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I’d begun to get a better sense of his character and wrote down a few more words to describe him: ‘bright’, intelligent’, ‘relaxed’, ‘solid’, ‘Other cats leave him alone’, ‘He has quite a presence’, ‘A bit of a gangster, wouldn’t mess with him, but it’s all front’, ‘He has a big heart and adores his mum.’
From his comments it appeared that this puss wasn’t under house arrest and liked to patrol his neighbourhood. ‘How do you leave your garden?’ I asked him. ‘Which direction do you like to head in?’
Suddenly I saw an image of a brick wall on the left of a tiny-looking garden and a ladder – a wooden cat-width ladder, with rungs cat-stride deep, at an easy-to-climb 45-degree angle.
‘She’s made a hole and given me steps,’ said the male voice. ‘I can’t jump that high anymore.’
At the weekend I caught up with Chloë on the phone to check what her cat was called before I continued communicating using her questions. ‘He’s called Sammy,’ she told me.
‘Molly’, ‘Polly’, ‘Dolly’ and ‘Frankie’ had a vaguely similar sound to Sammy, but I knew there was room for improvement, and quite clearly I’d mistaken him as female.
‘Chloë, have you made a hole in the brick wall on the left side of your back garden?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I have … How did you know that?’ she said, astonished.
‘And did you also put a wooden cat-ladder there?’ I continued.
There was a gasp and a moment’s silence on the other end of the phone, then Chloë said, ‘That’s remarkable, Pea. Did Sammy tell you that? How could you have known that? I had to give him a ladder, he was finding it harder to make the jump and he loves to explore.’
I was flabbergasted too. As much as I’d hoped it was true, because it seemed way too quirky for me to invent, the negativity inside me had said, No you’re just making it up, you’ve got a fanciful imagination, cats don’t need ladders to exit their gardens. For goodness sake, he’s a cat!
A week later I was sitting in Chloë’s living room delivering the rest of Sammy’s communication as he sat next to me on the sofa. ‘He never does that with people he’s not met before,’ she said. ‘It’s as if he knows you.’
During home visits animals often give gentle encouragement by climbing onto my lap or settling close by. Sometimes dogs lean into me or uncharacteristically make a big fuss as though we’ve met before. Birds soon relax and let me close too. Animals seem to do this for a number of reasons, mainly, I feel, to give their guardian a clear sign of their approval of the process, but also as a supportive ‘nod’ to me that I am on the right track.
Bluesy Makes Demands
Another early practice case was with a cat called Bluesy. She is a tiny caramel and chocolate swirled feline who rules over the home of Lynn and Sandra and a 66lb golden retriever called Saffie. Those who know her well may feel there is a leopard inside this tiny fragile body – her spirit is strong and her green-tea eyes cut into you with a no-nonsense ‘Don’t mess with me’ stare. This formidable character rules supreme from her throne room on the first floor at the rear of the house overlooking the garden. This is ‘Bluesy’s room’ and her throne is an old armchair in the corner. Bluesy is very particular about her space, disliking changes, but is generous enough to allow her large Goldilocks companion to occupy the floor nearby.
At the start of this story I was chummier with Saffie, who brought her two human companions along to join Morgan and me on treks around the common. Lynn is in her fifth decade and the fittest woman I know. Under her baggy clothing she disguises muscle tone any woman, or man, would die for and has unquestionable strength. Sandra is a little bit younger, with neat blonde bobbed hair and a caring nature. Both women are successful in their individual careers within the NHS.
One day we were all walking together when Lynn and Sandra told me their news: the vet had diagnosed Bluesy with a small growth in one of her kidneys and she had transformed from the bossy boots of the house into a quiet skin and bones waif. The veterinary diagnosis had arrived: ‘If you wish to know what type of tumour it is, we will need to investigate, but we need to consider the worst.’
Lynn and Sandra were devastated, trying to come to terms with the notion of losing their 16-year-old tour de force. They decided not to put Bluesy through any investigations, given her age.
I was still only practising animal communication at this point, but when I offered my help, Lynn and Sandra were keen to know whether there was anything Bluesy needed to make her more comfortable.
When I connected with Bluesy, distantly, linking in through her photo, I heard a strong, clear voice. She was keen to be heard. Even though her body was weak, her spirit was as strong and as acerbic as ever. She wasn’t interested in talking about the colour of her chair or how she felt about any treatment, she wanted to get her shopping list together. Bluesy had demands.
One of the first images I received from her was of a pad on a chair. Then I felt a warm sensation in my own body and she said, just in case the ‘stupid human’ hadn’t got the message: ‘Heat pad.’
I met up with Lynn and Sandra in our favourite pub and, nervously over a pint, began to read back the information from Bluesy in my notepad. I had only discovered animal communication a couple of months earlier, so this was very early on in my experience. I described Bluesy’s character traits and they agreed I had her spot on. I described her room and favourite chair, which I didn’t know anything about, her status in the house and her relationship with Saffie and each of them. Then I went on to share the two pieces of information Bluesy really wanted to get across.
‘She says she wants a heat pad,’ I offered. ‘She pictured a pad on her seat and I felt the sensation of warmth. She’s cold and would like more warmth.’
‘Yes,’ responded Lynn, in a very matter-of-fact way. ‘We’ve been talking about getting her a heat pad.’
‘That’s amazing,’ said Sandra. We were talking about it only the other day. She’s so small and fragile now; we’ve been worried she might be cold. Well, we’ll get her a heat pad. If that’s what Bluesy wants then that’s what she will have.
‘She’s asking for one more thing,’ I continued, confident now that they were happy to follow Bluesy’s wishes. ‘She would like fresh food. She pictured chicken and I tasted tuna too. She’s fed up with dry food and wants a change.’
‘OK, all right. Full of demands, isn’t she?!’ said Sandra.
Straight away Bluesy was given her heat pad and from first thing in the morning to last thing in the evening, as well as all through the night, she stayed on it, except for the odd trip downstairs for food and a comfort break in the garden. It was a British winter and the weather was miserable and cold.
It was a week or so later that I heard the whole story. It turned out that the heat pad had arrived really quickly, but the food change hadn’t materialized straight away. So Bluesy had taken things into her own four paws and gone on hunger strike. She had refused to eat anything put in front of her. Until the tuna arrived, followed swiftly by the chicken.
Since that day Bluesy has eaten with an appetite of which a horse would be proud. She is regularly cooked fresh chicken and every day it disappears into her belly. It has been over five years since her fated prognosis and she has blossomed into a beauty, with lustrous fur you constantly wish to run your hands through. Not that you would dare. Her vet is still able to feel the lump and it is slowly getting bigger, yet, as the vet confirms, ‘It doesn’t seem to bother her.’ Bluesy is full of herself: lording over her servants, screeching commands as she parades around her palace, sometimes during the early hours of the morning. She comes and goes as she pleases and bags the best spot on the sofa every time. She now has two feeding stations and receives room service daily. She is in command and deliriously happy. While life is this good, why would you want to leave? Bluesy is now 21 years old and still in power.
The Blowfly Mission
I was taking a little time out, warming my skin and enjoying the silence as I sat in my inner-city garden. I’d just finished a communication with a cat. Texas was soaking up the sun’s rays too from his self-made indentation in the uncut grass.
Something caught my attention, causing me to glance over to my left. There on my hand stood a metallic green fly with bristly black legs. His six feet stuck to my skin in between my fine blonde hairs. I stared into two overlarge maroon-coloured eyes.
‘Hello,’ I said out loud to him.
Even though I thought he’d fly off, he stayed there, as if rooted to my hand, waiting. Then a thought entered my mind: I wonder if this fly can hear me?
It was my first attempt at communication with an insect, let alone a fly, and I wondered how I could be sure we were really connected. After a moment’s consideration I came up with an idea.
‘OK, Fly, please show me you can understand me by flying around the parasol at this table then coming back to rest on my hand again,’ I said silently.
Without a second’s hesitation the fly vanished into the air. I saw him ascend anti-clockwise around the silver parasol then come to land on my left hand.
‘Pouf!’ I exhaled. ‘That’s pretty impressive.’ I looked into the deep red eyes facing me. ‘Can you do it again?’
My new friend took off, the sunlight gleaming through his fragile translucent wings. Again he flew anti-clockwise around the parasol and came to rest on my left hand. Both times anti-clockwise. Both times the left hand. Was this a coincidence?
This time I looked into the big eyes of my little friend in amazement and admiration. Not only did he appear to be receiving my telepathic communication, he was also choosing to act on it.
Still not quite believing it, I asked him a third time, ‘Please fly around the parasol one more time for me and I promise you I will never question that animal communication is possible again.’
Quick as a flash, he was off, up into the air and flying anti-clockwise around the parasol then coming in to land on my left hand again. In the silence he looked up at me expectantly, as if he was waiting for my reaction.
‘Incredible! Thank you!’ I said, astonished, full of a new sense of appreciation of flies.
A split-second later he was up, off and out of sight.
‘Bye,’ I said as I watched the fly ambassador leave. It felt as if his job was completed and he’d moved straight on to the next mission.
It took me a while to really let this experience sink in. Here was a common fly who had rested on my hand and instead of flying off had stayed. This tiny insect with his supposedly tiny brain had done something amazing: he’d listened and decided to do what I’d asked him – he’d flown round the parasol a staggering three times. I started to look at insects, especially flies, in a new light and I wondered what else they were capable of.
This experience only happened once. It was a special moment between us. But at this point on my animal communication journey it felt like a blessing to be shown so clearly that even the tiny species are capable of inter-species communication. More significantly for me, the fly ambassador had helped silence my sceptical mind.
Now I have a much more respectful view of flies. If they come into my house, rather than thinking of ways to eliminate them, I just open a door or window and ask them to leave. I’ve found this method works nearly every time.
Mice Matters
It was a cold day in February when I became aware I had squatters. Every time I opened the understairs cupboard to retrieve the vacuum or a recycling bag I was struck with l’eau de mus musculus. That would be mouse poop to you and me. The little darlings had left black droppings all over the brown carpet, under the shelving unit and around the recycling box. I would sweep them up, but before long the whole area would be covered in their little presents again.
Straight away it was obvious why they’d decided on this particular hidey-hole: it was where I kept the pet food. And despite the industrial-strength plastic casing, there were tiny mouse-sized holes all along the bottom of the bag. It was freezing outside and probably very difficult to locate enough food. Yet this wasn’t making my life any easier – a family of mice can leave a lot of droppings.
One day my suspicion was confirmed by a sighting. I opened the door and heard movement coming from one of the food bags. Maybe the mouse was so hungry he’d forgotten to listen out for the human giant breaking up his buffet, because suddenly his head popped out from one of the holes in the bag. He looked up at me and froze, no doubt surprised by the vision of my gargantuan head, then he made a hasty retreat and in seconds he was gone. In milliseconds he’d run past the washing products, around the shoe cleaner and down the edge of the shelf unit, and I last saw his tail moving at the speed of light towards the back of the cupboard. It was time to act and sort this out once and for all. I didn’t want to be scooping poop day in and day out. I needed to communicate with the mice.
I thought it could be confusing to try and communicate with all of the mice at once, so I requested that just one come forward and talk to me, the one in charge, the head mouse. I began by sending a feeling of love. Within moments I received a picture of a mouse in my mind’s eye and I could tell from his body language that he wasn’t happy. I tried to begin a conversation with him, but he wasn’t listening. He was livid.
‘I’d like to talk about the food you’re eating,’ I said to him quietly.
He screamed at me, furiously waving his furry arms as he spoke. ‘I’m not going to stop eating! You don’t understand. You humans are all the same – you’re bullies. You don’t care for us. What am I meant to do? It’s cold! I have a family to feed!’
I couldn’t get a word in edgeways.
‘There’s plenty of food. Why not share? Is it asking too much?’ he said, punctuating his words with deep intakes of breath. ‘You have so much food. I don’t have any. I have a family. Why don’t you care about my family?’
‘But …’ I tried to break in, but he continued straight over me.
‘We’re only eating what we need, and you have so much. So much food! We’re hungry. We need to eat,’ he said, clearly furious.
‘Of course,’ I interrupted finally. ‘I’m happy to share.’
For the first time he stopped screaming at me. He had a confused look on his face and was silent. I didn’t hesitate – I took this opportunity to explain.
‘I understand you need to feed your family to stay alive. I’m not asking you to stop eating the food. I just want to make a deal with you,’ I told him.
Head Mouse looked at me with a quizzical look in his eyes.
‘I suggest that during the cold months I leave you and your family some of the dog biscuits in a white dish. The rest of the food is out of bounds. Every day, at the same time as I feed my own animals, I’ll leave food out for you.’
He lowered his fists from their position on his hips and let out a sigh.
‘When it gets warmer,’ I went on, ‘I’d like you to leave and find your own food outside. You see, the smell is overwhelming to my human nose. I’d also like you to understand this is a special arrangement just between us. Please don’t tell your friends.’
I could just imagine word getting out that food was available on tap at the house with the white front door – it would become a free-for-all for every mouse family in the neighbourhood.
‘So, is it a deal? Do you agree to the arrangements?’ I said to Head Mouse.
He seemed totally overwhelmed, both moved and relieved. ‘Yes!’ he said enthusiastically, and I felt two strong arms wrapping around me, giving me a big hug and the most immense feeling of joy and love.
‘Promise?’ I said.
‘Promise,’ he replied, smiling, and there it was, cast in stone.
I was relieved to know I’d only be scooping the poop for a limited time and there was an end in sight.
The next morning I kept to my side of the deal and filled my dog’s bowl, my cat’s bowl and the white dish for the mice. I checked back 30 minutes later and the dish was empty. No sign of a mouse. In the evening, the feeding schedule was repeated.
The routine was always the same and it appeared the mice knew the meal times. I’d put down the dish then check back barely ten minutes later and it would be empty, with never a sign of cute hairless ears or a long tail diving for cover. We’d reached a compromise, existing as one large family under the same roof with twice-daily waitress service. Happy the mice were leaving the bags of food untouched, I continued with the arrangement and the weeks ticked past.
Then one day something changed. I checked and the biscuits were still there. I wondered whether the mice were a little full after weeks of eating. However, at suppertime the dish was still full of biscuits. This time I wondered whether they were ill. For a couple of days I anxiously opened the door, hoping it would be empty, but it was always full. I felt a loss – my little family under the stairs had gone.
It took me a few days to accept the truth. The buds of spring had begun to show their beautiful petals and the daffodils were peeking through the soil. As I’d got stuck into the routine of feeding, I’d forgotten the details of our agreement. Of course, it had grown warmer and the mice had gone. The head mouse had kept to the deal. A promise is a promise.
This experience changed my perspective on mice. I’d had no idea how determined they were and how keen to be understood. Ultimately, I’d had no idea they were so loyal, so emotional and so honest. Head Mouse had opened my eyes to a different side of his species and also proven that … mice don’t renege on a promise.
Morgan’s Wake-Up Call
I continued to invite friends to let me communicate with their animals. I was still working in theatre as a stage manager and fitted the communications around my full-time job. I would work in theatre in the evenings and matinées, and would fit the practice in during my time off during the day or on Sunday. Some weeks I’d have three or four requests and people would have to wait a while and other weeks were quieter and I could help them pretty quickly. The wonderful result of this continued pursuit of accuracy was that my confidence grew. The more communications I practised, the more I learned about my own personal style, pitfalls and obstacles.
Whenever I found time, I sat in silence with Morgan or Texas and asked them about their day. Morgan works with me on a subtle level, more subconsciously, which is how many of us may relate to our animals. He hardly ever talks and when he does it is normally with short, succinct, to the point sentences. He’s an earthy kind of dog, with a huge connection to Spirit, or the Source. Not that you’d realize this straight away, because above and beyond these qualities, he’s a dog. That’s his essence and it would be wrong to treat him as any other living being.
Morgan’s passion, like that of most dogs, is food. Walking him in the summer is like going on an obstacle course where the aim is to scoot him around as many picnickers as possible. His mission, on the other hand, is to zig-zag, targeting as many picnics as possible before he’s stopped. He often cleverly outmanoeuvres me and doubles back before I’ve noticed. In his advanced years – he’s now about 15 – he’s learned that looking sweet and ‘starving’ has a higher rate of success than being pushy and barging. He trots over to a family having a picnic and sits looking cute. They fall for it and bingo, he’s fed another sausage or sandwich. Occasionally his heart rules his manners. He has been known to lick a small child’s ice cream as she’s strolled by unaware. And any food on the floor is, of course, fair game, including the bread being fed to the ducks – one of his regular treats.
When I’m not available to take Morgan out he has a dog walker. He’s hilarious when he comes back from these days out with other dogs. It’s like he’s been out on the town with the boys. He comes in the front door full of doggie testosterone, bounding down the hall, toenails clattering on the tiles, jumping and leaping around. Texas knows to stay clear when he’s like this. It’s as if he’s all pumped up after a trip to the gym.
After my initial success, I lost my confidence in being able to talk to Morgan and Texas. It felt so much harder with them rather than an animal I didn’t know, because I presumed I knew what they would answer back. To overcome this technical hitch I’d pretend we were strangers and kept reminding myself to ‘stay in neutral’, which meant I couldn’t have any agenda or expectation. Slowly, I began to trust myself, and the odd snippet of information became a couple of snippets, then a sentence, then a whole movie clip of images until I’d found a nice flow. I’d ask them how they got on with one another when I wasn’t there and whether Morgan liked his dog walker, and pleaded with Texas to stay safe and out of trouble, at which point he’d almost raise his furry eyebrows and sigh.
As our communication progressed, I began to play about with it: I’d ask them a question out loud, instead of silently in my mind, and then I’d wait for the response. Texas particularly liked this game at bedtime. I’d find him lying at the end of the bed, paws curled under his chest, eager-eyed, waiting for me to pop the first question.
Domestic animals who live closely with us are affected by our decisions. I was planning a three-week holiday to Australia and had already gone ahead and arranged for Morgan to stay with his dog walker, who boards dogs in his home. I hadn’t told him about the holiday, but he’d tuned into me and worked out I was going to be leaving him behind. When I made the mistake of not considering his feelings, he put me right in a startling way.
We were on his regular morning walk on the common when he suddenly ran into the middle of a very busy road. Thankfully no cars were coming and I was able to catch up with him and put him back on the lead. He waited a day and then the next morning he did it again. This time cars were travelling at about 40 mph right towards him. I ran out into the road and stood in front of them, frantically waving my arms to get them to stop. They saw me in time and I was able to catch Morgan and walk him to the pavement, my legs shaking with the fear that he could have been knocked down. If he’d wanted to put the frighteners on me, he’d achieved it.
When he did the very same thing for a third time, the penny finally dropped. Rather than employing a dog behaviouralist who would have possibly told me to be more of a pack leader, I did what felt right for me. Instead of telling Morgan off with, ‘What were you thinking? You know you shouldn’t run into the road. You could have got yourself killed!’, I did what I should have done the very first time: ‘Why are you running into the road, Morgan?’
‘To get your attention,’ he replied.
‘Well, now you have it. What’s the matter?’ I said.
‘You didn’t ask me. What’s the point of being able to communicate if you don’t listen to us?’ he said.
I fell silent, lost for words. Is this what he had nearly killed himself for? He was right, though. What’s the point of opening a door if you only shut it again? I needed to acknowledge that this new interaction we had was two-way and mutually beneficial.
‘What didn’t I ask you? What do you want to say?’ I replied.
‘You didn’t ask me what I wanted,’ he stated.
Then it dawned on me – I was packing him off to the dog walker’s home and I hadn’t even asked him whether he was OK with it. I hadn’t involved him in the decision at all. I apologized to him and told him I understood why he was mad. He reminded me we were equals. He gave me a picture of a square, which he divided into four equal parts. Each part was assigned to a member of the family – me, my partner, Texas and Morgan himself. This was how he viewed us – as equals.
Morgan has never got my attention like this again. He hasn’t needed to. I now explain when I’m going away and involve him in every decision that affects him.
CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_a8f949ef-d000-583f-b230-c618d9c76b20)
The Texas Ranger (#ulink_a8f949ef-d000-583f-b230-c618d9c76b20)
THIS IS MY introduction to Texas, the green-eyed red-headed feline in my life, and a glimpse into his free spirit. Texas has made it clear to me that just because it’s possible to communicate with animals, it doesn’t give us the right to control them.
It began when I became aware that Texas was disappearing for long periods at a time. This went on for a number of weeks. I’d call him but he wouldn’t appear. This was strange in itself, as he’s the most wonderfully responsive cat who rushes to me when I call his name. As he does so he is normally calling, ‘I’m here, I’m here,’ or sometimes, ‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ which I’ll hear way off in the distance, and a minute or so later he might appear at the top of my garden fence or on the shed roof.
