phone. She still doesn’t understand it.
Dinner parties, and most social events like birthdays and weddings, have since become a great adventure. Sometimes I’ll be asked what I do and I’ll tell someone and the brick wall will immediately come up or their eyes will glaze over or they’ll be speechless. Others might say, ‘Really? Glass of wine?’ then make a hasty retreat, never to return. There are some nights when I’ve received a handful of these types of reactions and I’ve been tempted to tell people I’m a mortician instead, or a fire fighter, or a pole dancer, or even an astronaut. A lot of people use humour because they don’t know what to say. On the other hand some will immediately believe me and have a million questions, or else pin me in a corner, desperate to resolve the ins and outs of their cat’s inappropriate toileting. Largely, people are intrigued and want to know all about it and how it works.
The most popular question is, of course, ‘What did the rabbit say?’
Resolving Morgan’s Sadness
I was so intrigued by the thought that I might be able to talk to animals I immediately signed up for a second workshop. During this experience I felt excited and found my communications with animals had a better flow of accuracy. I was able to give the colour of an animal’s bed, where it was positioned and even whom the animal lived with. It was at this second workshop that I discovered my life’s purpose. I know that might sound like a cliché, but it’s true. That is how it happened. It wasn’t a logical decision – I just knew in my heart that I had discovered what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. It felt right.
So then I felt confident enough to concentrate on the reason why I’d started all this in the first place: Morgan. I wanted to understand why he looked sad and so I spent a long time talking to him. He was lying in his bed in my light, homely living-room and I was sitting on the wooden floor in front of him. I began by asking him whether he liked his food.
‘It’s OK,’ he said.
‘And do you feel you receive enough exercise?’ I asked gently, looking into his watery brown eyes.
‘I suppose. It’s a bit boring. I’d like some bones, something to crunch,’ came a downhearted voice that melted my heart and sparked worry lines across my brow. I wondered whether it was me. Maybe he didn’t like me?
‘Do you like me, Morgan?’
‘Yes.’
Then he decided to bite on the duvet in his bed, like a child sucks on a ‘diddy’.
We’d reached the point where I had to ask him: ‘Why are you sad, sweetheart?’
After much patient cajoling, Morgan slowly revealed the background to his feelings. He showed me an image of an old man with a walking stick and I felt guilt – Morgan felt he was letting the old man down. Then there was an image of an old woman sitting in a high-backed armchair with Morgan lying at her feet. She appeared very smiley and gentle, and I felt she had now passed over and was in spirit. Then I heard the words, ‘Look after my husband when I’m gone.’ She was looking at Morgan when she said it. I was hearing these words in my mind, but the voice wasn’t mine, it was older, softer and slower. I could feel the love Morgan felt for the woman and the love she felt for him. They adored one another.
Morgan told me they were his previous owners. As I looked into his eyes, I tried to tune into the old man again and saw an image of him standing in a small galley kitchen. He seemed flustered and unable to cope. He was holding a walking stick, which reminded me of the old men with walking sticks that Morgan would bark at on our walks. As Morgan shared his secret I could sense how confused he was feeling. Tuning back into the image of the man, I got the feeling he’d been taken into care after his wife had died. That must have been why Morgan had been taken to death row.
I’d learned on the workshop that one way to resolve emotional upset between people and animals, and even animals and animals, was to invite them into the same space. I began by imagining a bright safe space with a wooden door, and while I looked into Morgan’s eyes, I invited the spirit of the old lady to enter and take a seat in the high-backed chair I’d created for her.
Once she’d settled, I invited Morgan to enter the space. He walked in, body tense, refusing to look at the old lady, keeping his eyes permanently fixed to the floor. ‘Physical Morgan’ still lay in bed, but ‘energetic Morgan’ came into the safe space. The feelings of guilt and remorse were palatable.
I invited the lady to take over. She turned to face Morgan and told him how much she loved him. This caused him to sink even lower into the floor, as if he wanted the earth to open and swallow him up.
‘He couldn’t take care of himself anymore,’ the lady said to his back. ‘He needed a very special home. He wasn’t able to take you with him, that’s why you were parted.’
Tears started to trickle down my cheeks as I was feeling what Morgan was feeling. He was listening transfixed to what she was saying and had begun to cry.
‘It’s not your fault. You did nothing wrong,’ she said.
For the first time, Morgan turned round and looked up at her, a pleading look in his eyes.
She continued, ‘No, love. You didn’t let me down. You did your job brilliantly and I am very proud of you.’
I burst into tears as I felt a huge wave of emotional relief sweep over Morgan. I cried and cried as he let go of the burden he’d been carrying with him.
But the old lady didn’t stop there. ‘I want you to move on now,’ she said. ‘You kept your promise; you looked after him so well. Now you’re with a new family and I want you to look after them. This is your new job: to be with this family.’
In the safe place I’d created, Morgan began to prance joyously around, his mouth smiling wide open. It was as though a weight of responsibility had been removed from his shoulders.
I thanked the lady, then I thanked Morgan for being brave enough to enter in the first place and finally I dissolved the picture and brought my awareness back to the room.
Once I was calmer, I looked into the eyes of my beautiful dog lying in his bed in front of me and said to him, ‘I want you to live with my family now. We want you to be with us and I promise you we will love you, maybe not in the same way as your previous family, but we’ll do our best to love you just as much.’
He visibly relaxed and I thought his eyes began to sparkle.
What was more remarkable was Texas’ behaviour. The very same day, he stopped running away from Morgan. When I asked him why he didn’t appear to be scared of him anymore, he replied simply, ‘He’s decided he’s staying.’ Texas now viewed him as part of the family rather than an outsider. Even my friends could see a difference in Morgan and the way Texas now accepted him.
CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_689c2793-2264-52f8-a9b7-247b64c06978)
Practice, Practice, Practice (#ulink_689c2793-2264-52f8-a9b7-247b64c06978)
FROM THAT DAY on I spent every waking moment reading up on the subject of animal communication and badgered my friends to let me practise with their animals, or their friends’ animals, or their neighbours’ animals. I also joined animal-related web forums.
Soon word got out that I was willing to offer a free communication to anyone who wanted one and all they needed to do in return was verify the details I gave them, so I could see how I was progressing and learn from my successes and failures. I was always honest and upfront, explaining that I was still a student and that I might not always get it right. I asked the recipient to take responsibility for the communication and whether they chose to ignore it or take notice of it was up to them. If there was anything medically wrong with their animal I always asked them to seek the advice of a trusted veterinarian.
Street-Cool Sammy
On Saturday 4 December 2004, I recorded my first practice case study in a large orange hardback notebook. To begin with, I was attempting it without a photo of the animal. All I knew was that the animal was a cat who shared his or her life with a woman called Chloë, who was the casting agent of a friend of mine. I didn’t even have the cat’s name.
I decided to gather some impressions, details that Chloë could verify. I sat in my favourite comfy chair and tried to tune into the cat. I imagined I was connecting with him or her by silently asking ‘the cat of Chloë’ to come forward and show him or herself. Then I saw a quick picture in my mind – the image of a deep rich brown cat. I sensed the general character of this cat and wrote down a few words: ‘gentle’, ‘loving’, ‘weary’, ‘tired’, ‘needs rest’. I asked what he or she was called and heard ‘Molly’, ‘Polly’ and ‘Dolly’.
A few days later Chloë sent me a photo and I found myself looking into the eyes of a deep rich brown cat. I gave myself a tick in my notebook for getting that right. Chloë still hadn’t included a name, so I persevered without one.
‘Please tell me what you’re called,’ I said, as I held the cat’s photo in my hands.
‘Frank. Frankie,’ came a deep male voice inside my head.
‘Is that right? You’re called Frankie?’ My impression had been that this cat was female.
‘No, but I’d prefer this name, I’d rather be called Frank or Frankie. I need more street-cred. But it’s too late now,’ came the deep booming voice.
