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When an animal is truly a family member, you want to communicate with it as completely as you do with human members, but how? Amelia Kinkade is here to show you, with plenty of tools for direct and serious conversation with your four-legged friends. Foes of anthropomorphism, beware: if you don't assume that animals have similar emotional responses to ours, you're liable to find this book a bunch of hooey. Kinkade's techniques involve various methods of telepathy, from sending specific questions like "what's your favorite food?" to receiving emotions like sadness or joy. Her years of experience working with pet owners and rescue services give Kinkade a wealth of fascinating stories. Conversations relayed between unhappy animals and their humans can be instructive to an amazing point--one horse knew he needed an iron supplement, while a cancer-ridden dog apologized to his owner for being "such a burden." Simple ideas seem relatively easy to trade. When leaving for a weekend trip, it's easy to observe an agitated dog or kitty. Calmly relaying facts about how long you'll be gone and what she should expect while you're gone can go a long way toward solving everything from tummy upsets to malicious shredding of furniture. More advanced students of Kinkade's methods can visually find specific causes of pain in animals and listen to what they need from their humans to heal. As with other books on telepathy, you won't find research or studies here. But if you have an open mind and willingness to experiment, Straight from the Horse's Mouth can open up satisfying new dimensions in your relationships with all animals. --Jill Lightner
From Library Journal
Ten years ago, Kinkade was skeptical about the existence of psychic communication with animals. Yet with the help of a mentor and her cat, Rodney, she became a renowned animal communicator and is now listed in The Top 100 Psychics in America (Pocket, 1996). She believes that everyone has an innate ability to communicate with animals, and in this work part memoir and part guidebook she shares how to "talk to the animals." To begin, one must believe that animals' feelings matter, a process Kinkade calls "clairsentience." Exercises are provided that readers can try with their own pets. The next step, "clairaudience," is to learn how to see pictures in animals' minds and then exchange images with them. This helps solve behavioral problems and also makes for a better relationship with one's pet. After clairaudience comes a sort of X-ray process in which one gets inside the animal's body to determine illnesses or find a pet that may be missing. Kinkade accompanies each of these stages of animal communication with many heart-warming anecdotal stories of her own telepathic experiences. Emphasizing the need for compassion toward animals, she stresses that this guide is not intended to be a substitute for medical care or the expert diagnosis of a veterinarian. Librarians don't have to be believers to purchase for large animal-interest collections. Eva Lautemann, Georgia Perimeter Coll., Clarkston
Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Copyright 2001 Reed Business Information, Inc.
Kurzbeschreibung
Subtitled }How To Talk To Animals Get Answers{, this is a guide to developing telepathic skills of communication with your pet.
-- Dieser Text bezieht sich auf eine vergriffene oder nicht verfügbare Ausgabe dieses Titels.
Über den Autor
Amelia Kinkade has been listed in The Top 100 Psychics in America. A full-time animal communicator, she is sought by veterinarians, animal rescue organizations, and animal lovers all over the world. She lives and practices in California.
Leseprobe. Abdruck erfolgt mit freundlicher Genehmigung der Rechteinhaber. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.
In his strange, not-quite-human way, [Adam] is constantly reminding me that real magic doesn't come from achieving the perfect appearance, from being Cinderella at the ball with both glass slippers and a killer hairstyle. The real magic is in the pumpkin, in the mice, in the moonlight; not beyond ordinary life, but within it. . . . It is a quality of attention to ordinary life that is so loving and intimate it is almost worship.
-- Martha Beck, Expecting Adam
Rodney Speaks
I was as skeptical as any sane person would be that morning, fourteen years ago, when I loaded Rodney, my cat, into his carrier to take him down to the holistic veterinary clinic where a psychic was seeing animals. I was having some problems with Rodney that my regular vet couldn't help, and I figured, why not give the psychic a shot? It seemed a little goofy and I felt a little foolish, but what did I have to lose? No matter what, it was sure to be good for a laugh.
I thought at the time, as some of you may think now, that the psychic business is either a hokey sideshow act or a solemn, mystical affair, full of incense-burning Gypsies and weird witches with crystal balls. Boy, was I in for an eye-opener.
Gladys, the psychic, wore no heavy eyeliner, no gold hoop earrings or jangling charm bracelets. She was less gypsy fortune-teller and more midwestern grandmother. Were those ketchup stains on her shirt? I was perplexed.
When I extracted Rodney from his carrier and put him down on the cold metal table in front of her, he didn't howl like a triggered car alarm or jump off the table, his usual reaction at the vet's. Instead, he sat perfectly still and quietly scrutinized Gladys. He actually seemed startled to see her. She returned his gaze.
"What are you doing?" I whispered to her.
"I'm talking to him," she replied flatly.
You've got to be kidding! I wanted to yell. No incantations? No sweeping arm movements? No speaking in tongues? My curiosity won out over my skepticism.
"What does he say?" I whispered.
"I asked him what his favorite food is and he says chicken."
Good guess, I thought. True, Rodney gobbled up quite a bit of fresh chicken, but what cat doesn't like chicken? Any ninny could have figured that out.
"Now I am asking him what his favorite spot in the house is," she said. Again, Gladys did nothing more than look at the little cat, who returned her gaze, nonplussed.
The answer must have come to her quickly: "He says he likes to sit on the back of an orange chair that overlooks a window. A chair in the den."
"That's exactly right," I gasped. When Rodney was inside the house, he planted himself on the back of the peach-colored armchair in the den.
"The window in the den overlooks the yard with the little white dog," Gladys said.
"What dog?" I asked.
"Across the street from your building is a little dog behind a fence. Rodney likes to go over there and tease that little dog. He walks back and forth in front of the fence to make the dog bark."
I cast a fish-eyed glance at him. There was, indeed, a small white terrier behind a fence across the street, but I never dreamed Rodney went over there. "You torment that dog, do you?" I snarled at him.
"He's very full of himself," she continued. "He says women are always commenting on the pretty yellow markings on his head. He loves women. He's been told that he's quite handsome."
My jaw made a nasty clattering sound as it hit the linoleum floor. My boyfriend's secretary had been visiting our condo only the weekend before, and she had made a huge fuss over Rodney. She had praised the three little stripes on his head and used the very word handsome.
I took a deep breath and cut straight to the punch: "So why does he go door to door caterwauling?" I asked.
"He only howls at the windows where there are other cats. He thinks that if he calls them, they will be able to come out and play. He's lonely.?
The answer was so obvious, I felt pretty foolish. Not once had it occurred to me that he was meowing not at the neighbors, but at the neighbors' cats.
"But . . . . but . . . .how can I make him stop before we get kicked out of the condo? I can't bear to keep him cooped up inside, but when I let him out, he screams," I whined.
"Get another cat. He's lonely. He doesn't want to be the only cat," she snapped. She had no way of knowing Rodney was the only cat at home; nonetheless, I wasn't thrilled with her prescription. One cat seemed to be more trouble than I bargained for -- the little furry foghorn had already gotten us booted out of our last apartment; now the homeowners association in our new condo threatened to give me and my pint-sized Pavarotti our walking papers . . . again. How was I supposed to consider a second cat?
"Did you know your neighbors feed him?" she continued.
"What? What neighbors?"
"The neighbors with the two little girls. He goes in their house. Several of your neighbors let him in to be fed." I knew the neighbors with the two little girls, but I had no idea they were having my cat over for dinner.
"That's why he hasn't seemed very hungry lately.?
I cast a wary glance in his direction. Rodney had settled into a squat on the cold table. He was calm, he was smug, and there was no mistaking the expression on his little furry face: He was smiling. He was finally getting the best of me, as he always thought he should. By this time, the strangeness of the communication had worn off and I was asking questions freely, like a foreign ambassador with a really fast translator:
"Ask him why he pees on my clothes," I said.
"He doesn't want you to go away and leave him alone. Peeing on your clothes is the only way he can express his anger." This was too true to be believed. I had a promotional modeling job that sometimes took me away for weekends, where I'd wear a specific uniform. When I got home Sunday night and emptied out my suitcase, I'd pile all my travel clothes on the floor, mingling my uniform with a week's worth of other dirty laundry. Then I'd get distracted by other chores. Later I'd find the pile strewn all over the floor. Rodney would have singled out my uniform from the pile of laundry and peed only on it. Eventually I learned not to leave my laundry on the floor, so he resorted to peeing directly into my freshly packed suitcase. That way I wouldn't discover until I unpacked my bag in Palm Springs that everything I brought was soaked and my uniform reeked to high heaven.
"He seems to know the uniform I wear when I go away. How could he possibly know what clothes I wear to work?" I asked.
"He just does," she replied.
"Why does he freak out every time I leave? He even seems to be afraid of the dark. Ask him why he has screaming panic attacks at three a.m. Ask him where he came from," I urged.
"He says he lived in an industrial part of Van Nuys, where there were a lot of strays. Men would put food out in the alley for the cats. There were piles of cardboard boxes and machinery and a lot of grease on the ground. He got shut up in the warehouse at night and was very cold and hungry. Howling was the only way he could get fed."
"So, he really is afraid of the dark? And he gets claustrophobic?" I asked.
"Only at night, he says."
"Poor little guy," I cooed, and patted his head. This explanation shone a whole new light on our dilemma. It couldn't have made more perfect sense. I had found him in the North Hollywood pound, on feline skid row. The little operatic kitten had...
-- Martha Beck, Expecting Adam
Rodney Speaks
I was as skeptical as any sane person would be that morning, fourteen years ago, when I loaded Rodney, my cat, into his carrier to take him down to the holistic veterinary clinic where a psychic was seeing animals. I was having some problems with Rodney that my regular vet couldn't help, and I figured, why not give the psychic a shot? It seemed a little goofy and I felt a little foolish, but what did I have to lose? No matter what, it was sure to be good for a laugh.
I thought at the time, as some of you may think now, that the psychic business is either a hokey sideshow act or a solemn, mystical affair, full of incense-burning Gypsies and weird witches with crystal balls. Boy, was I in for an eye-opener.
Gladys, the psychic, wore no heavy eyeliner, no gold hoop earrings or jangling charm bracelets. She was less gypsy fortune-teller and more midwestern grandmother. Were those ketchup stains on her shirt? I was perplexed.
When I extracted Rodney from his carrier and put him down on the cold metal table in front of her, he didn't howl like a triggered car alarm or jump off the table, his usual reaction at the vet's. Instead, he sat perfectly still and quietly scrutinized Gladys. He actually seemed startled to see her. She returned his gaze.
"What are you doing?" I whispered to her.
"I'm talking to him," she replied flatly.
You've got to be kidding! I wanted to yell. No incantations? No sweeping arm movements? No speaking in tongues? My curiosity won out over my skepticism.
"What does he say?" I whispered.
"I asked him what his favorite food is and he says chicken."
Good guess, I thought. True, Rodney gobbled up quite a bit of fresh chicken, but what cat doesn't like chicken? Any ninny could have figured that out.
"Now I am asking him what his favorite spot in the house is," she said. Again, Gladys did nothing more than look at the little cat, who returned her gaze, nonplussed.
The answer must have come to her quickly: "He says he likes to sit on the back of an orange chair that overlooks a window. A chair in the den."
"That's exactly right," I gasped. When Rodney was inside the house, he planted himself on the back of the peach-colored armchair in the den.
"The window in the den overlooks the yard with the little white dog," Gladys said.
"What dog?" I asked.
"Across the street from your building is a little dog behind a fence. Rodney likes to go over there and tease that little dog. He walks back and forth in front of the fence to make the dog bark."
I cast a fish-eyed glance at him. There was, indeed, a small white terrier behind a fence across the street, but I never dreamed Rodney went over there. "You torment that dog, do you?" I snarled at him.
"He's very full of himself," she continued. "He says women are always commenting on the pretty yellow markings on his head. He loves women. He's been told that he's quite handsome."
My jaw made a nasty clattering sound as it hit the linoleum floor. My boyfriend's secretary had been visiting our condo only the weekend before, and she had made a huge fuss over Rodney. She had praised the three little stripes on his head and used the very word handsome.
I took a deep breath and cut straight to the punch: "So why does he go door to door caterwauling?" I asked.
"He only howls at the windows where there are other cats. He thinks that if he calls them, they will be able to come out and play. He's lonely.?
The answer was so obvious, I felt pretty foolish. Not once had it occurred to me that he was meowing not at the neighbors, but at the neighbors' cats.
"But . . . . but . . . .how can I make him stop before we get kicked out of the condo? I can't bear to keep him cooped up inside, but when I let him out, he screams," I whined.
"Get another cat. He's lonely. He doesn't want to be the only cat," she snapped. She had no way of knowing Rodney was the only cat at home; nonetheless, I wasn't thrilled with her prescription. One cat seemed to be more trouble than I bargained for -- the little furry foghorn had already gotten us booted out of our last apartment; now the homeowners association in our new condo threatened to give me and my pint-sized Pavarotti our walking papers . . . again. How was I supposed to consider a second cat?
"Did you know your neighbors feed him?" she continued.
"What? What neighbors?"
"The neighbors with the two little girls. He goes in their house. Several of your neighbors let him in to be fed." I knew the neighbors with the two little girls, but I had no idea they were having my cat over for dinner.
"That's why he hasn't seemed very hungry lately.?
I cast a wary glance in his direction. Rodney had settled into a squat on the cold table. He was calm, he was smug, and there was no mistaking the expression on his little furry face: He was smiling. He was finally getting the best of me, as he always thought he should. By this time, the strangeness of the communication had worn off and I was asking questions freely, like a foreign ambassador with a really fast translator:
"Ask him why he pees on my clothes," I said.
"He doesn't want you to go away and leave him alone. Peeing on your clothes is the only way he can express his anger." This was too true to be believed. I had a promotional modeling job that sometimes took me away for weekends, where I'd wear a specific uniform. When I got home Sunday night and emptied out my suitcase, I'd pile all my travel clothes on the floor, mingling my uniform with a week's worth of other dirty laundry. Then I'd get distracted by other chores. Later I'd find the pile strewn all over the floor. Rodney would have singled out my uniform from the pile of laundry and peed only on it. Eventually I learned not to leave my laundry on the floor, so he resorted to peeing directly into my freshly packed suitcase. That way I wouldn't discover until I unpacked my bag in Palm Springs that everything I brought was soaked and my uniform reeked to high heaven.
"He seems to know the uniform I wear when I go away. How could he possibly know what clothes I wear to work?" I asked.
"He just does," she replied.
"Why does he freak out every time I leave? He even seems to be afraid of the dark. Ask him why he has screaming panic attacks at three a.m. Ask him where he came from," I urged.
"He says he lived in an industrial part of Van Nuys, where there were a lot of strays. Men would put food out in the alley for the cats. There were piles of cardboard boxes and machinery and a lot of grease on the ground. He got shut up in the warehouse at night and was very cold and hungry. Howling was the only way he could get fed."
"So, he really is afraid of the dark? And he gets claustrophobic?" I asked.
"Only at night, he says."
"Poor little guy," I cooed, and patted his head. This explanation shone a whole new light on our dilemma. It couldn't have made more perfect sense. I had found him in the North Hollywood pound, on feline skid row. The little operatic kitten had...
