How To Talk To Animals | 7.14.24

There is another world, I have seen it. Another place right beside this one, clearer, brighter, though wordless, and I know it well. I listen to the animals here, I hear them in their silent offerings, and I understand. I speak to them, too, they listen, they hear, they too understand. They do not nod in response, do not speak out in language of this place we all inhabit and fill with worry and nonsense, anxiety and the inconsequentiality of belongings, of money, of success immeasurable in any method that truly matters. They do not, but they understand, they respond, they know me as I know them.

I’ve not any talents worthy of my own pride, not a single stitch of my being I feel sets me apart from anyone else, save this one thing, this one beautiful thing that is mine, and mine alone, and I wouldn’t give it up for all the other gifts, for all the other measurements of wealth, of success, of power. I speak to animals, animals speak to me, and without a single sound uttered, they know to trust the grace in me, for they know I worship it in them. I talk to animals, and though I cannot promise that I can teach you how to do the same, I can try, and I will tell you what I know. I tell you freely, for they are waiting, they are watching, and they are so confused why we scurry so, the frenzy from so many things that matter so little in the end. Here is how I speak to them, they of fur and feather, scale or hair, winged or slowly stumbling, here is what I know:

• To the newborn fawn, hours old calling out in birdlike squeaks for a mother gone foraging, make yourself as small as the wheatgrass she burrows into. Approach slow as Spring’s arrival, and only whisper in hushed tones, repeat the words “it’s ok, it’s ok,” until she lifts her eyes, milky blue moons on the black of space between the starlight. Call her beautiful as she rises to stand beside your legs, two strange trunks of some new tree she does not know, stay with her and show her to a place of more security, far from the paths that people have worn into the hillside, from the dogs that would desecrate the dappled fur she only just introduced to sunshine. Be gentle with your tone, ask her if she’ll lay beside where you sit in the hollow behind the small grove of trees, wait for her to sit, then kneel awkwardly, then curl into a tininess you’ve never before seen. “Goodbye” will be a wordless sound, as she must sleep before you must go, for if she wakes, she will always follow.

  

• To the sly fox that often haunts the yard with her midnight screams, filling the forest behind the window you sleep beneath with banshee wails and sounds so human you doubt your own ears, softness here, too. Wait to lift your eyes to hers, look lower, at the snowy white boots she wears on her paws, to the ground her tiny feet walk upon, but whisper all the while. Call to her with sweet sounds, use only letters that feel gentle, avoid Ks and Qs and hard Ts, Ss work here, almost as though you’re shushing a sleeping child. She will walk in arcs beyond you, and the radius between you will shrink the more comfortable she becomes. Sit in the gloaming and convince yourself of stillness and closer she will creep, closer, until on one triumphant evening just beyond the sunflowers that sprout from seeds dropped, right beside the junipers and sage that plants itself each ear, she will reach, timidly, and take food from your fingertips. The universe offers no stronger compliments to the grace in you, know this, for the fox above all knows survival, and as a human, would never otherwise take such risks. Do not follow when she goes, as something so beautiful demands to stay a mystery.

• To the black-eyed raven that visits the feeders, speak not, for they need not the words. Lift your sunglasses from your eyes, and first look to their talons, then to the iridescence that lives in the black of their feathers. Find their eyes, and lock them together, let them study your face in pieces, and let it take the time it needs to take. Offer gifts, always offer gifts, and if you scare them from where they feed, apologize with more. Stay for them to see your hands lower the seeds into the makeshift feeder you crafted out of old wood and a metal screen, let them watch from their pine tree perch, show them your eyes again after completion, for they see you from where they sit. Do this daily, a ritual they will learn what you teach, and visit when they can. One day, one shining day when the cold has lifted and the sun remembers her warmth, maybe, just maybe, they will return with a gift for you, and they will leave it on the railing you lean over to feed them. This is above words, beyond the sentences you’d fumble anyway. This is gratitude from a wild thing, and nothing else speaks of love in this way.

• To the skittish dog, once harmed by human hands, once taught of the worst in us, sit, and wait. Tell them you are sorry for the evils that found their way into this species, and offer the palms of your hands to their noses. Do not fear a bite, not a nip from their tender souls, for they know hands as frightening things, as blunt tools that shape gentle creatures into ferocious ones. Let the scent of you be the first to teach them something new, let them come nearer, let them place the soft fur of their chest onto your wrist, and rub the skin beneath their collars, the pieces they cannot reach with claw and scratch. Flinch not when they come closer still, when they trust you enough to put their face against your chest, when they lower their head as if to say, “Please, not you, please, show me it’s not all of you,” and once again allow vulnerability. Hold them with loose arms so they know they can go when they wish to go, and make long pets down their sides. Do not grab, do not linger in one place too long, and be tender with your stroking, as abuse changes the way we feel what we feel, all of us, no matter the skin we wear. Whisper, always whisper, and tell them again and again until their ears perk up from being pinned back, I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry.

• To the big spider crawling across your ceiling, then setting an anchor web, and falling through space towards the places you’re sitting, be patient, and marvel at the silk they spin. Speak to them like long lost friend, for they appreciate casual conversation more than most creatures I know. “You’re alright dude,” “I got you buddy,” “you’re gorgeous man,” and any other forms of communication you’d reserve for someone you surf with, skateboard with, or know to be laid back friends. They speak, too, but their voices are so small our ears cannot translate the words, but I know them to be this. Find any paper you can find, and let them crawl atop it. Do not force them, do not push or slide the paper beneath their tiny legs, let them come in their own time, and walk slow once they do. Find a houseplant with ample leaves and soil not too soaked or saturated, and wait for them to dismount, to explore their new surroundings. If the weather is beautiful and warm enough for their outdoor survival, bring them out and let them free out beyond where scared hands will crush the life from them. Wish them well, wherever you place them, and tell them you’ll see them around.

There are a billion creatures, a billion conversations waiting to happen. The thread that unites them all, that ties them together in their desires from us, is a simple one:

They just wish us to be softer, they just wish us to be kind.

Start here, and find your way. Start here, and show them that from some of us, they have nothing to fear.

We’ve not the grace they do, but if we strip away our harshness, we can try. We can try.

Whisper in soft voice

for they speak not in harshness,

they know only grace.

Haiku on Life by Tyler Knott Gregson

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