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.
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.
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