Talking to Animals

by Jon Katz

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  Contents

  Introduction

  1 Talking to Lucky

  2 Visualization: Picturing the Future

  3 Orson and the Rings of Fire

  4 Elvis

  5 Rose’s Message

  6 The Great Collapse

  7 Flo and Minnie: The Barn Cats

  8 Saving the Animals

  9 Joshua Rockwood

  10 “Good Morning, Equines”

  11 Fate

  Epilogue: What They Told Me, What They Taught Me

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To Maria and the Animals

  Introduction

  I was walking on a path in the deep woods by the big old Civil War–era farm I had impulsively purchased a few months before. It was just after dusk, and the light was fading. Enchanted by the dark, soft feel of the forest, I entered a beautiful and alien world. I was so glad to be there, and even happier that my new dog, Rose, was coming with me.

  Rose was a young border collie who had just come to me from Texas. I had great hopes for her as my farm dog. In just a few days, Rose had grasped the concept of taking a walk. When I left the house, she ran eagerly alongside me and stayed close, as great working dogs will instinctively do.

  One day, we were out walking, enjoying our time together, when suddenly the atmosphere on the path changed, grew tense. Something was happening, something I could sense but not readily see or hear in the gathering darkness. Rose had stopped. A busy, curious, fast-moving dog, she was frozen in place. She had gone into a crouch, but it was not a herding crouch, which is low and tense and close to the ground. Her hair was standing up on her neck; so, I realized, was mine.

  Rose had moved directly in front of me, as if to protect me. I didn’t understand what was going on until I looked beyond and saw three pairs of gleaming yellow eyes, staring right at us, a hundred feet straight ahead.

  Three coyotes, right there on the path, as if they were expecting us. I was not prepared for such an encounter. I had never seen a coyote, but I’d been told that coyotes avoided humans, and never confronted them. I expected them to run at the sight of this big man and his dog. They did not. They looked calm, curious, determined. So did Rose. The dog and the coyotes mirrored one another, their postures almost identical.

  My biggest fear was that Rose would charge ahead, choose to fight, and try to fend the coyotes off as if they were sheep. I had already seen how protective Rose was of me. Once, when a ram charged me from behind (they do that sometimes, since they are full of testosterone) and knocked me into a fence post, this little dog had dug a hole under the fence that was penning her in, charged up the hill, grabbed on to the ram’s testicles, and run the poor screaming creature down the hill.

  Rose did not back down from anything.

  I had no idea what to do. I thought of breaking off a branch or picking up a stick, but worried that any movement might set off an attack. Rose stepped forward a few feet. I told her to “stay” in a loud, clear voice. It was a request, not a command. The forest had gone deathly quiet.

  Instinctively, I froze and decided to be patient and still. I took a deep breath, cleared my head. I knew not to turn and run, but I was not sure I could control this young and strong-willed dog. I was still just a city boy, and I was not prepared for this.

  Then, a curious thing happened.

  I closed my eyes and cleared my head. Forget everything you have known or thought about the woods, dogs, coyotes, fear, I told myself. Take a deep breath, think strength, feel strong. I had no commands to give Rose, no words, but I had images and I painted a sketch in my head of what I wanted to happen, what I was sure would happen. Project confidence, I told myself. Be sure, be clear. I imagined Rose still, ears up, tail up, back straight. Border collies know how to stare. I had already seen her intimidate sheep. Stare. Don’t scream at her, I told myself. Don’t shout words she doesn’t comprehend, spew commands she doesn’t know.

  In my head, there was this scene: Rose staying absolutely still, meeting the coyotes’ gaze, showing strength, but not aggressiveness. She would not run, she would not fight. She would communicate that it was her path, her human. That she had a right to be there and would stand her ground. The coyotes, clever opportunists, could go find some easier and safer target for their food.

  Right then, she did exactly what I imagined her doing. She stood her ground, held her gaze and posture. She looked absolutely confident and resolute, as if this were her path and there was no way she was giving ground. She could have done a hundred things—run, barked, fought, growled—but she did precisely what I wished her to do.

  Another set of images came into my head as we stood there. These came from Rose’s point of view, from low down on the ground, level with the eyes of the coyotes. The images I was seeing in my head were curious, disorienting, not really aggressive. I painted a mental picture of what I wanted to happen. I used all of my senses to imagine it. I cleared my head of everything but the present. I imagined stillness, calm. I thought of strength, determination, absolute confidence. I thought this again and again, until it became a feeling, and I sent it to Rose: We are okay, we are leaving, we are going home. I pictured the path clear, the coyotes gone.

  Rose growled, then whined, but she did not move. She looked absolutely peaceful and confident, not so much aggressive as at home, in command. She was barely breathing, still as a stone.

  Still, the yellow eyes seemed to shine all the more brightly, the coyotes all the more fearsome. Despite my attempts to radiate calm, I was soaked with sweat, terrified of what might happen if Rose bolted and ran ahead, as she had seemed poised to do.

  Then, in a blur, the scene changed.

  The coyotes were gone. They had simply vanished. I never saw them move, or where they went. But I would not soon forget those yellow eyes.

  Rose visibly relaxed, but was vigilant. She watched the path, listened to the woods, smelled its stories. I could see that she was also gathering the story of the coyotes, a story that was beyond me and my inadequate instincts. She moved forward slowly, sniffed the air, and then we both turned around and returned quickly to the farm, each of us pausing every few feet to turn around and look back.

  It was only later, back at my new farm, sitting on my porch, that I realized that something powerful had occurred. Rose and I had spoken to one another on that path. We had begun what turned out to be a great conversation that was to change both of our lives, that would save my life more than once, and help me survive, even thrive, on a ninety-acre farm with sheep, cows, goats, dogs, and other animals, through joy and travail, blizzards and dramas, escapes and terrors.

  My conversation with Rose was to grow beyond my imagination, transform my ideas about animals, and open my eyes to the possibilities of understanding them and of learning how to truly communicate with them, to forge a connection that transcends the need for training, pleading, shouting, and manipulation.

  Rose and I had begun to understand one another in a completely unexpected way, one that evolved from a singular primal exchange on that path to a great, complex, diverse, and wondrous dialogue that I have been able to cultivate with so many different animals over the last several years.

  There was Orson, another border collie. Elv
is, the three-thousand-pound steer. Minnie, Mother, and Flo, the barn cats. Rocky, a blind pony. A love dog named Lenore. A hospice dog named Izzy. A brave rooster named Winston. Numerous chickens; goats that often seemed smarter than me. A rescue donkey named Simon. Two female donkeys, Lulu and Fanny. An abandoned hell dog from the Adirondacks named Frieda. A struggling mother sheep named Ma. Lambs named Liam, Deb, and Jake. There was also Rose’s true successor, Red, a border collie from County Tyrone, Northern Ireland. And, finally, Fate, the puppy who represents the culmination of my long and fascinating work with animals, including the way animals can communicate with one another and with us.

  Each of these animals has taught me something. Sometimes it is about listening, sometimes about talking. Often it is about me.

  What you will find in the following pages is not an animal training book. It is not a how-to book or a science-heavy study of animal behavior. It is not a book about obedience or how to get your dog to do exactly what you command. It is also not a book about animal rights. I am as uncomfortable with animal politics as I am with people politics. I do not argue my beliefs on Facebook or anywhere online. I am not here to mind your business or tell you what to do. Instruction is not the purpose.

  My hope is, simply, that readers of this book will gain an understanding about how to live well with the animals they love, and understand them in a better way. The things I have learned over the last several years are not magic or voodoo. They are not impossible to replicate. Anyone can become more connected to the animals in his or her life.

  There are enormous economic, emotional, and environmental benefits to understanding our animals and supporting them. We can’t help them and keep them in our world if we can’t communicate with them. But in order to do that, we need to know them as they really are, not as the emotional fantasies we construct about them.

  This is a very personal book, a spiritual book, an anecdotal account of my own journey over many years to a wiser and more mystical understanding of animals. I am not a guru or an all-knowing animal vizier; I don’t believe any such thing exists. I can only relate my own rich experiences and hope they are of some use and benefit to those who are interested in connecting with animals in a deeper way.

  Training is a spiritual experience, not an exercise in domination. But of course nothing is black-and-white. Dogs live in a world that can be hostile and dangerous for them. There are times when they simply need to do what they are told, and quickly, for their own safety and the safety of others.

  But more important, training is a way of knowing animals, loving them, and helping them to live safely in our world. There are several tools that can be used to communicate effectively with animals, among them food, body language, attitude, and visualization.

  Early on, I learned never to underestimate the importance of food as the gateway to communicating with animals. It is the foundation of trust and attention. If animals don’t trust us, they will never pay attention to us; if they cannot pay attention to us, they cannot listen. Food, thoughtfully and judiciously applied, builds trust and attention.

  I first learned the importance of body language with Elvis, my three-thousand-pound steer, a monstrously huge animal. Steers are not known for talking or listening, and farmer after farmer warned me to stay away from him. These animals are untrainable, I was told.

  But Elvis was not untrainable. I learned how to gain his trust with apples and oranges and how to move in a way that brought him to a full stop from a fast trot without plowing into me. He came when I called him, stayed when I told him, even stood still for the application of ointments and antibiotics for the scratches and cuts he would accumulate while grazing.

  Food is necessary to establish trust, but attitude is perhaps the most important tool of all. Animals read intentions. If you mean it, they know it; if you don’t, they sense it. It is essential to have your intentions clear in your head, and in the attitude you project to the animal.

  While visualization may seem the most abstract of all the communication tools, and the idea of “image-talking” far-fetched, it is actually heavily grounded in research and behavioral science dating all the way back to Aristotle. For some years now, behaviorists and researchers like Temple Grandin (Animals in Translation) have been exploring the link between the way dogs think and the way autistic children think—namely, they both think and communicate in images.

  People throw a lot of words at overwhelmed animals, but animals do not communicate in words. According to biologists and behaviorists like Grandin, they communicate in images, and the images that course rapidly through their consciousness trigger their powerful instincts. Frank Niles, a well-known social scientist and adventure athlete, says that visualization in its simplest form is simply a technique for creating a mental image of a future event. It is the art of imagining what we want. When we visualize our desired outcome, we begin to believe in the possibility of achieving it. Studies show that visualization can also help reduce anxiety and fear.

  Animals are extraordinarily sensitive to our feelings and movements and smells and emotions. Through all of these senses they can grasp this determination, these images that we are trying to transmit to them. There is nothing woo-woo or psychic about it. It does, however, require awareness, concentration, and discipline.

  It is difficult for a human like me to think in images, even more so as a writer deeply invested in the authority and power of words. But they are largely useless when it comes to communicating with animals. Opening up to the idea of image-talking can be a transformative experience. I have used this successfully for years. But I’m still learning every day.

  Not too long ago, most Americans lived with animals and knew them well. Now the vast majority of Americans live on the coasts, disconnected from the natural world and the real lives of animals. Over time, our view of animals has been emotionalized. Increasingly, we view them through the prism of dependence, of rescue and abuse. We seem to need to see them as piteous, helpless, and dependent; this intensifies our connection to them and offers us many needed ways to feel loved, connected, and worthwhile. But it does not always foster understanding.

  At age fifty, after spending several years as a journalist in Washington, D.C., on a hiatus from engaging with the creatures who meant so much to me in my adolescence, I resolved to try to bridge that gap in my life. I moved to the country to reconnect with animals and the natural world. Every day since, I have learned something new about how to listen to animals and talk to them in ways that benefit us both.

  My animals are healthy, content, affectionate, and responsive. They do not harm people or other animals. Our lives together are a symphony of compromise and understanding.

  For about a decade now, I have used these techniques—food, body language, attitude, and visualization—to teach my dogs to stay away from the road. To never cross a road without permission, to never wander near it, to never chase a dog, ball, toy, rabbit, or squirrel if it means crossing a road.

  I have applied this approach to eight dogs as of this writing: three Labs, four border collies, and a Rottweiler-shepherd mix. Each of these dogs had a tendency toward explosive chasing—balls, sticks, animals, other dogs, me.

  Lenore, my black Lab, was a boisterous and enthusiastic dog who will run through barbed wire to retrieve a ball, and who loves to blast out the door each morning when I let her out of the house. When Lenore was eight months old, I started taking her out by the farmhouse and toward the steep road that runs right by the house. This is an especially dangerous road, because cars coming downhill pick up speed, and often have built up too much momentum to stop easily or quickly.

  I bought a bag of beef jerky and each morning dropped some at a point about fifteen feet from the road. After the third or fourth day, Lenore would bound outside, find the beef jerky, and stop there, hoping for more. If she waited there for me, I would toss her some more, and that quickly became our habit. Soon she was much more interested in the jerky than the road.

  A
fter about ten days of this, I changed our procedure. I would drop some jerky at our spot, then I would draw my hand in front of her and say “stay.” If she stayed for three minutes or more, she got more beef jerky.

  That was the food part; the basis of effective communication, the building of trust and attention. Once she grasped the idea of staying there, it happened automatically without the beef jerky. We stayed for at least three minutes every time we came out. I would position myself between Lenore and the road, hold up my hand, stand tall and straight, and say “stay” with authority and conviction. Sometimes I would reward her with a treat, sometimes not. She never knew for sure if she was getting one.

  My body language was clear. I was stiff and present, right between her and the road. I held my hands wide, a position most animals respect. If she inched a bit toward the road, I would stamp my foot and glower. That was more of a setback for me than it was for Lenore. My impatience was a sign that I needed to get my head straight. I would tell myself, we can do this, I can make this happen, I will succeed. She would not go near the road, not ever, not for a ball, a chipmunk, a piece of steak. And I meant it.

  Then I did some image-talking. I imagined Lenore stopping in this same spot every time we came outside and sitting there waiting for instructions. I had paved the way with food, solidifying my efforts with positive reinforcement, with body language, and the “stay” command. Now I was adding the final layer of visualization: I cleared my head and focused on what I wanted to happen.

  Dogs are Darwinian marvels—they have adapted and thrived for thousands of years by figuring out what humans want and need and by doing it. They want to please us; it is how they survive. Our task is to make them understand what we want and need. And in return, they can live safely with us and we will take care of them, feed them, and provide them shelter and attention and affection.

  If we do not understand animals, we cannot really know how to help them live safely and remain in our world. In 2014, the World Wildlife Fund reported that half of the animals on the earth have vanished since 1970. We have few viable ideas or proposals for helping animals because we often do not understand any longer what it is they really need.