Bonnie before I met her
Are you good with animals? The kind of person they respond to? I thought I was too.
Which is why at the beginning of the quarantine, I prayed about finding a cat, and the next day received a text asking me to foster Bonnie, a cat the current foster mothers labeled as shy.
Once in my home, she had all the skittishness of a feral. For 10 days, she hid behind the armoire that holds my TV and desktop. You would think it’s impossible to get behind this heavy, complicated, system of plugs, wires, and doors, but you’d be wrong.
Bonnie was so alarmed that an air of tension now seemed to settle over my formerly serene home.
She ate during the dead of night, and occasionally, at odd hours, streaked through the living room while remaining in a crouched position.
Touched by her fear, I sent her a mental message promising that she could stay as long as she wanted, and would leave only by her own consent.
Was I anthropomorphizing, or empathizing with how it feels to be wrenched out of your home and placed somewhere you didn’t know and might never belong?
Her first night here? She peed on the rugs and in my red slipper: finally illustrating for me the visual of what drinking champagne from a shoe would look like. Though this wasn’t champagne and no one was drinking.
Texts from the foster mothers assured me that Bonnie was box-trained. So, I added a second litter box where the now tossed-slipper had been, in crouched-walking distance from the armoire.
Time passed. She used the cat box (yay!), but nothing else improved. She remained hidden.
Friends said: “You should’ve locked her in the bathroom that first night for her security. But it’s too late for that now.”
My friend Naomi posted a video on my facebook page. It showed animal communicator, Anna Breytenbach, talking to a distraught black leopard named Diablo.
Under it, Naomi wrote, “You’ll know what to do.”
“Of course,” I thought. I have those skills. I may have even communicated with your animals? But I got curious. What didn’t I know about animal communication that Bonnie the cat might be here to teach me?
Maybe there was no accident in our meeting? If I don’t reject my disliked circumstances, I can examine them for direction. Acceptance inevitably brings inner peace.
I was in the kind of curiosity that misery (picture me washing cat pee out of white rugs) fuels.
What’s positive about pain is that when bad enough, it will motivate you to seek solutions beyond what you currently know or even know you don’t know.
I knew about animal communication, but I suddenly wondered what the presence of this cat at this time (when I’d originally been scheduled to be in France) might be urging me to learn?
I read up on Anna Breytenbach, and followed links to other animal communicators she admired.
I bought an mp3 of animal communicator Penelope Smith, and I scanned other sites, such as Pea Horsley’s. One of them gave me a slightly different way to work with Bonnie. (I thought it was Penolope Smith but the process I remembered from her meditation isn’t there as I listen today.)
Here is the technique I initially used to ease Bonnie’s resistance:
Start by centering yourself and connecting with the power of Mother earth. Float in the oceanic consciousness.
With animals, I usually send mental pictures and stay open for the images they send back. Here, however, I used something slightly different.
Imagine a miniature version of yourself, a tiny figure of you. Connect your heart to the animal’s heart, and then ask permission to go inside, and see through the animal’s eyes.
When I looked out through Bonnie’s eyes I felt like I wanted to know: Why did they give me away? Did they give the other animals away? I felt like I’d been kept safe by two dogs, a brown one in particular. I didn’t see any people I felt close to.
So, I texted the original foster moms. “Yes,” they affirmed. There are two dogs. They sent a picture of the brown dog I’d described. “But she didn’t seem bonded with him,” they said. They gave her to me because they wanted to “expand her horizons” and not because she wasn’t loved.
One of the pictures texted back affirming the dogs I described
When I mentally relayed the message to Bonnie, I felt a slight softening around her heart, which for a moment gave me hope. Yet in reality, she remained defensive and illusive. She’s a feral cat, I thought, remembering a friend’s pronouncement: “You’re keeping her prisoner like Anne Frank but in a nicer attic.”
I texted the foster moms. “She wants to be with the dogs,” I said. And…I didn’t realize she was feral.”
“She’s not feral,” the foster mothers insisted. “She used to fight for her space on the bed.” Hard to believe but gave me some hope.
We made arrangements to send her back the following week and I started packing her things.
“Little Bonnie,” I said. “You’re going home. But,” if you want to stay,” I told her in a mental message, “you need to give me a clear sign. Otherwise, it’s all arranged.”
Within minutes, she was in my bedroom, her claws now tapping the side of the bed.
“That seems like a sign,” I thought. Given that she’d never done anything like that before. But I asked for more. I needed to be sure.
Boom, she jumped on the bed…and ran off. She jumped and ran a few times. Then leaped on the bed, ensconced herself beside me, and cuddled and purred, as if this were the new normal.
She was a different cat. Night and day different. No more hiding. No more terror. I could keep my promise. Bonnie would be staying until she wanted to leave.
Next, she needed a new name. Bonnie had never seemed right. I tried Elena Ferrante (after the writer), and various other names that faded in a day.
Then I read a book where a parrot was called Mistic. And that name stuck in my mind. We tried it out. Mistic. Opti-mistic. Mystic is the spelling I’ve come to so others don’t feel they have to gently correct it for me, not knowing the i was a conscious affectation.
Meet Mystic:
©Lorrie Kazan
Watch Diablo’s incredible story talking to Anna Breytenbach (when my web person adds the link back!)
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