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 of a very busy road. Thankfully no cars were coming and I was able to catch up with him and put him back on the lead. He waited a day and then the next morning he did it again. This time cars were travelling at about 40 mph right towards him. I ran out into the road and stood in front of them, frantically waving my arms to get them to stop. They saw me in time and I was able to catch Morgan and walk him to the pavement, my legs shaking with the fear that he could have been knocked down. If he’d wanted to put the frighteners on me, he’d achieved it.
When he did the very same thing for a third time, the penny finally dropped. Rather than employing a dog behaviouralist who would have possibly told me to be more of a pack leader, I did what felt right for me. Instead of telling Morgan off with, ‘What were you thinking? You know you shouldn’t run into the road. You could have got yourself killed!’, I did what I should have done the very first time: ‘Why are you running into the road, Morgan?’
‘To get your attention,’ he replied.
‘Well, now you have it. What’s the matter?’ I said.
‘You didn’t ask me. What’s the point of being able to communicate if you don’t listen to us?’ he said.
I fell silent, lost for words. Is this what he had nearly killed himself for? He was right, though. What’s the point of opening a door if you only shut it again? I needed to acknowledge that this new interaction we had was two-way and mutually beneficial.
‘What didn’t I ask you? What do you want to say?’ I replied.
‘You didn’t ask me what I wanted,’ he stated.
Then it dawned on me – I was packing him off to the dog walker’s home and I hadn’t even asked him whether he was OK with it. I hadn’t involved him in the decision at all. I apologized to him and told him I understood why he was mad. He reminded me we were equals. He gave me a picture of a square, which he divided into four equal parts. Each part was assigned to a member of the family – me, my partner, Texas and Morgan himself. This was how he viewed us – as equals.
Morgan has never got my attention like this again. He hasn’t needed to. I now explain when I’m going away and involve him in every decision that affects him.
