Cat Talk

books.

Introduction

The lights begin to brighten. Television cameras trundle forward focusing on me. The realization dawns that I am no longer a guest, I am the hostess. This is The Pet Psychic, my own television show produced by Animal Planet.

This is not a normal television audience nor will this be a normal TV show. Half of this audience is animals—animals that are as excited as their human companions because they know there is a human present who can speak their language.

While waiting for the show to begin and listening to the hubbub of conversation and the cacophony of excited animal sounds, I reflect on the dramatic changes in my life since my first book, What the Animals Tell Me, was published in the United States, the United Kingdom, Germany, and Japan.

Since then I have been privileged to have had the opportunity of meeting with and talking to animal lovers and their pets from these and other countries throughout the world.

It is a continuing source of wonderment and inspiration to me that, despite the limitations and potential barriers of spoken language in the human world, I am able, using the universal telepathic language, to communicate with animals anywhere.

Equally satisfying has been communicating with their human companions, sometimes with difficulty, but always with humor and understanding.

In bridging the divide between human speech and animals' telepathic language, I hope and believe that I have been able to bring a new perspective and an additional dimension to many human/animal relationships.

Every country has its animal welfare problems, but there is a global commonality of love, concern, and tenderness toward animals that transcends national frontiers and social cultures.

This particular morning, I'm looking forward to meeting a studio full of animals and the humans who care for them. The audience quiets down, and I introduce myself. I say, My name is Sonya Fitzpatrick, and the stage lights blaze on.

During the next hour I talk to a buffalo, a llama, lizards, fish, dogs, rabbits, and, of course, the inevitable cat. And they all talk back. This is just a normal day for me, yet my ability to communicate with animals continues to be a source of joy.

In my work as an animal communicator I encounter a wide variety of species and derive great pleasure and satisfaction whenever I have the chance to address a problem or challenge with a new breed. However, the majority of clients who arrange a consultation with me have animal companions who are either dogs or cats.

While attempting to steer a middle course between lovers of both, I realize there are intrinsic differences between cats and dogs. I have written this particular book in an attempt to do justice to the fascinating complexities that make up the feline character.

Domesticated? Yes! Cats are, up to a point, but still lurking underneath that purring, generally pliable furry creature are marked and occasionally wild and explosive manifestations of its untamed nature.

For the dedicated feline lover, the affair with their cat can be as exciting, frustrating, and tempestuous as any human relationship. It is the observation, understanding, and inevitable compromise in the development of a trusting relationship that brings such satisfaction and long-term enjoyment for both parties.

In this book, I will deal with many examples of the problems that can develop when humans and felines interact and illustrate them from the cat's point of view.

I believe Cat Talk brings a new perspective for humans to consider when they encounter perplexing and sometimes apparently insoluble problems with their feline friends.

Chapter One

Early Years

I was born in 1940—when a new Ford car cost about five hundred dollars, the first nylon stockings went on sale in the United States, and the letter V (for Victory) began appearing on walls in German-occupied Belgium. My parents, Cora and Russell Smith, owned the grocery shop in an English country village, Hartwell, in Northamptonshire. My two sisters, Dawn and Coral, my brother, Gordon, and I lived among many furry and feathered friends.

I could speak to animals. I thought everyone could. It never occurred to me that I was different.

When I was eleven years old, I was diagnosed with an acute hearing problem. Perhaps that's why, as a child imprisoned in my silent world, I awakened each morning hearing and feeling the animals' language. They were my companions and teachers. I was one of them and I understood their ways. I lived more in their world than in the human one at times, and was actually considered backward by some in those days before deafness and dyslexia were properly understood. It says much about my family's love and tolerance that I didn't even know I was deaf until much later in life, by which time I had become an expert lip-reader and unconsciously honed all my other senses in a way that, I'm convinced, helped me to communicate with animals. I loved their world more than mine, and I still do. I came to see my hearing problem as something of a gift, as it had heightened those other senses. My daughter Emma inherited the hearing trouble but by the time she was at Millfield School, things were much better understood and she was never made to feel disadvantaged.

Though my early life was shared with remarkable animals, the Midlands village where I grew up was also full of colorful humans. Some were a source of inspiration and joy to me. They made up the fabric of village life and they too adored their animals.

Grandmother Robishaw

My grandmother Emmaline Robishaw and my grandfather Frederick Smith, on my father's side, both lived close by.

I adored my grandmother. She helped me to better communicate with humans, despite my hearing loss, by teaching me to lip-read. As a young woman she had worked in the cotton mills of Lancashire where noisy machines made normal speech impossible and lip-reading had been the only way to communicate. The ability to lip-read helped me to feel connected to the human world. It's a skill I still use today.

A petite woman with high cheekbones, Grandmother Robishaw pulled her silver hair back in a chignon and always wore tailored clothes. She insisted on quality classics and complemented them by wearing a pearl necklace and earrings and a gold cameo brooch.

Grandmother shared her home with a dog named Lord Mountbatten and a superior, extremely independent feline called Gracie, named after the English singer Gracie Fields. Grade had a pretty tabby face and liked to be tickled under her chin but could be aloof at times. She was a good judge of character and a wise animal who did not stray from Grandmother Robishaw's cottage garden.

I often stayed overnight at Grandmother's home where I had my own small bedroom with dark oak beams, white lace-trimmed curtains, and a bed with linen pillowcases trimmed with matching lace. The bed cover was hand-crocheted. The small bed was warmed with a stone bottle filled with hot water that nestled between the covers and was moved down the bed to warm my feet before I went to sleep.

Grandmother loved nature and animals. She taught me to respect and honor all creatures no matter how insignificant—ants, frogs, bees—as they all had their place in God's universe. She explained how animals, plants, and all living things work together in the fascinating pattern of nature. Grandmother nurtured my love of the animal kingdom and my ability to communicate there. She acknowledged my gift by making sure I had every opportunity to observe wild creatures in their natural habitats.

We spent hours together in Salcey Forest observing nature and the animal kingdom. The forest is part of the great woodland that once stretched through the center of England and was linked to Sherwood Forest, home of the legendary outlaw Robin Hood. It abounded in animal life—deer, wild boar, rabbits, even a colony of feral cats that had taken over a derelict gamekeeper's cottage.

Gracie sometimes asked me about the wild cat Smudge who lived in Grandmother's washhouse. Smudge was usually sad as he had mange. Extremely wild, he'd hiss as people approached him. Still, he liked the name Smudge, which I'd given him. When I used it I could see a softening in his eyes.

Smudge said he felt a sense of belonging with my grandmother and me. He was quite old for a feral cat; they seldom live as long as domestic cats. My grandmother fed him, adding honey to his water and cod-liver oil to his food, believing they would help his skin.

Sugar and Spice were two other feline residents of Grandmother's barn and washhouse. Spice, a male cat, was always fighting. Then there were Pepper and Giant, both young black cats. Their mother, Minny, watched over them. Sometimes they would balance on our rain butt to drink from it, and stop lapping to observe the tadpoles I'd put there.

I thought it great fun to bring back frog's spawn from the village pond. I loved watching each tadpole grow until it was perfectly formed, swimming and separating from the jelly. At times as many as twenty tadpoles emerged from one mass of spawn into their new home in my grandmother's water-butt.

Grandfather and Lord Kitchener

Some days I would visit Grandfather Smith on the way home from school. He was a handsome man, six feet tall, and had a long moustache with the ends stiffened with wax and curled under.

He always wore plus fours, baggy britches rather like jodhpurs. His socks turned over at the top where they met the plus fours and were finished with a knitted pattern around the edge. His jacket always matched his trousers, and was either a brown check or a Donegal tweed. Brown leather Oxford shoes completed his ensemble.

Under his jacket he wore a starched white shirt with a stiff collar. He changed the collar each day as he had bought ten thousand detachable collars at auction and loved the idea of throwing one away when he was finished with it. He was quite proud of the collar purchase. He'd bought the lot at the bargain price of five pounds, three shillings and sixpence.

Grandfather Smith was always happy to see me and often had a list of shopping for me to do. He lived with his cat, Lord Kitchener, an independent and not overly friendly animal.

Lord Kitchener was handsome and knew it. He frequently told me how handsome he was and that he liked his coloring; grey with large china-blue eyes. He would strut toward me and look up, waiting for me to scratch his head. He often listened in on the conversations I had with the village feral cats. He had a soft spot for wild cats since he had been feral as a kitten.

In fact, my grandfather found him in an outbuilding when he was only a few weeks old, nestled up to his dead mother, crying. Grandfather said his mother had been killed by rat poison.

I understand your love of animals, Grandfather told me. Lord Kitchener strikes something very deep within me and this little animal has changed my whole life. You, Sunny, he would say, were born with these feelings toward the animal kingdom and that is a gift in itself. Apart from his horse, Lord Kitchener was the only animal my grandfather ever owned.

Grandfather was quite absentminded and Lord Kitchener was his minder. When Grandfather misplaced anything, he would ask his trusted friend to find it. The cat would rub against his leg and walk toward the object, glancing back to make sure Grandfather was following. Often the lost item was among the clutter on top of one of three grand pianos Grandfather had in his cottage. Lord Kitchener knew which one and would jump up onto the keyboard, prancing along, pushing down the keys with his paws, playing a tune.

What a clever chap you are to find that for me. What would I do without you? Grandfather would say, giving the cat's head a rub. He marveled at the cat's ability to find things as well as being amused by his musical skills. The precocious creature would jump on the piano and play for pleasure when there were guests present.

My grandfather was an accomplished musician. During hot summer days the cottage door was left open and village people liked to stop and listen to Grandfather playing the piano.

There was a certain lady who stopped by more often than other people as she had her heart set on marrying Grandfather Smith. She tried to woo him with her scones, steak and kidney pies, and cakes, much to Lord Kitchener's disgust. She'd arrive at Grandfather's door, all flushed and flustered, bearing gifts.

I made you a lovely cake, Mr. Smith, she'd say as he invited her into the cottage. Then, lowering her rather large posterior down in the rocking chair by the range, she would flash her eyes at him, but all to no avail. The lady frequently asked Grandfather Smith if he ever thought of marrying again, and insinuated that he needed a good woman to take care of him and his home. He'd reply with raised brows and a smile, twisting his moustache with his fingers, Who would want me?

You would be surprised, Mr. Smith. Maybe it's someone who's sitting in your rocking chair right now.

At that, Lord Kitchener, with an expression of annoyance, would jump up on the piano and play loudly, running over the keyboard as fast as he could, pounding on the keys.

Can't hear myself speak. What was that you were saying, Mrs. Morgan? I can't hear you, Grandfather would murmur.

She'd soon leave, as she couldn't compete with the noise coming from the piano. When she was well outside the cottage, the cat would jump down from the piano with a look of triumph on his face. After a tickle under the chin and a conspiratorial wink, Grandfather could be heard to say, Well done, Lord Kitchener, well done.

Lord Kitchener told me he had been with my grandfather in other lives before he came into this life in his cat body. He was psychic, as many cats are, and could see into the future. One day he told me Bessie, the old lady who lived next door, was going to die soon.

Animals learn to judge time by our routines. They know night and day by darkness and light and morning and evening by darkness turning to light or light turning to dark. I asked Lord Kitchener if Bessie would die during the night. He told me she would die during the day. He sent me a mental picture of her lying down in the yard.

Bessie was an active lady. She liked to garden even though she was in her seventies and she still used well water to drink and water her plants. Lord Kitchener told me she would die near the well. I immediately informed my grandfather and two days later he found poor old Bessie dead by the well just before lunchtime. I was sent to get Aunt Rene, the village undertaker.

On the way to her cottage, I heard several village people say how lucky Bessie was to die so quickly with her shoes on and that the poor old spinster would go to Heaven unopened. I asked Lord Kitchener if he knew what that meant. He was as bemused as I.

Aunt Rene

Aunt Rene worked as a part-time assistant in my father's store. It was her second job that bewildered me until I got a little older and realized what the undertaker did.

Whenever she received a message at my father's shop, she would pull on her coat and run out. When that happened, we knew someone in the village had just died. Since they were already dead, I once asked her why she had to run so fast. She favored me with a stern look from her piercing brown eyes and replied, This is a very serious business I need to tend to. Her chest puffed out as she explained that she had to get to the body while the body was still warm.

If she did not arrive soon enough, the body got cold and stiff. If the person had been, for example, sitting up in a chair when he died, Aunt Rene said the body would set like cement in the sitting position. But if she arrived within an hour of the person dying, the body was still warm and she could, with help, transfer the body onto a bed where it was easy for her to straighten out the arms and legs and ready the body for the coffin.

She added that after she washed the body, she would then stuff it. I did not realize it was just the orifices she stuffed because, when her beloved cat Tiger died, she had his whole body stuffed and put in a glass case.

I enjoyed visiting Aunt Rene and she must have liked me too, as she often invited me to tea. A spinster, she lived alone in a pretty cottage at the top of the village. The cottage had a kitchen to the rear, a sitting room at the front and an oak staircase that led up from the sitting room to her tiny bedroom where sat the glass case containing the stuffed remains of Tiger.

I enjoyed Aunt Rene's scrumptious teas. Her scones melted in my mouth, as did her delicious homemade blackberry jam. At teatime a white tablecloth with a design of cats around the edge embroidered by Aunt Rene covered the table. The matching white napkins had one big cat embroidered in the middle. The table was set with her best blue and white willow-patterned Spode china.

Aunt Rene always brought the case with Tiger's stuffed remains down from the bedroom and placed him in the middle of the table when we took tea together. She said she liked him to join us. It seemed strange to have the case there since I could still see Tiger's spirit form sitting in his old armchair. Tiger would comment to me how he had liked his physical body but that he was pleased to have left it behind since now he no longer had any pain. I would tell Aunt Rene what he was saying to me. Her kind face would soften and she would laugh and say, Sunny, you are an inspiration and how I love your imagination.

After a saucer filled with milk, sugar, and tea had been placed by Tiger's glass case, Aunt Rene would say, There you are, Tiger, here's your tea. Once she told me she did that because when Tiger had lived in his physical body, he had been partial to a saucer of tea each afternoon. She said he'd sit on the table waiting for her and always drink his tea with her.

As we talked, we'd include Tiger in our conversation.

He's much prettier than any flowers you can put on the table, Aunt Rene often commented, gazing lovingly at Tiger's glass case.

When she was doing her housework, Aunt Rene took Tiger around the house with her. If she was doing the washing up, he and his glass case would sit at the sink. If she was baking, he would sit on the table. And each night when she went to bed, she took him upstairs with her. She shared all the activities of her daily routine with Tiger, just as she had done when he was alive, so sharing afternoon tea with him was a normal occurrence. Whenever any of her friends visited her for afternoon tea, Tiger always joined in.

I once asked her why everyone in the village called her aunt Rene. How can you be everyone's aunt?

She stared at me for a moment as though choosing her words carefully. To be perfectly honest and frank, my duck, everyone thinks of me that way because I lay out people's relatives when they are dead. When you have to lay out and wash a family's naked bodies, people get very close to you. So they think of me as an aunt.

After we finished tea and it was time for me to go, I'd thank Aunt Rene for inviting me and waved goodbye to Tiger. My animal retinue, consisting of my geese Daisy, Buttercup, and Primrose, and my dog, Silky, was often waiting for me in her front garden. Sometimes the geese would have eaten some of her flowers and I'd apologize to Aunt Rene. That's okay, my duck. Hope they enjoyed them, she'd say.

As my feathery and furry friends and I made our way down the village street, the geese or Silky would sometimes comment on the unusual things humans did. For instance, stuffing animals made no sense to them. They asked if I would be stuffing them when their time came to leave.

I told them when the time came for them to visit me in their spiritual bodies I would be able to communicate with them, just as I was doing now. I did not think it was necessary to have them stuffed. They informed me they would prefer not to be stuffed and were happy that I would be able to talk to them as I did with Tiger.

Father

Thursday and Friday were the busiest days of the week in my dad's shop. As many as ten or twelve villagers at a time crammed