Pea Horsley - Heart to Heart

This time I looked into the big eyes of my little friend in amazement and admiration. Not only did he appear to be receiving my telepathic communication, he was also choosing to act on it.

Still not quite believing it, I asked him a third time, ‘Please fly around the parasol one more time for me and I promise you I will never question that animal communication is possible again.’

Quick as a flash, he was off, up into the air and flying anti-clockwise around the parasol then coming in to land on my left hand again. In the silence he looked up at me expectantly, as if he was waiting for my reaction.

‘Incredible! Thank you!’ I said, astonished, full of a new sense of appreciation of flies.

A split-second later he was up, off and out of sight.

‘Bye,’ I said as I watched the fly ambassador leave. It felt as if his job was completed and he’d moved straight on to the next mission.

It took me a while to really let this experience sink in. Here was a common fly who had rested on my hand and instead of flying off had stayed. This tiny insect with his supposedly tiny brain had done something amazing: he’d listened and decided to do what I’d asked him – he’d flown round the parasol a staggering three times. I started to look at insects, especially flies, in a new light and I wondered what else they were capable of.

This experience only happened once. It was a special moment between us. But at this point on my animal communication journey it felt like a blessing to be shown so clearly that even the tiny species are capable of inter-species communication. More significantly for me, the fly ambassador had helped silence my sceptical mind.

Now I have a much more respectful view of flies. If they come into my house, rather than thinking of ways to eliminate them, I just open a door or window and ask them to leave. I’ve found this method works nearly every time.

It was a cold day in February when I became aware I had squatters. Every time I opened the understairs cupboard to retrieve the vacuum or a recycling bag I was struck with l’eau de mus musculus . That would be mouse poop to you and me. The little darlings had left black droppings all over the brown carpet, under the shelving unit and around the recycling box. I would sweep them up, but before long the whole area would be covered in their little presents again.

Straight away it was obvious why they’d decided on this particular hidey-hole: it was where I kept the pet food. And despite the industrial-strength plastic casing, there were tiny mouse-sized holes all along the bottom of the bag. It was freezing outside and probably very difficult to locate enough food. Yet this wasn’t making my life any easier – a family of mice can leave a lot of droppings.

One day my suspicion was confirmed by a sighting. I opened the door and heard movement coming from one of the food bags. Maybe the mouse was so hungry he’d forgotten to listen out for the human giant breaking up his buffet, because suddenly his head popped out from one of the holes in the bag. He looked up at me and froze, no doubt surprised by the vision of my gargantuan head, then he made a hasty retreat and in seconds he was gone. In milliseconds he’d run past the washing products, around the shoe cleaner and down the edge of the shelf unit, and I last saw his tail moving at the speed of light towards the back of the cupboard. It was time to act and sort this out once and for all. I didn’t want to be scooping poop day in and day out. I needed to communicate with the mice.

I thought it could be confusing to try and communicate with all of the mice at once, so I requested that just one come forward and talk to me, the one in charge, the head mouse. I began by sending a feeling of love. Within moments I received a picture of a mouse in my mind’s eye and I could tell from his body language that he wasn’t happy. I tried to begin a conversation with him, but he wasn’t listening. He was livid.

‘I’d like to talk about the food you’re eating,’ I said to him quietly.

He screamed at me, furiously waving his furry arms as he spoke. ‘I’m not going to stop eating! You don’t understand. You humans are all the same – you’re bullies. You don’t care for us. What am I meant to do? It’s cold! I have a family to feed!’

I couldn’t get a word in edgeways.

‘There’s plenty of food. Why not share? Is it asking too much?’ he said, punctuating his words with deep intakes of breath. ‘You 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.