If I Could Talk to the Animals…

Years ago when I first heard about animal communicators, I was at once skeptical and jealous. I wanted to talk to the animals and have them talk to me. I’ve yearned for it for as long as I can remember. What was their secret?

My skepticism didn’t prevent me from actually using an animal communicator once. And I wish I’d used her more. (More on that in another post.) Animal communicators are great pinpointers of pain in pets—both physical and emotional—and can guide vets in treatment when tests fall short.


This week I came across a published conversation between an animal communicator and a dog whose tragic story has gotten a lot of press across the Internet. As much as I’ve wanted the gift of interspecies gab, I may not be up to it. How can you not unravel when you hear/sense a pooch say, “I am broken. I don’t know why”?

Here’s the write-up by Colleen Nicholson (from 22 March 2011):

“I hope to live here,” Patrick says as I talk with him now as I write to you. “I feel better.”

Patrick shares with me the feeling of relief, complete and utter relief. He is very quiet, and does not offer any more than that, so I’ll question him.

I’m asking him if there is anything he needs.

“I have it all,” he replies, as if looking around at his surroundings. “I even have these,” and he shows me his blue buddy that I did see in the picture you sent. “It is soft,” and with this he shows me that it has been the softness around him that is so very much appreciated. It feels as if he is not as sore as when he came in and by this I mean that because he was literally skin and bones, he hurt a lot from laying on hard surfaces. He didn’t have the strength to get up to move, not that there was anything softer to move to if he could.

As he looks at me, he does not give the impression of a smile, rather a weary look but one that has reason to keep looking, keep waiting, to see what I will do or say next.

I’m telling him that I am very sorry that he has come to the state of being he was in before coming here. I’m asking him if he would like to tell us anything about that time but he says No and turns to lay his head down. I respect him not wanting to relive any of that, if even in thought, so I’m asking him now if there is anything he would like the loving people who are caring for him know?

“Yes. I would like them to know that I like meat.

“I don’t know how to get up quickly.

“The tops of my feet are sore, thank you for holding them.

“I have a new nose, I think.” (he seems to mean he can smell things again and I feel like it is the beneficial result of the fluids.

I’m asking him if there is anything else he would like to tell his new people and he says “Yes... I like my name.”

He feels like he may have a problem swallowing and likes the small bits of food he is getting. I can’t tell if he has always had this swallowing issue or not, and he doesn’t indicate if he feels it will improve.

He still is very quiet, answering only when I ask. As if he is watching life as a spectator more than a participant. He seems to only engage when people come around.

He is comforted by the presence of people and doesn’t share any feelings of fear of them with me, in spite of what has happened to him.

“I am broken,” he says suddenly. “I don’t know why.”

I’m telling him that we don’t know either. I’m showing him that the people of his future will always treat him with love and kindness ... that the people caring for him now may not be the ones he stays with forever because they want him to be well and to have new people who he can share joyful times with in a place more comfortable than where he is now.

He seems a little interested in this I think, because I saw a quick question in him mind of surprise... better than now? He can’t imagine it.

He seems to be pulling away now (4:30 p.m.) and I don’t know if someone is with him or he’s tired. It’s not that he is hard to communicate with, that is really the opposite. Rather it seems he is still a bit blank ... a watcher of life instead of a participant ... although I do feel like he has thought of trying to wag his tail. It’s a brief thought and I don’t know if he would have the strength to make it happen, but the thought is there. To me, this is a very good sign of a dog who is anticipating something good ... which has to give him a reason to go on.

You can read Patrick’s whole rescue story and healing progress at Associated Humane Societies and Popcorn Zoo. And even if you think you can’t talk to animals, send him your good wishes anyway. Send him images of the healthy, loved Patrick of his future.

[Drop cap by Jessica Hische.]