One of my elderly aunts died when I was six, and of course I had to go to the funeral. My cat Pinky had one kitten, who was extremely curious and was hard to corral. I tried to convince my grandparents that something bad would happen if we went to the funeral. They didn’t pay me any mind because I was just a child, and I wasn’t savvy enough to feign an illness to keep them from going. Pinky only had the one baby in the couple of years we had her and she was a doting mother to the kitten. She was afraid to be separated from him this day, and I could sense this coming from her, loud and clear.
My grandmother placed Pinky outside as she usually did when we went out. She put the kitten in the box we used for his bed, and covered it with the screen from the storm door. Before we left, the kitten succeeded in busting out of his confinement, so my grandmother looked for some way to keep him in the box. She took the kitchen garbage can and placed it on top of the screen and we left to go to the funeral. I cried all the way there because of that feeling of dread, but I was ignored.
When we returned from the funeral, I was told to get out of my good clothes, but I detoured to check on the kitten. My grandfather went to the side door to let in Pinky and was startled by my screams of despair. The kitten, who was too young to even have a name, had tried to get out of the box and hung himself. His head was out, but the weight of that stupid garbage can kept him from going any further in either direction. His eyes were open, staring blankly and his little tongue was showing; I could tell he was dead. My grandfather quickly removed the garbage can and the screen and together we watched as the kitten fell back into the box in a lifeless heap. Again I screamed and cried, then wailed as we watched Pinky jump in and try to revive her baby with loving licks.
I was inconsolable; especially since I warned them ahead of time of what I was feeling. I accused my grandmother of killing Pinky’s only baby and wanted an explanation of why she had to box him in like that. Even my grandfather said to her, “He was only a baby, what could he possibly do in the house besides pee and poop?” I refused to eat and cried myself to sleep repeating, “I told you, I told you.” I don’t remember how they disposed of the kitten with no name, but I could sense Pinky’s grief over losing her only offspring. I never forgave my grandmother for that, and when she tried the same thing with a litter of kittens of another cat I had as a teen, I stopped her and growled that she wasn’t killing any more kittens around me. This time I was old enough to stand up to her, and if her memory was faulty, mine was crystal clear.
It didn’t have to be my pets; many of my friends had pets and I could tell my friends what their animals were thinking. One of my school chums who lived down the street, had a pedigree – Seal point Himalayan cat named Bluebell. As with many oriental felines, she was quite talkative and didn’t like to be picked up by strangers. She didn’t come right to me when we first met, but I would talk to her every time I visited their home. Bluebell had huge blue eyes the size of nickels surrounded by that dark long chocolate colored fur. My school chum had two sisters who tended to mistreat this beautiful cat and Bluebell was unhappy because of it. She spent a great deal of time behind the couch or hiding under beds upstairs. I suspected one of them broke the tip of her beautiful tail when she was a kitten, and when I got a moment, I inquired.
Once Bluebell knew I was a human who wouldn’t hurt her, she would come out to greet me and tell me her complaints. I showered her with as much love as I could; reminding her that she was such a pretty cat and if I didn’t have three kitties already, I would take her home to live with me. The three sisters were amazed that Bluebell would allow me to pick her up, where she’d sit in my lap and purr loudly. Sometimes she would come running to tell me what they did to her, meowing her gripes as soon as she saw me. We got to be great friends and whenever she told me which sister hurt her, I would scold the one who injured her. This scared the humans, how could Bluebell talk to me? How could I understand what her incessant meowing meant? They ran away from me when I mentioned that I knew which one of them stepped on her tail and broke the tip of it. Their mother knew that I was psychic, especially when their terrier went crazy and I talked him into his carrier. He was old, senile and had distemper. He bit everyone in sight, including me, but he calmed down when I told him he had to see the doctor because he was sick.
Years down the line, their household was uprooted by the birth of six kids between the three sisters, two more dogs and several lizards. Bluebell was old and not too fond of being abused by yet another generation of torturers. I had other friends so I didn’t visit as often, but she would come out of hiding as soon as she heard my voice. One day, as soon as I sat down in the family room, Bluebell came to me, limping and crying in distress. To the other humans it sounded like loud meowing, but I sensed immediately there was something extremely wrong. Bluebell started with the main problem – she had been injured. I asked her what hurts and she replied her back and side and she couldn’t hold her water. I inquired of the humans was Bluebell missing her litter pan? and my friend’s mother said yes, all over the house, all of a sudden.
I asked the sisters what happened to Bluebell and they said they weren’t sure, which was a lie. Bluebell answered me quickly, she was kicked down the stairs. I was shocked; I repeated it aloud for the adults, and the two older sisters stood in guilt and headed for the living room. I promised to do the same to whomever kicked her if she told me who did it. Immediately she impressed that it was my school chum who kicked her down the entire flight of fifteen steps. As soon as I said “Lisa kicked you all the way downstairs?” Lisa bolted up to her sister’s room to hide from me. I apologized ahead of time to her mother, then bounded upstairs after her. I grabbed her by the hair, swung her around and sent her tumbling down the stairs with a well-aimed swift kick. Being as well padded as she was, all she suffered was some scuffed elbows and knees.
When I returned to the family room, I told her mother that Bluebell was in pain and needed to be taken to the vet. The injury did involve her bladder and kidney but there was nothing the doctor could do. Apparently it had happened more than a month before and poor Bluebell suffered in silence until I came along. She was never the same after that, had to be picked up where she once jumped effortlessly. I heard the youngest sister took the cat to live with her in her apartment, and both Bluebell and their mother died of old age and neglect.
Most people with the ability to communicate with animals start losing their talents once they reach a certain age. Perhaps since I always had a pet to home in on, instead of decreased ability, I found out I could sense the thoughts of wild animals as well – even whales. I’ve played with a bored snow leopard, scratched the ear of a rhinoceros, and rubbed the head of a lonely orca. I didn’t have the same rapport with birds. I had been chased by wild turkeys and domestic geese, and the latter liked to take a few nips of leg once they caught up with me. My favorite birds are crows and ravens, both have bad reps when it came to folklore. I would watch them distract seagulls to swipe fish; take a pigeon out in midair and even fly up 20 feet to drop a snail down and crack its shell. They were the most resourceful birds in the city and when flying, I called them the shadows of angels.
I was living in a large first floor apartment, and just getting over the loss of my grandfather who had been ill for close to a year. I lived there with a cat named Smokey, a huge domestic shorthair adopted from the ASPCA as a kitten when he was 9 weeks old. I heard crows cawing and flying overhead often, but one day I heard something flutter past my kitchen window, which made me concerned. That window faced a three-storied shaft that opened on the roof. I opened the window and looked down to see a large crow trying to figure out how to fly back up the shaft.
In the legends of the Choctaw Nation (the tribe I am part of), a crow or raven brought messages from the spirit world and warned of a death close to the person the bird visits. I just lost my grandfather, so I wondered who it could be. The crow called out to the others who answered him, all sounding alarmed and upset. The first thing I did was start to talk to him, trying to keep him from hurting himself as he attempted to fly up and out. The best analogy I could give was if he was a helicopter he could fly straight up and out, but he was like an airplane, and needed a short runway to get started. I figured he was hungry so I dropped a few pieces of 12 grain bread. He watched them fall from my window, then pecked at one that fell close to him.
I knew he needed water from all the cawing he was doing, so I took a gallon spring water jug, cut a hole in it and filled it with tap water. I judged the distance of two stories with a rope I used for a clothesline then lowered the jug down by its handle. My 17-year-old cat found all of this activity fascinating and sat next to me on the window sill. I had a few problems with the jug right away. It banged against the bricks and splashed, which made the bird a tad nervous. I continued to talk to him as I found out the rope was short by a few inches. I extended it by attaching the rope to a hanger and when it hit bottom, it spilled out some more.
The first thing the large crow did was walk over and investigate the jug. I told the bird here’s something to wash down the bread. Imagine my surprise when he strolled over to one piece of bread, picked it up, then dipped it in the jug and ate it! I said, “What a smart bird you are! I’ll come back later and see how you’re doing, ok?” When I opened the window and checked before sunset, the bread was gone. By the next day, I knew that I had to call the ASPCA to get the crow out of the shaft. This air shaft had claimed the lives of several squirrels, pigeons and sparrows, but it wouldn’t be the death of this gorgeous black bird. I fed him again and refreshed his water jug before going to work, and called the ASPCA once I arrived. They asked when would I be home next and I told them it wouldn’t be for a couple of days. My neighbor in the basement had to be home as well, so when I returned home, I told her what would happen and she needed to be home. She was nervous to start with, deathly afraid of the crow and claimed she wanted the police to come and shoot it. I assured her the crow was probably more afraid of her than she was of him.
I spent the next two evenings hanging out the window talking to the big bird. My cat seemed jealous, watching me feed him and giving him fresh water. He meowed at me a few complaints until I turned and demanded to know what was wrong. As plain as he always was, he sent “I’m sick.” I replied, “Sick! Aw, you’re just old.” He seemed less frisky but since he was eating and using the pan, all appeared to be ok. I was working part time so I didn’t really have the money for a vet visit as it were. He saw her in February because of a swollen ear and the vet told me if he doesn’t let it bother him, it’s ok. It was the last week of June and even though it was hot, he had a habit of sitting on my feet like I was a hot water bottle. He told me he was sick two more times, and stupid me, I ignored him.
The morning came when the ASPCA would attempt a rescue. He looked out of my kitchen window and said, “Damn that’s a big bird! I’m going to try to get him from another angle,” so he went downstairs with a metal cage in hand. I told the crow we were going to get him out of there, and he was smart enough to know something was going on seeing the man with the cage. His feathered family kept tabs on him a couple of times a day and his cawing sounded a bit like he thought he was not going to get out of the shaft alive.
The next half an hour was nerve wracking for the animal control officer, the crow, my neighbor and me. The metal cage was small, the bird was full grown, feisty and the man was afraid the crow would peck his eyes out. I could sense the fear in the bird and tried to talk to him again from my window, but the only thing on his mind was getting away from the man holding the cage. When the man grabbed him by his wing, there was a short scuffle and I decided it was time for me to do something. I ran downstairs where my neighbor was having a hysterical fit. She was afraid the bird would fly into her apartment and do an “Omen II” movie thing on her. I asked her if she had an old blanket and she said yes, then brought it to me.
I figured I would throw it over the crow and take it on out. The animal control officer upset him so badly that he was panting with his beak open and flying into the window glass and bricks. I put my hands under the blanket and thought “Come to me, I’ll get you out,” over and over, then said it aloud. The crow flew right to me and latched onto my fingers under the blanket. My neighbor started screaming; I told her to open every door all the way to the street. I locked my thumbs over his taloned feet and stepped back into the apartment. I was nervous, but the sensation of having this adult bird holding onto my fingers was awesome, and exhilarating to say the least.
The crow was huge and being frightened, he kept his wings outstretched and beak open. I said to him, “Here we go up and out ... oh my, you’re such a big brave bird ... I didn’t know you were such a big pretty bird.” My neighbor returned to tell me the doors were open. I cautiously kept the bird away from my eyes, locked gazes then talked and walked all the way upstairs. My cat was sitting on the landing watching the show with wide-eyed curiosity. Thankfully the animal control officer told my neighbor to shut the hell up, she was upsetting all of us with that stupid screaming.
Outside I said, “You ready to go?” and the crow looked at me as if to say, “what do you think?” So I said goodbye then released my hold on him with a push skyward. He hadn’t been airborne for a couple of days so he was a bit stiff. He landed on the telephone wires across the street with a couple of grateful croaks. I shook hands with the animal control officer, then my neighbor as I returned the blanket. The ASPCA officer said I should get a job with them, but I said no, this was not an everyday occurrence. Within minutes, everything was back to normal. One of the elders in my neighborhood (I had seen him at the annual powwows so I knew he was a Black Indian as well), walked past and made a comment that made me smile. “You have been chosen, crows don’t let just anyone touch never mind communicate with them. I’m going to call you Crow Woman from now on.” I thanked him for giving me a new name, and as I returned to my apartment, thought that would fit quite well.
The next morning I headed out to work. I immediately recognized the caw of the crow I fed for three days, so I looked over at the telephone wires. There had to be like 20 crows lined up there and all started suddenly cawing loudly – thanking me! That made me smile. From then on, I had ‘feathered protection’ overhead. He must have told them to keep an eye on me. I thought perhaps he was bringing me messages from my grandfather who had taken his final journey, not foretelling another death, but I was wrong.
Two weeks later, my Smokey had to be put to sleep – cancer of the pancreas had spread to his intestines. The clinic receptionist was new in her position and placed me on hold as she went to find out about Smokey. She returned to say with no emotion or compassion for that matter, “Oh we had to put that cat to sleep last night.” My heart shattered right then and there. When I recovered I told her to have the doctor call me then I hung up and cried for like half an hour. When she returned my call, I complained right up front about that heartless receptionist and she apologized for that. The vet knew I had a strong bond to my cats (and had been his doctor since he was a year old), especially Smokey. I recalled the minute I pulled him out of his carrier and placed him on her table for the very first time. She clasped her hands together and exclaimed “Oh, what a magnificent animal!” Fully versed in human, Smokey rolled over on the table and stuck a paw out in my direction as if to say, ‘see? I told you so!’ From then on, she could give him elephant-sized needles and he wouldn’t even flinch, because he knew how she felt about him. That was why I searched high and low to find her 16 years later.
She said over the phone, “He must have loved you a great deal not to tell you how sick he was.” She explained how if I had brought him a couple of months earlier she would have been able to catch it before it spread. He was healthy other than that, and he would have survived. I told her about my grandfather who died a couple of months back from colon cancer and she said well, my priorities were correct. Taking care of the man who raised me was more important than the cat who spent 17 years with me. (Of course I felt as if I should have been able to handle both, if not so distracted.) She then said that she didn’t want to do the surgery and have him die from convulsions at home. I was devastated and felt so guilty because he did tell me he was sick and I didn’t believe him.
It took almost two years to get over his death, it was too close behind losing my grandfather. Since then I rarely use the power to communicate with animals, because I associate it with the death of my favorite cat, which was almost totally my fault. Some day I will open my soul and let the "crow woman" magic flow again.
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