My kids make fun of me when I talk to the dogs. They say disgustedly, “Mom, they can’t understand you,” and roll their eyes when I ignore them and keep talking. Because I’m pretty sure my dogs know exactly what I’m saying. Maybe they don’t get all the words (though my dogs seem to have my vocabulary down), but they certainly decipher tone, gestures, and meaning. Charlie and Hank leap up when I say, “It’s time to feed the dogs!” They also head to the back door when they hear me ask the kids to walk the dogs, maybe only hearing “walk” or “dogs” in the sentence, but by a process of elimination, if they didn’t hear the word “treat” and it isn’t dinner time then there is a good chance they get to go out.
When I’m greeting the dogs after being gone for awhile, or just giving them some love when they approach me, the kids say, “You sound like Nana when you talk to the dogs.” And I realize that without being conscious of it, I have mimicked the voice of my mother when she talks to her dogs. We try so hard to be unique, to be our own person, to most definitely NOT be like our mothers that it’s amusing how often we are EXACTLY like them. My two teenage daughters are individuating from me as I write this, and yet one day I bet they will find themselves unconsciously mimicking me in some way. But I’m thankful that my mother has an intense connection with animals because she gave that gift to me as a child, and it has supported me in many ways during my life. She used animal therapy on us growing up the same way my Dad used sports to teach us life lessons. I have tried to give my kids similar exposure to animals and they have inherited their Nana’s connection, as much as they mock me. I’ve caught my youngest whispering sweet nothings to our cat Sugar, my son talking such baby talk to Charlie that it would make him blush if he heard himself, and my middle daughter plotting with Cocoa (rabbit) and Hank as if they were her lieutenants. Once I even heard my son say, when my husband was banging on the birdcage to get the parakeet to shut up, “Dad, if you just speak in a quiet voice, Sky will talk quietly.”
I talk to my horse too, but since I’m pretty sure horses are psychic words are probably superfluous. Still it makes me feel better to use my language when I’m communicating. And I am usually petting or grooming while I’m talking, my horse responding as much to touch and energetic quality as tone of voice. My daughter inherited my horse recently, and I have acquired a new one. It has been a bittersweet transition, fraught with emotion and excitement. I only bring it up because the bond between Cadiz and me has been one that I have clung to over the last few years, as if she were my lifeline. And when for the sport, it was time to pass her on to my daughter, I did not hesitate. But when I explained the situation to a friend she said, “Have you told Cadiz?” And I realized that I’m not crazy, that other people get it too. And this friend isn’t even a horse person. “No, not yet,” I replied. “It’s complicated. She has to bond with my daughter and I don’t want to get in the way.” I had avoided Cadiz at the barn for a week, focusing my attention on the new horse. “But you owe it to her,” my friend insisted. “It’s a matter of respect.” And I knew she was right so when I was next at the barn I went into Cadiz’ stall and I told her that it was time for her to take care of my daughter, that she needed her more now. I gave her a handful of cookies and looked in her eye and thanked her for all the strength she’d loaned me, the safety she represented to me, the maternal comfort she had given me, and the athletic thrill that jumping really high jumps had offered. And maybe I am crazy, maybe she didn’t hear me, but I think she did. She gazed at me calmly and I swear understanding dawned in her eyes.
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