The woman who could talk to animals was overheard bickering with her chihuahua on a daily basis. I visited Mrs. Daley and all her multitude of pets on the first floor of her Florida complex. When asked how exactly she does it, she simply replies that most people don't bother to listen, to really listen to their animals. Besides the telltale signs of a hungry cat or a dog that needs to urinate, most pet owners (Mrs. Daley prefers "animal companions") pay precious little attention to what their housemates are telling them. I ask her if all the animals speak the same language, and she stares at me dumbly as if I'm the only one she doesn't understand. "Do they sound like the same language?" OK, but the fish don't speak, do they? Apparently, they don't speak vocally but their eyes and tail swishes mime volumes. During our conversation Mrs. Daley repeatedly breaks off our dialogue to meow or screech or woof pieces of information to her animals, as if translating. Mrs. Daley in action is truly a sight to behold. Puffy, the fat orange tabby, makes her laugh hysterically, apparently at my expense. Learning to talk to animals is just like learning another language, and Mrs. Daley has mastered all interspecial lingoes. Before I pet her pretty white poodle, she quietly warns me that the dog is looking at my leg laciviously. When I ask her about her opinion of cutting doggie vocal cords, she bursts into tears (Mrs. Daley, not the dog), clearly a sensitive subject. The interview is suddenly terminated when Misty, the poodle, walks to the door and scratches lightly. She needs to go wee wee, I muse aloud. Mrs. Daley shakes her head and sighs. What Misty wants is to go get her ball back from the dog in Apartment 4D whose animal companion is a nice widower gentleman named Phil.
Copyright 1997 Jennifer Chung
All rights reserved.
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