My notion of communicating with animals is this: They do not understand our language, they do not feel our emotions in the way we feel them. They have emotions, and they connect with ours, if we present them patiently, carefully, openly. If we stop putting our words into their heads, and listen to let them, let them experience us in their own way. The photo above is one of those conversations of the heart. Meg had been attacked by a fox and was hiding in the meadow across the road. Maria came into the driveway looking for her, calling her name.

Suddenly, her head popped up from across the road and she came running over to Maria. The moment in which the two recognized one another – Maria overjoyed that Meg was alive, Meg coming to Maria for safety, it appeared – was a communication. I could see it, the photo caught it. It embodies  what I mean by the spirituality that exists between some people and some animals. What is required of us is that we stop turning them into versions of us and allow our emotions and theirs to connect with one another. That is required for the door to begin to open.

This is, I think, what the photograph captures.

Someone will invariably say – the always do, but they are just like us. Elephants mourn, border collies can memorize encyclopedias. We are never sure where instincts and emotions cross with animals, and I doubt we will ever know. But when communications occur – our hearts are touched, their instincts and emotions connect – something very powerful occurs. These are feelings not words – as when Rocky comes and lets me brush him.  My wish is that I try to understand this, rather than declare that I know what it happening. Meg is not Maria’s child, and Maria is not her mom. Meg is not saying, “hey, please save me, a fox tried to eat me,” as she does not have words or human language.

But there is an understanding, a transfer for feelings. I want to understand it and write about it.