Pea Horsley - Heart to Heart

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. For a moment I thought, He’s going to have to go back. This isn’t going to work . Later, when I knew Morgan better, I realized he was just being affectionate. He hadn’t bit me, he’d just given me a friendly nibble. To this day Morgan has remembered that moment and occasionally, when he spontaneously goes to give my nose a nibble, he’ll suddenly stop himself and lower his head in shame. I still feel bad about this and say sorry for the way I reacted to him.

In those early days Morgan would lie in his bed and I would sit on the floor next to him giving him a gentle stroke. I didn’t know him and he didn’t know me, yet intuitively this felt the right thing to do. I wanted to comfort him. I had a hunch that he was sad but I put this down to the obvious reasons: he was in a strange place, with people he didn’t know, and he had no idea whether he was staying or whether this was just another temporary arrangement and he’d soon be carted off somewhere else.

But after the initial settling-in period rescued animals need, I became aware that Morgan’s sadness was not going away. He looked miserable lying in his brand-new luxury fleece bed and when we were out walking he’d bark obsessively at old men with walking sticks, whether they were near or far. I thought maybe I was doing something wrong. I knew cats, but I wasn’t an experienced dog owner. Or dog guardian, as I prefer to be called now.

When the Mayhew Animal Home e-mailed to say they were holding an animal communication workshop which would help me to get to know my animal even better , I knew I had to go along. I can’t really explain logically why I went; it was just a gut feeling. I had to go, even though I hadn’t looked into other ways of helping Morgan – I hadn’t called in a behaviourist and I would never have considered an animal healer in those days. I just didn’t think of or follow any other options.

So that is what brought me across a cold blue London, in the autumn of 2004, to sit in an uncomfortable plastic chair listening to Doctor Doolittle stories. When I imagined everyone else was having lazy Sunday lie-ins and croissants and getting their fix of The Archers .

Twenty people, mostly women, were sitting round in a large circle, with the teacher at the front of the room. He began to tell us how he’d found he could talk to animals. He said he’d realized he’d had this amazing magical power since he was a child, and as a teenager he’d often speak to horses and have conversations with them. What have I got myself into? I thought. He can talk to animals? No, that’s not right: no one can talk to animals, except Doctor Doolittle of course . Then he shared an emotional story of how his miraculous gift had helped a distraught animal and it wasn’t long before 19 people were crying.

And then there was me. Forgive me if I’m wrong, but isn’t this man telling us he actually speaks to animals, and, er, hears what they say back to him? It took all my will-power to stop myself from walking out. I was astonished, soaked head to foot in disbelief, yet everyone else seemed taken in. They must have been bewitched when they came in. Was I the only one who didn’t believe this con man?

By the time we’d reached lunchtime I was hungry and grumpy. I was even more sceptical than when I’d walked in at nine o’clock. The morning had been dominated by animal stories and a couple of ‘getting in touch with your senses’ exercises, but we hadn’t even glimpsed a cat or a dog, let alone talked to one.

During lunch, I made a beeline for the teacher. ‘We’ve got an awful lot to cover if we’re going to be speaking with animals this afternoon,’ I said.

He just smiled and carried on eating his vegetarian scotch egg.

Shortly after lunch I was pleased to see my words had had some effect. We were put into pairs and told to swap the photos that we’d brought of our animals at home. So my partner had a photo of my cat, Texas, and I had a photo of her … well, I didn’t know what. I was given the photo face down and told to guess what animal was in the picture.

How the heck am I supposed to know? I felt foolish and awkward. As much as I didn’t believe in all this hocus-pocus, I didn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of such a large group of strangers, and because my childhood passion had always been animals, there was a part of me that was curious to try it for myself. All my inner demons flew out of my mind and began stabbing me with their spears. What if I’m the only one here who can’t do this? I’ll make an idiot of myself. I don’t want to get it wrong. It’s not real . I took a deep breath and fought my demons: I’ve got nothing to lose. I’ve paid my money now. I’m here, so I might as well give it a go. What if he really can talk to animals? I want to do that too! And I’m probably never going to see these people again anyway .

I looked at the white back of the photo and scribbled a word on my notepad. It was the first word that came into my mind – I just heard it, almost as though it had been whispered in my ear: ‘Rabbit.’

When I turned the photo over, I found myself staring into the soft shiny eyes of a deep rich sepia-coloured rabbit. Lucky guess. It was hardly likely to be a giraffe . The demons had returned, spears at the ready.