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.
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.
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