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.
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