I shall get to the stories in a minute.
Believe it or not, I am a little embarrassed to identify myself as an “animal whisperer” because the phrase has taken on suggestions of hocus-pocus, animal magnetism, emanations, spiritualism, telepathy, and such-like. I want nothing to do with such bunkum. I make no claims to possess special powers, to channel some unearthly force, or to converse by beams of brainwaves with friendly aliens. Yet I cannot deny that many of my experiences have involved more than wagging tails, licking tongues, petting, snuggling, head-butting, purring—the ordinary signs of good relationships with pets. They involve something simple but scarce: two-way empathy between me and a dog or a cat as the basis for communing. Staff at the pound noticed it between Miranda and me, and the wrangler noticed it between Sport and me.
I stress the down-to-earthness of animal whispering because I believe that anyone with empathy and any dog or cat with native empathy can commune (some damaged early in life lose it; abuse drives it out or neglect causes it to atrophy). Communing differs from the communications and interactions of routines, command-and-response obedience, and the usual displays of mutual affection or loyalty. When empathy joins with trust, respect, and love, all together make an intimate relationship which enriches the lives of both parties. There is nothing mysterious or “gooey” about being able to “whisper” to dogs and cats; whispering results from the mutuality of these qualities.
Two dog stories of the it-ain’t-braggin’-if-you-done-it variety show what is possible even with animals who are not pets. They involve dogs whom I met only once and show that dogs have and rely on powerful perceptive, intuitive capacities.
In 2005, when I was shopping in a garden nursery in Ashland, OR, I saw a beautiful, slender, Golden Retriever puppy with a woman and her tween-age son. Approaching them, I asked—I always ask—whether I might pet their dog. Given permission, I knelt down for the puppy to come up to me, smell my outstretched hand, wag her tail, and wiggle her body—all the signs of a puppy trying to please. I rubbed her chest, stroked her neck and head, and spoke to her in a low, gentle voice. Then I stood up, thanked them, and moved on.
A bit later, as I was leaving, I again encountered the woman, her son, and the puppy; and again I asked whether I might pet their dog. I did what I had done the first time and the puppy began doing what she had done the first time. Then her behavior changed. She did what dogs do when alarmed by or aggressive toward, or when totally trusting, another: she looked directly into my eyes. I noticed, I looked back into hers, and we maintained eye contact. Then I got it, her message, and, in a soft, low voice, said, “Oh, honey, you’ve been terribly abused.” With those words in that tone, her tail stopped wagging, her body stopped wiggling, and she sank into my arms and lap. I continued caressing and speaking gently to her. I looked up and saw the mother, son, and now the father, who had appeared for the first time, with his eyes wide and mouth agape. I stood up and asked them where and when they had gotten the dog: the pound, a week earlier. I said that, if they wanted this puppy to grow up to be what they wanted her to be, they would not punish her until she trusted them, for, until then, she would not be able to distinguish punishment from abuse, and her behavior would not improve. The wife turned to the husband and said that what I had said sounded good to her; the husband gave her an abashed look. Clearly, he had been trying to discipline this puppy and not getting desired results. I left, with two thoughts: the puppy had a chance, and I would have taken her in a heartbeat.
A more recent episode had Jen, my second ex-wife, as a witness. On a warm, sunny Father’s Day in 2016, we were walking southbound on a path along the shoreline at Blackie’s Pasture, Tiburon, CA. Walking northbound 20 yards off the path was a woman and her Bernese Mountain Dog. We stopped and stood still and silent to admire this beautiful dog, who, seeing me, made a sharp turn and approached me. When she reached me, she butted her head into my groin and made it clear that she wanted me to caress her. I did as she wanted. I knelt; rubbed her neck, shoulders, and head; and spoke softly to her. When I looked up, I saw the woman smiling at us, with a look of surprise on her face. I stood up and noted that she was surprised. She said that Toby did not like strangers and never approached them. I said, “I’m not a stranger, I’m an animal whisperer.” She said, “you must be.”
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