I once used this photo to communicate with my kitty After learning about intuitive animal communication in Pea Horsley’s book, Heart to Heart, I tried it with my kitty Kringle. I hoped to help him with his matted fur, but our conversations took a different turn with inspiring wisdom, love, and humour. In these communications, I didn’t speak out loud, but sent a thought, image or feeling. I noted down what I sensed that he was sending back to me. Clear words often quickly arose, as if we were having a chat in the English language. I discovered a deep love, a sarcastic sense of humour that had me laughing, and a wise old soul in my cat friend. My first practice was on May 30, 2018. I began by thanking Kringle for being in my life. He was then curled up sleeping. He woke, got up and walked past me to have a long drink at his water bowl. He meowed, then had another long drink and urinated. I shared the thought that I believed that we could communicate with each other, and that he could tell me what he needed. I promised to listen. Now he was in his cat tree, and slowly blinked at me with one eye. I told him he was safe, protected and loved. “I know. You are too,” was the reply I sensed. I teared up. He went on, “This is the most important thing I could tell you.” His eyes closed and opened partway after encouraging me not to doubt in my ability to communicate. I asked if there was anything else he wanted to tell me. “We can have these conversations as you do with departed souls, anytime. You’ll get good at it, comfortable. There’s lots of time. Don’t rush to a goal.” His eyes were half open. I agreed that we wouldn’t rush. The goal would be well-being, love and connection. “There’s much love here.” He looked at me with one shining eye half open, then touched his forehead to the surface of the cat tree. I thanked him for his gift of love, presence and wisdom. I had a new respect for him. His eye moved just out of my view at the conclusion, but was still slightly open when I checked. On June 2, I tried again, but struggled. His advice was to meditate. I did, but sensed that he was not ready to receive communications. On June 4, we covered a lot of ground. I asked about his favourite place to sleep. He meowed at the door to the crawlspace and went in when I opened it. I knew he liked to curl up there on a roll of carpet underlay. I asked why he had mats. “There’s no time to clean. I have too much to do.” What are you busy doing? “Protecting you.” Why do I need protection? “You’re scared. I feel your tension. You’re always ready to pounce.” I suffered from chronic tension since I left a stressful job. My cat was therapeutic to me, although I hadn’t conquered the problem. I asked him whether he liked the repairman who came to the house. “No.” Why is that? “He smells funny. He’s big. He dresses funny.” The man had arrived wearing very short shorts. Does he scare you? “Yes, of course.” Who would you like to help us? “No one.” That’s hard for me. I can’t do it all alone. “Really? You can’t change a light bulb?” I laughed. I could do that much, maybe more. So you want me to call it off? “Yes.” How can I help you with mats? “Don’t.” It’s hard to see you in discomfort. I love you. “I’m okay.” I got some grooming equipment, like the lady who came here. If I use it, you’ll feel better. I’ll be careful. “Really.” Yes, the mats won’t pull on your skin. I can remove them, very gently. “Okay. Please do that. Just you. No one else.” Okay. When can we do this? “Anytime. Now is fine.” Thank you. I love you very much. “I love you too.” You’re amazing. I love that I can talk to you. “Thank you for listening too.” I was anxious when I began grooming Kringle with my new equipment. I took him to the bathroom we used for such treatments. He hated the muzzle and pawed it off. I’d sensed he didn’t like it even before I put it on him, but the mobile groomer we liked, who was unavailable, had used a muzzle successfully. I managed to clip some claws, but he resisted. I accepted that Kringle had changed his mind. After some calming breaths, I reached a comb to his chin and he rubbed against it. When I asked him to come to me, he walked onto my lap, meowing. He had no hearing; my request was nonverbal. He was also not a lap cat, except for two blissful occasions where he rested on my lap for a few hours. I picked him up and tried shaving off a mat, anyway. The mat came off fairly easily, but he wasn’t happy. Respecting his freedom to choose, I stopped grooming and let him leave the room. He was calm right away, enjoying food and using the litterbox. Stressful experiences, even a man at the door, could have him hiding for hours. His quick recovery seemed to affirm that I was on the right track, but I questioned whether I’d understood him correctly, and was too anxious to try again. His advice was spot on. I changed a tricky light bulb myself and cancelled the appointment with the repairman. A neighbour later told me about a kind man who helped with several minor repairs. Not that Kringle was happy to see this man standing briefly in his domain! I let Kringle spend more time in the crawlspace, but I didn’t keep the door permanently open. It was too hard to get him out when I needed to take him to the vet. I was also sad when he spent hours there, curled up in the dark and cold when he could be lying in the sun. June 5 was our next communication. Kringle came up to me after I sat on the floor and told him I loved him. I asked what he wanted to do today. “Go into the crawlspace.” He went to the door. I opened the door, saying mi casa es tu casa (my house is your house). He sat, then moved inside the door. What do you want to eat today? “Salmon.” I’ll get salmon. We’ll both eat some. I sensed his happiness, and thanked him for sharing thus far. “Thank you for listening.” I sent an image of his mats gone, but there was no reply to that. Is there anyone you love? “PJammies.” His brother from a different mother, who lived with him in Vancouver before their abandonment and rescue, PJammies had died earlier. Anyone else? “Susan Lewis. I want her back.” I said I’d call the cat rescue volunteer and thanked him. June 11 was a long chat full of personality. This time I mostly used a photo I printed, a head shot of Kringle gazing at me with both eyes open. I approached him first in person, sending the intention to communicate and sharing my love. He meowed at the crawlspace door, and when I opened it, jumped on the furnace duct and disappeared. After I took out his photograph and went to the kitchen, he reappeared there at his water dish, meowed and drank. When he left, I went back to his photo. I love animals, you especially. I want you to be very happy. “I am happy.” I want to ask you about your mats. “Not again.” I mean helping you to move freely in your skin without impediment, without constant pulling. “Nice try. Can we be more positive?” I think so. I want all your fur to gleam. “Better.” I have a contact for a new groomer. She comes to the house, which saves a trip out. Shall I call her to help us? -- I sensed resistance, fear. I’m nervous too. Last time we discussed this, I said I’d like to help you and got the sense you preferred I do it myself. “No cuts. No touching.” It scared you last time. I was nervous too. “That didn’t help.” So where do we go forward? “Susan Lewis is coming. I like her.” Yes, she’s coming in about two weeks. I want your permission for what we do to help you feel better. That also means the choices. “Susan. She’s my choice.” I’m not entirely sure what she can do. “Give her a chance. She didn’t scare me.” It seems you resist many things. “Many things require that.” Okay, you also accept many things. You like the food you ate for breakfast. You came back from the crawlspace. You sleep with me. Yesterday you nipped my hand. “Didn’t break the skin.” The brown spots are still there. “You saw it coming.” I did. I was trying to see if you’d let me do more. “Stupid.” How do we learn but by making mistakes? “Over and over.” I want you to be happy, to feel safe. I want your fur to gleam all over, for your movements to be free, without impediment or pulling. I want it all now. “Ha ha. Patience.” I’m learning patience. Apparently that’s one thing you’re teaching me. Anything else you want to say? “Keep smiling. Laugh. I’m beautiful as I am. So are you. Even on two legs.” Do you have a friend here? “B.J. Ebony. PJammies.” Spideys? “They’re okay.” Ants? “Seriously? Use your brain.” Do you want to play with me? “I want to rest.” Okay, time to close. Thank you. Love you. “Love you too.” I waited to hear from Susan to schedule her visit, but she didn’t call. The mats were growing. Eventually I called the new groomer, whose aggressive approach had been right to resist. After allowing Kringle to use the crawlspace for months, I ended up closing the door. I thought about Jackson Galaxy’s advice to “block the unders” like the space under the bed. An anxious cat may be helped by more social hiding places. Kringle often rested in his tunnel, on the cat tree, or in a bedroom closet. These locations were convenient when we needed to give him fluid treatments. I never obtained his permission for those treatments, but felt that I’d gone as far as I could with animal communication for the time being. I needed to harness my other resources, like prayer. When I sensed that Kringle was approaching the time to let go of his body, I didn’t take notes of our communications. I told him that he could tell me when it was time, that he didn’t have to suffer. It felt like foreshadowing when Pea Horsley’s orange tabby, Texas, passed away recently. I’d enjoyed seeing Texas commanding the stage in a video interview about Pea’s work, and was saddened to hear of his passing. Pea shared in an emailed newsletter that she’d sensed that Texas was dying. His words to her were, “I’m not dying, I’m growing into Spirit.” There was so much comfort in what Pea shared. She'd asked him what dying was like. Texas offered that it was both beautiful and difficult. It was beautiful, "'seeing' a life without a physical body." It was difficult letting go of those you love, being conflicted in making that choice. I told Kringle not to worry about me. I would be sad, but I’d be okay. I thought that it might happen on Friday, but his eyes were bright and the vet suggested treatment. He rebounded and ate well on his return home, but appeared listless again the next day. We increased his fluids. Kringle and I had some lovely connections each day. Our “I love you” slow blinks at bedtime. My laughter at his bliss with the blankets. Watching him gulp down a big portion of roast turkey. On Wednesday, May 15, when he slowly ate a tiny breakfast and then simply slept, I went to the garden, and said, “It’s time.” Journaling helped me to find my way. I knew I had to be brave to help him release from his pain. I was grateful that our vet was ready to help us, and a friend was available to drive. Arriving home, we were greeted by three wild bunnies. I had never seen more than one in my yard. It made me smile, and felt like a gift from Kringle. I only saw them singly after that. I will always be grateful that I chose to communicate with my beloved, wise, kitty Kringle. The conversation isn’t over. After I wrote this blog post, I didn’t feel catless anymore. - Irene Plett Note: Some names and identifying information have been changed to protect privacy. I haven't trained in animal communication, but learned what little I know by reading and practicing. You may find these how-to books helpful:
My bunny friends who arrived right after Kringle's passing
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