Tag animal communication

Oscar the ambassador

Nancy Crowe
Oscar Tennessee Aquarium 05.18

Oscar, a green sea turtle, gets around at the Tennessee Aquarium. (Photo by Nancy Crowe)

I first met Oscar in 2007. The green sea turtle at the Tennessee Aquarium was missing his right rear flipper and a good part of his left rear flipper. A boat propeller had cut through his shell. Like many turtles who survive trauma, he’d developed buoyancy problems and bobbed, bottom up, like a cork in the big multi-species tank that was now his home.

Florida’s Marine Science Center had treated him initially. Covered with green hair algae, he looked just like Oscar the Grouch from “Sesame Street” — hence the name. When it was determined he could not be released back into the wild, he came to live at the Tennessee Aquarium in 2005. He was then about the size of a dinner plate.

By the time I saw Oscar, he was about the size of a saucer sled. Clearly, he was growing and had found a home where he would be protected and cared for … but still, I thought. How sad.

It is sad when animals suffer, especially at the hands (or boat propellers) of humans, and when our actions result in species becoming threatened or endangered. We should feel sad and angry about all of this.

But it’s so, so tempting to get stuck in the awfulness, which is probably what I did upon first hearing Oscar’s story. I remember my thoughts veering off to the pain he must have experienced, the terror when he was picked up and brought to the marine hospital … and could I ever, in good conscience, ride in a motorboat again? Was there such a thing as turtle-safe boating? Shouldn’t there be a law about that? And on and on.

I was new to animal communication at that point, which is to say I was still pretty cautious about trusting the intuitive information I was getting. My experience as a journalist had taught me to listen with my ears and mind. Communicating with animals requires listening first with the heart and then using a calm, clear mind to translate. However, the voice of this sea turtle was unmistakable.

“Are you kidding me? I’m the luckiest guy in the world. How many other sea turtles get to do this?”

Well, I didn’t have an answer for that, so I just stood for a few minutes and watched Oscar cut through the water with his front flippers and partially wedge himself under a rock to keep him from bobbing back up when he wanted to sit a spell. His joy — at having another shot at life, at being in a place where he was loved and cared for, at figuring out how to get around and stay put, and at showing people of all ages and walks of life what is possible after things go seriously, horribly wrong — was palpable. It carried through the water, glass, and crowd, and wrapped itself around me. I thanked Oscar for clarifying what it meant to be him.

My animal Reiki teacher, Kathleen Prasad, would echo this lesson years later during our training at an animal sanctuary. She taught us to both consider and look beyond the exteriors of what has happened to an animal to see the bright, beautiful light that animal essentially is. All of us, humans and animals, are not our wounds. We are not our histories. They are part of us, but we are so much more. Honoring this in ourselves and others helps us all heal and get around a bit more gently in the world.

I must add here that Kathleen is not in favor of zoos and aquariums. Though I agree with much of what she says, I’ve seen too many good things happen to and for animals at places like the Tennessee Aquarium and other accredited and/or mission-based facilities to write them all off. That’s my current thinking, anyway.

When we allow ourselves to move from the awfulness into seeing who an individual such as Oscar actually is and what he can do for the thousands of people who visit the aquarium, we can much more clearly see the next right action. Then we have a fighting chance at solving the cause of the awfulness. People who meet Oscar might be inclined to use less plastic to protect turtles from the waste, support wildlife conservation efforts with their time and finances, volunteer at a wildlife rehabilitation hospital, see their own injuries and limitations in a new way, or simply smile at his upside-down pluckiness. Any of these and more can have wonderful ripple effects for us and our world.

I visited Oscar this spring, and he is now at least as big as a saucer sled. He hangs out in his favorite spots among the rocks and plants, and as Emily Dickinson put it, dwells in possibility. He assured me he has plenty of work to do.

The power of now for an angry dog

Nancy Crowe
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I worked with an angry dog very much like this one during my Animal Reiki III training. (Photo by asommerh on Pixabay)

Normally, I steer clear of individuals — dogs or not — who are barking at me. But something drew me to Lyson despite his barking and the warnings posted all over his kennel at the animal sanctuary where I was doing my Animal Reiki III training with Kathleen Prasad.

The warnings were about keeping hands and fingers away from the cage, letting him out separately from the other dogs, and keeping him muzzled when he was out of the kennel. I could understand why, given the anger convulsing his body with every bark. I did not have Lyson’s backstory or any illusions about fixing whatever was bothering him. My classmates and I had dispersed around the barn to share Reiki with the animals, and that’s what I was going to do.

I pulled up a chair by his kennel and turned slightly to the side (some animals interpret your facing them directly as confrontation). I let both Lyson and Mojo, the dog in the next kennel, know they were free to take as much or as little of the energy as they wanted. It was completely up to them. Then I began my meditation, pulling in the energy of the earth and sky to remain grounded and connected to God.

Mojo sat quietly, cocking his head a bit. Lyson furiously barked and barked. I held a space of peace for both of them and myself, trying to remember the particulars of Kathleen’s “be the mountain” meditation. As a Reiki practitioner and empath, I have learned the hard way that taking on or getting sucked into another individual’s emotions or problems helps no one. It’s not mine to do. That’s the beauty of the Reiki space; it lets me care while stepping out of the way and allowing a higher wisdom to work.

A couple of times, Lyson stopped barking and went to the back of his pen. When he returned, he looked at me like he couldn’t believe I was still there, that someone was interacting with him in a way that did not involve violence or force. Then he started barking again.

About midway through the meditation, I looked down and noticed a mouse peeking out from a hole under Lyson’s pen. “Well, hi,” I said quietly. “You’re welcome to join us.”

As the session drew to a close, the mouse drew his nose back into the hole. Mojo relaxed, still curious about what the humans in the barn were up to. Lyson barked a couple more times just to make sure he got his point across. Before I rejoined my classmates at the other end of the barn, I briefly met his gaze. There was something about the healing energy we had just shared that he understood, even if it was just a tiny sliver. Perhaps that was wishful thinking on my part.

When I discussed my experience with Lyson, Mojo, and the mouse with the rest of the class, Kathleen said she heard Lyson was to be euthanized. Apparently, his aggressive behaviors had been deemed too severe for any other solution to be workable. She said it was good that I worked with him, that he got to have some positive interaction with human beings. I was fairly confident the decision was not made without careful assessment, love, and anguish.

Would I have loved to hear Lyson made a total turnaround during our Reiki training and was granted a reprieve … and if not adopted, at least able to live out his days among the other dogs at the sanctuary? Of course. But making that happen was not within our power, and practicing Reiki with a specific outcome in mind only blocks the healing energy you are trying to share.

Therein lies the tension between a Reiki practitioner’s natural and sincere inclination to help (and to want to see the results of said help) and the way healing actually works: with us mortals doing what is ours to do and leaving the rest to a power beyond ourselves.

What was ours to do that day at the barn was exactly what we did — share healing energy with the animals, regardless of what had brought them there or what may or may not happen after we left.

Sometimes, the only thing left to do is to offer someone a peaceful presence.

Maybe that’s what Lyson, in between his bouts of barking, began to understand.