Heart to Heart

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