Pea Horsley - Heart to Heart

I’d learned on the workshop that one way to resolve emotional upset between people and animals, and even animals and animals, was to invite them into the same space. I began by imagining a bright safe space with a wooden door, and while I looked into Morgan’s eyes, I invited the spirit of the old lady to enter and take a seat in the high-backed chair I’d created for her.

Once she’d settled, I invited Morgan to enter the space. He walked in, body tense, refusing to look at the old lady, keeping his eyes permanently fixed to the floor. ‘Physical Morgan’ still lay in bed, but ‘energetic Morgan’ came into the safe space. The feelings of guilt and remorse were palatable.

I invited the lady to take over. She turned to face Morgan and told him how much she loved him. This caused him to sink even lower into the floor, as if he wanted the earth to open and swallow him up.

‘He couldn’t take care of himself anymore,’ the lady said to his back. ‘He needed a very special home. He wasn’t able to take you with him, that’s why you were parted.’

Tears started to trickle down my cheeks as I was feeling what Morgan was feeling. He was listening transfixed to what she was saying and had begun to cry.

‘It’s not your fault. You did nothing wrong,’ she said.

For the first time, Morgan turned round and looked up at her, a pleading look in his eyes.

She continued, ‘No, love. You didn’t let me down. You did your job brilliantly and I am very proud of you.’

I burst into tears as I felt a huge wave of emotional relief sweep over Morgan. I cried and cried as he let go of the burden he’d been carrying with him.

But the old lady didn’t stop there. ‘I want you to move on now,’ she said. ‘You kept your promise; you looked after him so well. Now you’re with a new family and I want you to look after them. This is your new job: to be with this family.’

In the safe place I’d created, Morgan began to prance joyously around, his mouth smiling wide open. It was as though a weight of responsibility had been removed from his shoulders.

I thanked the lady, then I thanked Morgan for being brave enough to enter in the first place and finally I dissolved the picture and brought my awareness back to the room.

Once I was calmer, I looked into the eyes of my beautiful dog lying in his bed in front of me and said to him, ‘I want you to live with my family now. We want you to be with us and I promise you we will love you, maybe not in the same way as your previous family, but we’ll do our best to love you just as much.’

He visibly relaxed and I thought his eyes began to sparkle.

What was more remarkable was Texas’ behaviour. The very same day, he stopped running away from Morgan. When I asked him why he didn’t appear to be scared of him anymore, he replied simply, ‘He’s decided he’s staying.’ Texas now viewed him as part of the family rather than an outsider. Even my friends could see a difference in Morgan and the way Texas now accepted him.

FROM THAT DAY on I spent every waking moment reading up on the subject of animal communication and badgered my friends to let me practise with their animals, or their friends’ animals, or their neighbours’ animals. I also joined animal-related web forums.

Soon word got out that I was willing to offer a free communication to anyone who wanted one and all they needed to do in return was verify the details I gave them, so I could see how I was progressing and learn from my successes and failures. I was always honest and upfront, explaining that I was still a student and that I might not always get it right. I asked the recipient to take responsibility for the communication and whether they chose to ignore it or take notice of it was up to them. If there was anything medically wrong with their animal I always asked them to seek the advice of a trusted veterinarian.

On Saturday 4 December 2004, I recorded my first practice case study in a large orange hardback notebook. To begin with, I was attempting it without a photo of the animal. All I knew was that the animal was a cat who shared his or her life with a woman called Chloë, who was the casting agent of a friend of mine. I didn’t even have the cat’s name.

I decided to gather some impressions, details that Chloë could verify. I sat in my favourite comfy chair and tried to tune into the cat. I imagined I was connecting with him or her by silently asking ‘the cat of Chloë’ to come forward and show him or herself. Then I saw a quick picture in my mind – the image of a deep rich brown cat. I sensed the general character of this cat and wrote down a few words: ‘gentle’, ‘loving’, ‘weary’, ‘tired’, ‘needs rest’. I asked what he or she was called and heard ‘Molly’, ‘Polly’ and ‘Dolly’.

A few days later Chloë sent me a photo and I found myself looking into the eyes of a deep rich brown cat. I gave myself a tick in my notebook for getting that right. Chloë still hadn’t included a name, so I persevered without one.

‘Please tell me what you’re called,’ I said, as I held the cat’s photo in my hands.

‘Frank. Frankie,’ came a deep male voice inside my head.

‘Is that right? You’re called Frankie?’ My impression had been that this cat was female.

‘No, but I’d prefer this name, I’d rather be called Frank or Frankie. I need more street-cred. But it’s too late now,’ came the deep booming voice.

I’d begun to get a better sense of his character and wrote down a few more words to describe him: ‘bright’, intelligent’, ‘relaxed’, ‘solid’, ‘Other cats leave him alone’, ‘He has quite a presence’, ‘A bit of a gangster, wouldn’t mess with him, but it’s all front’, ‘He has a big heart and adores his mum.’

From his comments it appeared that this puss wasn’t under house arrest and liked to patrol his neighbourhood. ‘How do you leave your garden?’ I asked him. ‘Which direction do you like to head in?’

Suddenly I saw an image of a brick wall on the left of a tiny-looking garden and a ladder – a wooden cat-width ladder, with rungs cat-stride deep, at an easy-to-climb 45-degree angle.

‘She’s made a hole and given me steps,’ said the male voice. ‘I can’t jump that high anymore.’

At the weekend I caught up with Chloë on the phone to check what her cat was called before I continued communicating using her questions. ‘He’s called Sammy,’ she told me.

‘Molly’, ‘Polly’, ‘Dolly’ and ‘Frankie’ had a vaguely similar sound to Sammy, but I knew there was room for improvement, and quite clearly I’d mistaken him as female.

‘Chloë, have you made a hole in the brick wall on the left side of your back garden?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I have … How did you know that?’ she said, astonished.

‘And did you also put a wooden cat-ladder there?’ I continued.

There was a gasp and a moment’s silence on the other end of the phone, then Chloë said, ‘That’s remarkable, Pea. Did Sammy tell you that? How could you have known that? I had to give him a ladder, he was finding it harder to make the jump and he loves to explore.’

I was flabbergasted too. As much as I’d hoped it was true, because it seemed way too quirky for me to invent, the negativity inside me had said, No you’re just making it up, you’ve got a fanciful imagination, cats don’t need ladders to exit their gardens. For goodness sake, he’s a cat!

A week later I was sitting in Chloë’s living room delivering the rest of Sammy’s communication as he sat next to me on the sofa. ‘He never does that with people he’s not met before,’ she said. ‘It’s as if he knows you.’