he’d walk straight out. All he had to do now was shimmy through to the next garden and climb up the rear fire escape and he’d be in his cat flap. That short cut saved him at least 10 minutes of ‘pointless’ effort going all the way down the street, avoiding dogs, feet and cars, cutting through the busy alley and finally making his way carefully across other cats’ gardens until he eventually reached mine. Soon he got wise that it could work the other way too. He’d call out at their back door, walk down the hall and then wait for them to open the front door. He had them twisted round his ivory-white whiskers.
It was quite a long time before one of the girls admitted what Texas was up to. He’d kept his little secret for at least six months. I was told he’d occasionally divert from his usual plan and go into one of their bedrooms to lie on their bed, where, of course, he’d receive much love and admiration. This was the first time he came home smelling of another woman’s perfume; he was only 12 months old.
I liked and trusted these women and thought Texas’s short cut was a stroke of genius, so I laughed along with them and Texas continued to use their home as his short cut and rest stop for the next three years until we moved from the area.
At a different time I saw another example of Texas’ free will. I was standing in the kitchen of my first-floor flat, hands in the washing-up bowl, looking out of the window to the first-floor flat opposite, when I had to look twice. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was Texas curled up asleep on the bed. It was summer and their back door was open, so he’d just wandered up their fire escape and found himself somewhere soft to sleep. I banged on the window, calling his name. He looked up from his pillow and chose to ignore me.
It appeared he felt he owned all the flats around us, because another time I saw him on the sofa of the downstairs flat. They’d left one of their windows open. There now numbered four flats in his portfolio.
So what I’ve learned over the years is that Texas is a free spirit. Animals are masters in their own right and you can’t keep tabs on them just because you can talk to them. It’s not possible to control them or tell them what to do. Texas is his own cat and he makes no apology for that. It’s one of the qualities I absolutely love about him.
I have also come to terms with the necessity to swallow my pride and admit I’m not the only woman in his life, although I console myself knowing our hearts are as one. He also now adores Jennie, who comes and looks after him when I’m away. He’s always waiting for her on the doorstep as her car pulls up, whatever time of day it is, and he curls up on her lap while she watches TV. He liked the little old lady down the road when she was buying in cat food especially for him, even though it had been a long time since she’d lived with a cat. He loved the two career women in the ground-floor flat who understood their hallway was also his right of way and they were his gatekeepers. And he loved having more than one soft place to rest his weary ginger head.
What I’ve also realized is that cats are clever and able to manipulate things to their own advantage. For example, instead of using animal communication to do something I wanted, Texas soon used it to get me to do something he wanted. It was the middle of the night when it happened and I was sound asleep. Then I woke, bolt upright. I had heard Texas call out to me in my dream. I have hearing that’s finely tuned to his tone of meow, just as a mother can distinguish between the cries of her child and other children. Then I received an image in my mind and I knew he was at the front door. Like a zombie, still half asleep, I immediately knew what he wanted and stumbled down the stairs. I unlocked the door and pulled it open. In trotted Texas, a little late for his mutually agreed curfew. ‘Purrutt,’ he said in thanks, as he pushed himself into my legs.
When I communicate with cats I know I have to be extra careful, because they often only say what they want you to hear. They sometimes withhold the truth altogether, whereas I find dogs are much more honest and generally say it how it is. They are much more reliable that way.
Texas hasn’t stopped courting women, of any age. The three-year-old Spanish girl next door is absolutely crazy about him. She always stops, points to him through the eye-level gap in my front gate and tells her mother, ‘Meow meow, meow meow,’ as her face lights up and she grins from ear to ear. Texas sits soaking up the admiration – he adores his fans.
WHAT IF YOU begin to receive information directly from an animal? Maybe you suddenly start to hear your own animals at home. Or you receive a wave of emotional joy when you casually ask your friend’s cat what kind of day she’s having. What do you do?
In the books I’d gathered round me like a comforting blanket, I kept reading the word ‘psychic’, and while this had never been mentioned as the method of animal communication in the workshops I’d attended, it was obviously very relevant. I needed to know what ‘being psychic’ and ‘psychic communication’ involved, and in my search I came across the College of Psychic Studies, so I signed up for the Foundation Programme.
The College of Psychic Studies is located in the trendy and expensive borough of Chelsea and Kensington. It is hidden within a cleverly disguised four-storey Georgian building set within a long terrace of private homes, only a couple of gigantic Tyrannosaurus strides away from the Natural History Museum. It was originally founded in 1884 by a small group of people, including some notable scientists and dignitaries of the clergy, who were there primarily to investigate psychic and mediumistic phenomena, a popular subject even back in the Victorian era.
One of the early founders was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a physician who became renowned for his Sherlock Holmes series. In the late 1800s, Sir Arthur joined the Society for Psychical Research (SPR) and carried out experiments with a woman called Mrs Ball. Evidence from these experiments convinced him that telepathy was genuine and he dedicated the next 30 years to further studies and investigations and wrote 14 books on psychic matters, including his most substantial one, The History of Spiritualism.
When I looked at the college brochure, I was drawn to one particular class called ‘Psychic Unfoldment’, led by Avril Price. I’d never heard of her before, but I liked her down-to-earth humour when we spoke over the phone and her class sounded interesting because it covered a huge range of psychic skills, including psychometry, reading auras and mediumship.
I was feeling apprehensive as I walked from the crisp spring air through the dark blue main door and into the building. I tried to look relaxed as I waited for the receptionist to point me in the right direction. Behind me on the walls were large gold-framed oil paintings with the names of respected psychic scholars, scientists and clergy dating back over the last century. I liked the fact that I was walking amongst history – it somehow felt more authentic.
Up until this point I had thought all psychics were like Mystic Meg – gypsy types with a crystal ball – and I felt distrustful of this age-worn image. Even now when I receive small flyers through my letterbox from psychics advertising they can resolve my emotional life or eliminate past-life karma, I throw them straight into the recycling bin.
So when I met Avril, my psychic teacher, I was gobsmacked. Gone was the kooky, mystical fortune-teller with long curling fingernails, gold hoop earrings and crystal ball in tow, and in stepped the Jo Brand equivalent. She was normal and she had that dry, satirical sense of humour on which the English comedienne has made her reputation. I thought she was fabulous!
Over the next eight weeks she led me through the unfolding of my own psychic ability. Crikey! In the beginning I didn’t even know what being ‘grounded’ meant. Though it was a term I’d often heard used at the animal communication workshops, I