Fluffy does his business in your shoes -- again. Rover hides in the shower during thunderstorms. Snowball is on a hunger strike. Do you ever find yourself looking at your pet and saying, Just talk. Tell me what you want.

That might not be as crazy as it sounds. The hottest trend in pet-person relations is animal communication, whose practitioners believe that, like Dr. Dolittle, they can talk with the animals and understand what's on their minds. Otherwise levelheaded pet owners believe it, too, calling in a communicator instead of a vet or after a vet has failed to help. The movement is growing: Several books describing the technique have recently been published and prominent practitioners are making regular appearances on TV and radio talk shows.

No one knows exactly how many communicators are working in America today, but there are certainly hundreds. For a fee (generally in the range of $80 to $100 for a phone consultation; about $150 for a house call), they will "talk" with your pet. Some have been trained by other communicators; some just tap into their own innate ability (so buyer beware-the ability is, shall we say, more innate in some communicators than in others). As animal communicator Sonya Fitzpatrick of The Woodlands, Texas, recalls, she always talked to animals she was born with the gift, she says. After childhood, though, Fitzpatrick decided to stop doing it. Then, when she embraced the gift in her 50s, she says it was a matter of just trusting her instincts.

What kind of problems do communicators tackle? Some of their clients have animals who are misbehaving, have puzzling illnesses, or are simply lost. The communicators don't speak out loud to the animal; they reach out via mental telepathy. First, they ask the human client for a few details about the pet. Some also like to have a face-on photo so they can look into the animal's eyes. Most say they prefer not to have a lot of background information because they find it distracting. It also makes it difficult for them to pick out what is the actual communication from the animal and what is being supplied by prior knowledge. (Communicators differ from human psychics in that they focus on communication or translation as opposed to direct mind reading.)

Animal communicators say they connect with the pet through its owner or the photo, or just by meditating. With the link established, they send and receive information, sometimes in words but often in the form of images or strong feelings. If an animal is in pain, for example, some communicators claim to actually feel it themselves. "I become the animal," says Fitzpatrick.

Many clients believe in the process from the beginning while others are more skeptical, consulting a communicator only because all the conventional resources (vets, trainers, other pet owners) have failed them. Me? I was a major scoffer. Then, while I was interviewing Fitzpatrick, she began to "talk" to my beagle, telling me things that were eerily accurate. She reported, for example, that Buddy has trouble with the lower right side of his back. This is true. But even weirder: As Buddy was "telling" Fitzpatrick about his back trouble, he stretched out in front of me and started biting at the exact spot. Also, out of curiosity, I had Buddy "read" by Los Angeles-based animal communicator Amelia Kinkade, author of Straight from the Horse's Mouth: How to Talk to Animals and Get Answers. The insights of these communicators (see "What's on Buddy's Mind?" page 139) were too startling to dismiss, as were the following stories I heard from animal owners around the country.

Freddy, the runaway feline

When her close friend moved into a nursing home, Carol Allen of Van Nuys, California, agreed to take the woman's beloved ten-year-old tabby cat, Freddy. The friend was grateful, but, catlike, Freddy wasn't. He didn't like Allen's husband or her other cats, batting and hissing at them if they came too close. He spent his time either hiding in a closet or howling at the front door to be let out. Then, after two days, Freddy ran away. "I was miserable. I felt as if I had lost someone's child," says Allen, who called local shelters, searched the area, and offered a reward. But no Freddy.

Allen's sister is friends with Kinkade, but at that time-January 2000-Kinkade wasn't taking on new clients. Plus, she likes to work from photographs and Allen didn't have one of her new charge.

A couple of days later. More calls. More searches. In desperation, Allen called Kinkade again. "Look, I don't have a photo, but could you please just try?" she begged.

Kinkade agreed. "The photo simply gives me a focal point to channel my energy," she explains. "I'm really using the human to connect to the animal." Right then and there, Kinkade closed her eyes and focused on Freddy. She came away with the distinct impression that as you faced the street, standing at Allen's front door, the cat had gone to the house to the left. She also picked up that Freddy was looking at a school bus. "He saw it pull up and was watching the children get out," Kinkade reported.

She's clueless, Allen thought. There was no school nearby, and the house to the left was home to four dogs-no way the timid Freddy would have gone there. Allen did take a cursory look next door but found nothing. More time passed. Three weeks after Freddy disappeared, Allen hired a man to put up flyers. When he reached her street, he glanced at the driveway of the house to the left--and there, under the porch, was Freddy.

And what about Kinkade's image of a school bus? "Later I realized that a bus picks up kids there every day. I'd just never noticed it before!" says Allen, still amazed.

Worried about bringing the tabby back into her home, Allen found him new quarters with a single friend-no husband, no pets, just Freddy.

The case of Timmy, the heartbroken horse

Timmy, a 23-year-old thoroughbred, and Delight, a 29-year-old mare, were stable mates and best friends for many years, until the older horse became so sick that she had to be put down. Timmy's owner, Deni Bator of Ojai, California, was told that it would be best if Timmy were brought out to the pasture while the procedure was performed. When he came back, Delight was gone. Frightened, Timmy began to pace frantically. Over the next few weeks, he stopped eating. Eventually, Timmy began to charge at anyone who approached. "He would rear and bolt, and give this high-pitched scream. I've never heard anything like it," says Bator, tears still welling up at the memory.

Bator tried moving another mare into the stall; the veterinarian prescribed Valium. Nothing worked. Bator realized, to her great sorrow, that Timmy would have to be put down, too, before he hurt someone. She sat outside his corral and sobbed for an hour. Then the vet mentioned animal communicator Carol Gurney, author of The Language of Animals. "For our own peace of mind, we had to try," says Bator.

All Bator told Gurney was that Timmy's personality had changed drastically. She didn't mention Delight. To learn more, Gurney made a house call. As she got out of her car, nearly an acre away, Timmy began coming toward her in his corral. When she met him, he was calm. They both lowered their heads and were silent for a while. Soon, Bator could see that Gurney was crying. "Where is his friend?" she asked. Stunned, Bator told her about Delight.

"I was overwhelmed by the depth of his grief," says Gurney. "I told Deni that Timmy didn't know Delight was dead. He just thought she had been taken away. I asked if I could tell him the truth." When Bator agreed, Gurney turned back to Timmy, lowered her head again, and told him the truth telepathically.

Did it work? "I can't believe it's the same horse," Bator exclaims. "Though he still doesn't trust everyone, he's no longer dangerous. He just needed to grieve."

Parrot in the city

"It's one thing to talk to a bird; it's quite another to find a lost one in York City," says Julianne Heckert, whose Quaker parrot, Beeper, flew out her Manhattan apartment window in May-1997.

The day after Beeper escaped, Heckert called her friend Gall DeSciose, who is an animal communicator. Meditating on the seven-inch-high bird, DeSciose received that he was still alive and "up high." She also had a feeling that he was within a few blocks of home. "He told me he was frightened and hungry says DeSciose.

Heckert searched all day, with no success. Then DeSciose referred Heckert to New Jersey-based animal communicator Ginny Debbink. When Debbink focused on Beeper, the bird told her he could see the river. "He said he was in a tall, light-colored brick building with bushes nearby," Debbink says. Maybe a penthouse? she thought. "He also told me he was now well fed and warm, and that there was a large white bird who was reassuring him."

With that information, Heckert made up flyers and went to every neighborhood building that faced the Hudson River. No luck. But then, with two flyers left, she approached a doorman, who laughed and asked, "Is your bird loud?" He called up to the penthouse, and told her to go on up. "Even before the woman opened the door, I could hear Beeper squawking. I couldn't believe it!" exclaims Heckert.

The couple who found the parrot had owned birds before, so they had a cage and food. As for the large white "bird," maybe Beeper thought all pets were of the avian variety. "While I was there, I saw a sheepdog go up to the cage and sniff in a friendly way," says Heckert, "so I guess that's what Ginny had seen."

The overprotective dog

Hall had adopted Duncan, a two-year-old Australian shepherd, from a rescue shelter near her Tarzana, California, home. After a year, though, she felt she had no choice but to give the dog back. The Halls' home lies in a canyon populated by coyotes, mountain lions, and bobcats, and the dog kept jumping their fence-more than 20 times per day-to go after the wild animals. "We were sure he'd be killed," says Hall. They tried scolding. They even added three feet to the fence. But Duncan just jumped higher. As a last-ditch move, Hall called communicator Gurney. "I was skeptical, but I did love Duncan and wanted to give him a chance," she says.

When Gurney came, she asked a few basic questions, and then turned to Duncan, who was curled up beside her. "The two of them sat there in silence, with Carol nodding her head as if she were actually holding a conversation. "Duncan gave her his total attention," Hall recalls.

And what did Duncan have to say for himself? He thought that by going after the wild animals, he was protecting the family. She then explained to Duncan-via mental images and words-that when he jumped the fence and disappeared, his family felt scared. His real job was to stay home with them in order to keep them safe.

Hall bid Gurney goodbye, thinking it had been an interesting experience, but that nothing would really change. She was astounded, however, when Duncan immediately stopped jumping the fence. Hall says, still amazed, "It's been two years, and he's done it only once or twice since. The coyotes are still out there. He pays attention, but he doesn't jump."

SIDEBAR:

What's on Buddy's mind?

My mother laughed when I told her that animal communicator Amelia Kinkade was going to talk with my four-year-old beagle, Buddy. "I can tell you what's on that dog's mind," said Mom. "Food, more food, and did I mention food?" But when I heard Kinkade's report-facts and feelings she had picked up while meditating on a photograph of Buddy-I was impressed by her accuracy. She was off base about Buddy having a yellow bird toy. But her grasp of his emotions and behavior was uncanny. Some examples:

AMELIA KINKADE: "Buddy has a very strong attachment to a woman named Carol or Courtney-one of those names with a C and an R in it."

My mother, Carol, lives across the street. She and Buddy adore each other.

AK: "Before he came to you, he lived with someone who kept him locked up in a small room. He was very lonely."

Buddy's previous owner, a single woman, kept him in a crate while she was at work all day.

AK: "He thinks he is much bigger than he is. He thinks he is a Saint Bernard or a rhinoceros!"

Buddy is belligerent with both the neighborhood Doberman and rottweiler-I have to keep him on a short lead when we pass those dogs.

PHOTO (COLOR): Animal communicator Amelia Kinkade, here with a client's tabby, says that cats often "talk" about religion and politics. "Dogs, however, are more apt to be thinking about balls and hamburgers and trips to the beach."

PHOTO (COLOR): Timmy's owner was skeptical of communicators. She called in Carol Gurney. right, only "out of desperation."

Good Housekeeping, Oct 2001