to tell me we could talk to animals!
At the time I was working as company stage manager at the Comedy Theatre in London’s West End on a play called The Old Masters directed by Harold Pinter. Working for 15 years in the theatre, sourcing props, calculating wages, organizing schedules, running dress rehearsals, looking after the company and making sure everything went smoothly, especially on press night, I considered myself a practical and sensible person, not airy-fairy like. Yet here I was sitting listening to Doctor Doolittle-type stories.
So how did I get here? Let me take you back to where it all started and I’ll explain. In the very beginning my journey began with cats.
All my life I have been a huge cat fanatic. As a young child I grew up with a cat called Pixie, a no-nonsense minute dynamo. Her beautiful swirls of caramel, coffee and chocolate fooled the unwary to believing she was gooey and soft, but in reality she was more Joanna Lumley in spurs. Her original owners, our neighbours, often left her alone whilst they went on holiday without arranging for her meals and care, and Pixie checked out my family while they were away and decided to adopt us. I remember my parents and the neighbours having a bit of a heated argument about it until finally my dad said, ‘Pixie should be allowed to make up her own mind where she wants to live.’ And she did. She immediately packed her bags and moved in with us. Not long after, her old family moved away. They didn’t even come by to say goodbye to her.
Pixie’s favourite sunbathing spot became the bed my mum made out of an old veggie box and some soft towels, positioned on the top shelf in the greenhouse. Years later, just before we buried her in our garden, my mum cut off a small piece of her fur, which I sellotaped into my ‘Favourite Things’ notebook, along with one of her whiskers. I was upset, but not distraught. Through her independent spirit and her fierce protection of her personal space, Pixie helped me to learn these qualities, and also, I feel, subconsciously, she taught me that we all have the right to be cared for and loved.
Then Winston, my second cat, entered my teenage life and promptly took it over. The first night he arrived home he draped his large butterscotch body over my lap and we fell madly and deeply in love. I was about 13 at the time and he was my first boyfriend. He was adopted from a rescue centre in Warwickshire, but he didn’t carry the marks of a mistreated cat, he was a laid-back kinda guy who gave off an air of Italian Romeo entwined with Mafia boss. I saw him a bit like a lion who was very comfortable in his own skin.
The hardest part about leaving home to attend Bristol Old Vic Theatre School was leaving Winston behind. He always knew when I was upset and would find me to offer affection and just be with me during my sadness. He’d also meet me from school, having an uncanny ability to know when to sit and wait for me at the top of the road. We developed a friendship where he was my comforter, my rock, and we grew so close, we had an unspoken understanding of one another, like an inner knowing.
As often as I could, I went home especially to see him and I thought about him all the time. When he began to lose weight and became sick, those trips back home were heartbreaking, for I never knew whether I would see him again. Then one day I received a call and my parents told me it was time to put him to sleep. Once I’d put the phone down I cried out loud in agonizing pain. It felt as if my stomach was being ripped out. When Winston passed over I was utterly heartbroken and it took a long time for the pain to subside. I was 29 before I was in a position to welcome a new cat into my life.
I never thought for a minute another cat would be able to touch my heart like Winston, but at that time I hadn’t met Texas. He captured my heart the moment he bolted out of his wired-fronted cage at London’s Battersea Dogs’ and Cats’ Home and rubbed his tiny six-month body slam-dunk against my legs. He was a miniature tiger with mellow gold, ginger and cream stripes, a soft pink nose, yellow-green eyes and gleaming ivory-white whiskers. He was stunning, really friendly and the sexiest cat I’d ever met – it was a done deal.
I now feel these cats were grooming me, teaching me and preparing me all my life for the moment when I would consciously realize humans and animals could communicate with one another using an intuitive language. But, to my surprise, it took a dog to make me understand inter-species communication was possible and that I could learn to talk to animals.
It all began for me when I adopted my first dog from the Mayhew Animal Home: an eight-year old scruffy mutt of questionable beagle heritage whom I named Morgan.
Morgan looks like an older version of one of the best-known trademarks in the world, ‘His Master’s Voice’ – a terrier with a cocked head listening intently to his master’s voice coming from a gramophone horn. He has a broken coat of both rough and smooth grungy white hair with velvet soft beagle chestnut ears that invite you to stroke them and a smooth chestnut facemask streaked with a terrier flash up between his eyes. His almond-shaped eyes with heavy black eyeliner, black playdough nose and thick black lips give him an almost clown-like appearance. Underneath his tummy hair he has Parson Russell terrier brown splodges and he has a thick mane of hair over his shoulders.
He was lying on the floor of the admin. offices when I first met him, cushioned by a thick duvet. I knelt down and he welcomed me by rolling onto his back and lifting up his paw, inviting me to stroke his chest. My partner Jo and I jointly decided he was ‘the one’ because he had such a gentle face. When I looked at him there was also another quality I couldn’t put my finger on, which seemed to melt my heart, making me feel safe to be in his company. Initially we were looking for a female springer spaniel, but when we spotted Morgan we fell in love with his face and felt it would be easier for an older dog to fit in with our work commitments and for us to meet his needs.
The truth is I was concerned about getting a dog. It was Jo’s idea, not mine. I was madly and deeply in love with Texas and concerned he’d be scared or angry if we brought another animal into the home. Texas liked being the centre of attention and my biggest fear was that he’d rehome himself. I also had a childhood fear. When I was a young girl, around nine or ten, I was chased off a farm by a pack of Jack Russells. I was terrified as they barked and ran after me, biting down on my ankles. This fear was multiplied when someone’s stocky Labrador was let off the lead and came charging over to me, barking aggressively.
This fear of dogs made it impossible for me to walk anywhere that dogs were free to roam. Where I lived in Stratford-on-Avon there was a short cut into town down a disused tramline. It was right next to the ‘rec’ and some people would walk their dogs along there. If I saw a dog coming towards me off the lead, fear would rise from my belly, my chest would feel as if it was caving in, making it hard to breathe, and tears would try to spring from my eyes. Of course, the dogs would sense my fear and that would make the whole situation worse because then they’d start to bark at me or raise their hackles and growl. I’d have no choice: I’d have to return the way I’d come then go the long route, my legs weak and quivering. Inviting a dog into the safety of my home was quite a large step for me.
Morgan arrived and the ceiling didn’t fall in. Though Texas was not impressed by our new choice of companion and ran away whenever he came close. And in the first few days of getting to know Morgan, he bit my nose. Well, that’s what I thought, and I burst into tears as the moment triggered all the years I had held on to my fear of dogs attacking me. It was a shock having a dog’s face and teeth right in my face.
