Anyone who visits our apartment knows we have a dog. He is there to greet you the moment you step across the threshold, his tail wagging, his eyes wide, and his head rubbing back and forth against your shins. “Pet me,” he seems to be saying. “Love me like I’m your own!”
What most people don’t know is that we also have a cat. His name is Loki. He has black fur, yellow eyes, and is terrified of everyone who isn’t Kim. Guests can spend an entire day with us and never see him once. Hell, I’ll be alone in the apartment with him for ten hours and not see his face once. He remains hidden under the bed or behind the couch, refusing to come out until mommy comes home.
If not for the scratching post in the living room and the litter box in the bathroom, there would be no proof of his existence, and even those signs do not quite give him away. Our landlord went a full year-and-a-half without knowing Loki existed. She presumed the litter box was for Oliver. “I’ve never seen a dog use one,” she said to me, “but I figured you trained him to go in there. Stranger things have happened.”
She’s right about that.
Not about Oliver using the litter box, but about stranger things happening. Like telepathy between animals. As in Oliver and Loki having full on conversations without using words.
Does it sound crazy? Of course. It is common knowledge that cats and dogs do not, in fact, talk to each other with their minds. But what if that knowledge was wrong? What if they communicate like this all the time and people just don’t realize it because we’re not attuned to the proper frequency? Is it really that hard to believe that maybe, just maybe, there are things going on right in front of our eyes that we’re not able to see?
I have no proof to back up this theory. No concrete proof, at least. What I do have is observation. Whenever Loki does come out, he will set up shop at one end of the hallway while Oliver sits at the other. There is no sound. They just sit there, staring at each other for ten minutes, neither moving a muscle until, at the exact same moment, they rush ahead, stop, and rub their heads together like they’re a couple of ex-conjoined twins trying to recreate their connective magic.
This happens often. I refuse to believe they’re just staring at each other. I refuse! There has to be some sort of communication going on, some sort of invisible back and forth where they’re discussing the day’s events, my propensity for singing off-key as I put laundry away, or the secret world Loki has discovered behind the couch.
We presume that animals only “talk” when they bark, meow, moo, or caw. This is rather presumptuous, no? People can’t communicate telepathically, we’d assume animals can. But since we can’t, we dismiss the possibility for our pets as well.
I can’t prove it’s actually happening, but you can’t prove that it’s not. Isn’t that how science works? Everything is true until it isn’t?
If you’ve come this far, perhaps you’ll be willing to go a little farther. I’m trying to get a photo published in Relix magazine. Can you please visit this link and vote for my picture? I’ll totally be in your debt to the tune of four high-fives.