A few months ago a new client, Deb, called me for help with her cats, Gizmo and Gabby, two-and-a-half year old brother and sister. One of them was urinating on the bed in the spare bedroom. This had been going on for some weeks, and Deb’s husband was beginning to lose patience. Deb suspected that Gabby, the female cat, was the culprit because she had recently had a urinary tract infection. But Deb wanted me to check to make sure.

We scheduled the session several weeks out so Deb would have a chance to thoroughly clean the room. I explained that there wasn’t much hope of getting the behavior to stop if the bed reeked of cat urine. So she agreed to purchase a product that eliminates the protein in animal urine (and with it the smell) to wash all of the bedding, to replace the pillows, and to keep the door to the spare bedroom closed until after our session.

I began the session, which I conducted across distance, by calling both cats in. Before I could even ask the question, Gabby said, “ He’s doing it!” Gizmo didn’t deny it, so I turned my attention to him.

I explained that this behavior, this marking his territory with urine (which is what I sensed he was doing), is disgusting to humans. I explained that his human companions love him and want him to have free run of the house but that he simply had to stop urinating on the bed. I reminded him that he has a litter box (I found out later that there were two in the house). He indicated that he wanted another one in the spare bedroom. He showed it to me: It was one of the fancy ones, enclosed on three sides, very private.

When I turned my attention back to Gabby, she was outraged. “He’s always getting everyone into trouble!” she said. I admitted that we’d thought she was probably the one making the mess because of her kidney problems. “Just because I had a kidney infection,” she snapped, “doesn’t mean I’m going to pee all over everything!” I could almost hear her stomp her little foot.

Further, she didn’t understand why “his Royal Highness” needed another litter box, but “whatever.” She said she enjoys taking naps on the bed and would appreciate it if Gizmo would “stop being such a jerk.”

Deb got a kick out of the session notes (I called her when it was over), and so at the very least the session had entertainment value. Deb agreed to buy Gizmo the litter box he’d asked for. All there was left to do was to wait and see. At no point had he agreed to change his behavior. He had accepted quite a bit of Reiki at the end of the session, though, and I hoped this would help fix whatever was ailing him.

A week went by. No news. Another week. No news. I assumed that no news was good news and was just getting ready to email Deb to confirm the masterful job I’d done when I saw her email in my inbox. The subject line read “Oops.”

Darn! I thought. That little critter is peeing on the bed again!

But no. This time, the stakes had been raised. This time, someone was pooping on the bed.

I wasn’t sure if I my words would have any effect on whoever was doing this, but Deb wanted me to try, and so I did. As I had done in the first session, I called both cats in, not knowing who the guilty party was. Gizmo immediately came forward. Gabby stayed quietly in the background.

Once again, I read Gizmo the riot act. I told him his behavior was unacceptable, totally disgusting What was he thinking?

He said, very calmly, “You told me not to pee on the bed.”

Hilarious, right?

I was more specific this time. I told him he was not to soil the bed in any way, that this behavior is absolutely disgusting to humans, those same humans who feed him and play with him and buy him toys and fancy litter boxes. Those humans.

While I was talking to him, I got the strong sense that he was marking territory with the poop. To be honest, I’m not as familiar with cat behavior as I am with dog and horse behavior. I knew he’d been marking the bed with urine, but I didn’t know if using feces for this purpose was normal. But that was the sense I got.

When I had finished talking to him, he quietly accepted quite a bit of Reiki. Then he spoke: He said he would stop messing on the bed.

Hooray, an actual commitment! Hoping I had covered all the possible bases, that there was no escape clause in our agreement, I told him that in the future if he was unhappy about something, he should sit in front of Deb or her husband and stare. I gave these instructions just in case Gizmo was acting out, was messing on the bed as a way of getting attention, though my sense was still that Gizmo was marking territory. But why? When I asked the question, I got a quiet inkling that it had to do with Deb’s husband. Could Gizmo be jealous?

I decided to go with this theory. I explained to Gizmo that Deb’s husband is the alpha male of the house, not Gizmo. That the house belongs to him, not Gizmo. That Deb is his mate, not Gizmo’s. I explained that Gizmo is the main male cat, that he is an important member of the family, but that he is not Deb’s mate. Then I reminded Gizmo that he had promised not to mess on the bed anymore and ended the session.

When I shared all of this with Deb, I learned that this spare bedroom is actually more than that. Her husband’s closet is in this room. He dresses in this room every morning, lays his clothes on the bed.

Eureka!

Deb agreed to start spending more one-on-one time with Gizmo, to be sure to tell him what a special guy he is, but to back up my point that he is not her mate. She did this, and while we never knew what had set the furry critter off to begin with, the problem ended as quickly as it had begun.

It’s been four months now and, no longer a litter box, the bed is just a bed.

So far so good . . .

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in April 2008.

© 2008 by Pamela Sourelis

On the last episode of “Gray’s Anatomy” before the writers’ strike, one of the story lines involved an energy healer who was in the hospital for a life-saving surgery but who kept leaving her room to heal other patients. In one case, the healing was immediate—dangerously escalating blood pressure lowered and an imminent crisis averted. In another case, the healing occurred just a few hours after she had laid her hands on an injured child. The episode ended with the healer and two friends, also healers, imagining the steps of her upcoming surgery (which a doctor was talking them through) while channeling healing energy in an effort to make the surgery unnecessary.

All of this brought a huge smile to my face. I had seen energy healers depicted on network television before, but always as slightly delusional women (never men) who just didn’t have good sense. I had never seen the subject treated with such respect. I was excited by the prospect of thousands of viewers stopping, thinking that maybe there was something to this healing energy thing after all.

But then I thought, oh no, are folks going to think healing always happens this fast, and if it doesn’t then it’s not the real thing? Are people once again going to be made to believe that healing should be quick, easy, and painless?

While miracles most certainly can, and do, happen, in my experience as a healer, the healing is more apt to occur in layers. In December, I wrote about Leroy, a rescued Belgian who was almost completely shut down with pain and depression. (The article is now on my Website if you missed it.) His recovery was one of the most speedy I have ever experienced; he was hungry for healing, and soaked it up like a giant sponge. Even so, the healing was not immediate. His transformation from pain and fear to joy took several sessions, and he is continuing to grow and change today.

While physical pain can be alleviated fairly quickly with Reiki, complete physical healing can take longer, and complete emotional healing can take longer still. I am currently working with a rescued mare who was so shut down when she arrived at her new home that she continuously stood off by herself, head down, not even socializing with her filly. This had been going on for months when I began working with her (across distance). After one session, her human companion saw the mare give a little buck in the paddock (something she had not done before); after the second session, the mare climbed the hill to be with the other horses. I was ecstatic! But the mare’s human companion, who had expected a full and immediate recovery, was not. She said that mare was still sullen and that she had actually become a bit more stubborn with humans (she is not being ridden).

I asked the woman to consider that the mare’s healing was happening in layers, like layers of an onion being peeled off one by one. Gradually, the woman recognized that the mare was actually feeling better, that the little buck and the climb up the hill were indications that she was coming back to life. When you haven’t felt for awhile, the initial thaw isn’t always pleasant, and this mare was feeling a bit grumpy! But she was feeling. And that was the gift. She is now slowly adapting, becoming more comfortable with herself and her surroundings, slowly learning to trust.

Healing often comes slowly. The hoof of a newly barefoot horse may need to expel necrotic tissue through abscessing before the foot is healed. The toxic horse may lose weight when detoxed because the toxic bloat is gone. Healing is coming, but the horse may look awful in the short term. The physical wounds caused by harsh hands can heal slowly, from the outside in. The emotional wounds caused by hard hearts can heal slowly, from the inside out.

Energy healing, including Reiki, can assist in this process, can warm the shut-down heart, can assist the healing of broken bones, torn flesh. The power of this healing is life-altering (and well-documented). Despite television’s good intentions, energy healing is not a quick fix; it heals at the source of the illness or despair; it heals the cause, not just the effect. Sometimes this healing takes more time than we would like, reveals more pain than we expected, but it is always worth the wait.

Until next month . . .

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in March 2008.

© 2008 by Pamela Sourelis

My friend Mia’s voice ached with grief. Her message said that Jake, the horse who had been part of her life for 28 years, was failing and would be put down that evening. What made it especially difficult was that Jake lived in Michigan; Mia lived in Minnesota. I had heard stories about Jake over the years, but had never had the pleasure of meeting him. When I returned Mia’s call, she reminded me that he had come into her life when she was 10 years old and he was 7. In two months, he would be 34. They had grown up together. “He’s the benchmark for everything,” she said. How was it possible that he would be gone from this earth.

I met Mia 10 years ago, when she moved from Michigan to Chicago. While Jake had gone to college with her for two of her four years, he didn’t make this trip. Instead, she decided to turn his care over to her mother, who had been bitten by the riding bug. Jake was the perfect horse for a slightly cautious, mature woman. Patient and endlessly tolerant, he graciously took on the role of teacher once again.

But now Jake had stopped eating; he lacked energy and seemed depressed. He was having serious bouts of diarrhea. The vet came out and scoped him. Jake’s stomach was slowly disintegrating. He wasn’t in any pain, but Mia’s mother did not want him to be, and so the decision was made.

Mia agreed with her mother’s decision but felt helpless so many miles away. She was saddened at not being there to say good-bye, to comfort Jake, to thank him. I told her that she could do all of these things and urged her to try. I told her that I would check in with him, would send Reiki, but that she could do the rest.

Go sit with him, I said. Tell your sweet husband that you need a little time alone. Sit quietly, calm your breath, open your heart, and call Jake in. He will come. You can talk to him. He will hear you.

When the hour of his passing was near, I connected with Jake, to help ease his transition if I could. He immediately started to speak:

“Tell her I love her. Tell her I loved watching her grow up from a lanky little girl to a beautiful woman. Tell her I am grateful for her love. No matter how silly, she was always tender. The love was in her fingertips, her breath. She is a very special person.

“It is hard to leave. I have loved this life. But I do not want to be a burden to those who love me. I do not want them to be forced to watch me decline. This is best. This is a courageous and noble gift, and I am grateful.

“Ask her to lay her hand on my brow . . .”

At this point, Jake’s voice trailed off, and he seemed to disappear. I held the space where he had been, not quite knowing what had happened. After several minutes, he returned. “Thank you,” he said, gently ending the communication.

When I read these notes to Mia, she cried at the part about her hand on his brow. She said that was the only place he’d ever let her scritch him, high up on his forehead, under his forelock.

I asked her if she had connected with him before he passed. She said that she had.

Mia had sat quietly in her room and closed her eyes. She calmed her breath and opened her heart. She asked Jake to come. And there he was. She was back in college on the trails near school, galloping Jake bareback and helmetless with her friend Maureen. (“We were so stupid then,” she said; “We did the dumbest things.”). Blasting down a trail with her two best friends, blasting down a trail with nothing but her future in front of her.

Mia said her good-byes, said her thank-yous. She held out her hands in the darkened room. “Go,” she said. “Go. Be free.”

Until next month,

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in February 2008.

© 2008 by Pamela Sourelis

Leroy is a gorgeous, elder chestnut Belgian with flaxen mane and tail. His human companion, Michelle, doesn’t know how old he is, but she does know that he has had a very rough life. He was an Amish workhorse for much of it, then sold to a hack barn where he was a hack horse. He then went to a series of broker lots, passed around through auctions a few times before landing at a broker that a rescuer friend of Michelle’s sometimes deals with. Because Leroy had been at the broker lot for quite awhile, he was at high risk of being shipped to slaughter.

Michelle’s husband, who she describes as a non-horsey person, had always wanted a Belgian. And here one was. And so Michelle rescued him. Something about Leroy tugged at her heart. Something in his eyes. She later told me, “Whenever I am with him, or look at his photos, I just get this broken-hearted feeling come over me; he makes me want to cry.”

When she brought him home and could see him in the flesh (she’d first seen him on the Internet), she noted that he was grossly underweight. His hips, ribs, and withers protruded through his dull winter coat. He drooled (most likely the result of ulcers) and bit at his chest, shoulders, and ribs; his joints creaked and crackled with each step. His mane growth indicated neck damage, most likely from an ill-fitting harness; the bridge of his nose was rubbed hairless and was indented, also from ill-fitting tack.

Michelle started Leroy on a high-quality feed program (VitaRoyal), which quickly stopped the drooling and biting. She then began the slow process of earning his trust. Her sense was that he just “[didn’t] have any use for humans.” He would grudgingly allow her to lightly touch his shoulder but then would swing his head at her to keep her at a safe distance. Although his eyes would briefly soften when she stood near him while he ate, for the most part he appeared anxious and unsettled.

It was at this point, when Leroy had been at his new home for about three weeks, that Michelle learned about my work and we set up a session with Leroy. She knew that eventually she would be able to bond with him—she had rescued quite a few horses previously—but she was interested in trying anything that might help him to settle into his new home more quickly and easily.

I conducted the session across distance. (He was on Michelle’s property in Connecticut; I was in my office in Illinois.) When he came into the room (not literally, of course), I immediately felt his deep sadness, his tears, and the fear that his body was holding. I told him that his new home is his forever home. That it is not a stop on the way to somewhere else. That this is where he will live out his life. He melted into this news.

He then led me through the session, directing me to place my hands on his painful, arthritic knees; allowing me to gently rock his body, to coax his ribcage, shoulders, sternum, and hips into tiny movement. I channeled Reiki up through his seat bones and along his spine. He said, “I feel so much better.”

At the conclusion of the physical work (neuro-muscular retraining), he presented his chest to me. I felt he was presenting his heart chakra rather than his physical chest. I sent Reiki to the area, and he said again, “I feel so much better.”

I asked him if there was anything else he wanted to say, but he was silent, not a sullen or frightened silent, but a contented, melted-butter silence. It was as though every ounce of anxiety had oozed out of him; it was as though he had completely let go of his ugly past.

I asked him if there was anything else he wanted to say, but he was silent, not a sullen or frightened silent, but a contented, melted-butter silence. It was as though every ounce of anxiety had oozed out of him; it was as though he had completely let go of his ugly past.

He told me that he planned on being around for quite awhile. He told me that he is very good with children.

That evening, he allowed Michelle to rub his shoulder. He did not swing his head at her. The next morning, he greeted her by standing squarely in front of her, blocking her path. Michelle told me, “He wanted to say hello!” He followed her around the paddock, looked at her with soft eyes, and allowed her to rub his shoulder and withers. He curved his head and neck in her direction, rather than away from her.

Each day, he allowed more contact, accepted more love.

A week later, I conducted another session with Leroy. Whereas the first time I met him I had been struck by his intense sadness, I was now struck by his intense joy. We had a wonderful session together, Leroy once again directing my hands. At the end of the session, he said, “I am very happy. Please tell Michelle, I am very happy here. I never thought I could ever be this happy.” After a moment, he added, “I am very lucky.”

I replied, through tears, “She is, too.”

A few hours later, Michelle wrote that when she’d gone out to out to feed Leroy he had nickered deeply for the first time; he had thrust his head into the feed bucket (up to this point he had been a reluctant eater) and had finished every morsel. Ordinarily, when she would then walk across the paddock to put his hay in his tub, he would follow behind at a safe distance. But now, he took the lead, trusting her to walk behind him.

So what am I learning from Leroy?

Leroy is showing me the exquisite power of letting go. His body had been abused, his spirit battered. He was awash in pain and fear. He was in yet another unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people who, if experience was a guide, were not to be trusted. His spirit was locked inside a dark and lonely place.

Yet Leroy has chosen to heal. From the very first, he accepted the Reiki, trusted it, allowed his heart to open, and simply allowed the fear and pain and abuse and horror of his life to flow out. The transformation was immediate. He held no grudge; he let go of the darkness and embraced the light.

Leroy is teaching me how totally effortless healing can be.

Until next month,

Be well,

Pam

To read Leroy’s story, you can visit his page.

“Good-Bye, Leroy”

Return to HOME page

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in January 2008.

© 2008 by Pamela Sourelis

[While I had planned to share the winner of the ìHow Smart are They?î contest in this monthís column, I canít do that because no one entered! No problem, weíll try again another time. Instead, I am sharing the column I wrote for the gift-giving season last year. I hope you enjoy it.]

The season of gift-giving is upon us. Some of us will frantically search for just the right gift, the gift that says just the right thing, expresses just the right emotion, the gift that shows us off in just the right light. We will plan and shop and prepare. We will spend far too much money and far too much energy and will end up feeling depleted and sad.

Others of us will give as little thought as possible to the chore of gift-buying and will speed down department store aisles mere days before our family gathering or our office gathering or the gathering at our place of worship, grabbing at whatever—they can always return it if they don’t like it—and paying extra for gift-wrapping. We will spend far too much money and far too much energy and will end up feeling depleted and sad.

Several years ago, a woman in one of my Reiki classes shared this story. The year before, she had been on vacation in Costa Rica and had been swept off the beach by a riptide. Her neck was broken in two places. She was told she might never walk again.

The woman, a successful groomer and dog sitter, always had a house full of dogs. She told of coming home from the hospital and being immobilized for weeks, her bed surrounded by dogs, both hers and other people’s. When her husband would come to check on her, he had to pick his way over and between the pack because they refused to move. She told us, her voice heavy with emotion, that she was certain it was the energy and love of these creatures that made it possible for her to walk again.

Later, with the aid of a walker, she was able to take daily walks to the corner. She would take several dogs with her. “They only needed one walk,” she said, laughing. “It took all day.” She took four at a time, two leashes in each hand, inching her way down the sidewalk. She said, “I would take a step, and they would take a step. I would stop to rest, and they would sit and wait. I would take another step, and they would take another step. I would stop, and they would sit.” The woman who was told she might never walk again told us she was soon able to walk on her own. What greater gift than this?

Giving is second nature to the creatures in our lives: the dog who teaches us about loyalty and unconditional love, the cat who teaches us about independence. Giving is second nature to the horse who hears our confessions and our prayers, who lets us bury our face in his strong, sweet neck, who nibbles our hair, who carries us on her strong back down a snowy trail, who looks us in the eye with fierce pride.

I think the animals have much to teach us about giving.

Perhaps this gift-giving season some of us will strike a better balance than we have in the past, taking our cue from the creatures in our lives. Perhaps we will fret less, enjoy each other more, give freely from our hearts.

Until next year,

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in December 2007.

© 2007 by Pamela Sourelis

My little white dog, Elika, loves to play. Her energy and joy seem boundless. She craves long walks, running in gigantic circles on the lawn, chasing squirrels and rabbits at break-neck speed (she knows she’s not allowed to catch them and will pull back when she starts to close in on them). When she feels I’ve been sitting at my computer for too long—and this is the only time she will do this—she comes into my office to get me, sits quietly next to my chair for a few minutes, then nudges my arm with her nose, insisting I come into the living room. Then she ambles over to her toy box and stares into it, until I choose a toy and play with her. Once I’ve taken this small break, she allows me to return to my work, uninterrupted.

One day, when I was living in a two-story house, I’d run upstairs to grab a sweater. Elika, a friend of mine, and I were getting ready to pile into the car and drive to a nearby state park to walk the trails. Elika was excited, and when I ran upstairs, she wanted to follow me. I asked her to stay downstairs, told her I’d be right back, and then we’d go for a ride. She sat at the foot of the stairs and watched me go up.

When I headed back down, seconds later, I didn’t see Elika. That was odd. Usually when I’m getting ready to go somewhere, she stays close by, worrying that she will be left behind (which rarely happens). I assumed she must have gone off to the kitchen to play with my friend. But when I reached the last step, Elika, who had been hiding around the corner, suddenly leapt out at me, a huge grin on her face. I was laughing so hard, I had to sit down on the step. Thoroughly pleased with herself and her joke, she covered my face with kisses.

To illustrate the intelligence of animals, their ability to recognize cause-effect relationships, their ability to tell jokes, I recently told this story at my Introduction to Animal Communication class. One of my students topped it.

She and her husband had been lying in bed watching TV one evening, when they heard their two dogs running around downstairs. They heard the smallest of the two run up the stairs and into the bathroom. It was panting hard. Suddenly, there was silence. The woman went into the bathroom to see what was going on. The little dog had jumped into the bathtub, was sitting entirely motionless, and was holding its breath!

The woman, not wanting to disturb the game, went back into the bedroom. Within seconds, the larger dog came bounding up the stairs and into the bedroom. He looked around the room, then looked at the couple, asking, “Where is he?” The woman said, “He went that way!” and pointed out into the hallway, towards the stairs. The dog ran out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

The little dog in the bathtub started panting again, jumped out of the bathtub, ran into the bedroom and into the couple’s bed, where he curled up for a nap.

I could tell you many more stories: the young, untrained horse who got tangled up in a fallen tree and stood quietly while the branches were cut away, then allowed himself to be backed out of the maze and led to safety before releasing his tension in a fit of bucking; the dog who brought a disabled child back into the house after the child had wandered away and then, after herding the child safely inside, went to find the child’s mother and reprimand her; the horse who let himself out of his stall, raided the feed room, then went back into his stall and latched the door.

But I’d rather hear your stories! And so I’ve set up a contest. Send your best story about an animal that exhibited thinking skills (cause-effect, problem solving, jokes). The winner will receive a certificate for a free Animal Communication session; the top three will be published in my December column.

The deadline for getting your stories to me is November 1.
The address is Pam@WingedHorseHealing.com

Let the world know how smart your critters are!

Until next month,

Be well,

Pam

P.S. For those of you who read last month’s column, the woman whose horse I wrote about wrote to say she’s found a trimmer to do a physiologically correct barefoot trim on her guy, and he’s now doing much better. So, while she was initially resistant, she did end up listening to her horse.

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in October 2007.

© 2007 by Pamela Sourelis

Recently, a woman contacted me for help with her young gelding. She wanted me to ask him to collect more at the canter and to stop running off with her when she rode him in the field. She also mentioned that he had been lame for the past two weeks; she suspected a stone bruise. I explained that collection and running off are training issues, but I agreed to work with her horse in the hope that I would be able to identify the underlying problems, which the woman would then be in a position to address. My sense was that the lameness issue was a contributing factor, certainly in the inability to collect.

I conducted the session across distance.

When I began working with the horse, he presented very stiff shoulders, especially the left, as well as stiffness and discomfort in the muscles along his spine. His sternum and ribcage were also somewhat sticky, reluctant to slide easily, indicating additional muscle tension. Rather than speaking to the horse about his difficulties collecting, I visualized him collecting and was immediately drawn to the middle of his back—the saddle area.

When I asked him about his saddle, it became was clear to me that it did not fit, that it was pinching his shoulders and putting pressure on his spine.

Armed with this information, I worked with his body for awhile (using NeuroMuscular retraining methods coupled with Reiki) to release tension and to show his body a more effective way of going. As I worked I also felt my hands drawn to his feet, which pulled in quite a bit of energy.

When I spoke with the horse about his habit of running away with the woman (he did not do this with the younger people who occasionally rode him), he clearly did not understand the problem. He just wanted to run across the field and have fun. He also indicated that he would like to take more trail rides. I got no sense of willfulness as I spoke with him, just the powerful, joyful energy of a young horse.

At the end of the session, I called the woman to discuss what I had learned. More information surfaced. It seems her horse had been “overworked” by a trainer several months earlier and had been intermittently lame ever since. This made sense. If the horse had been asked to physically perform at a level he had not been conditioned to achieve, he would have become sore and tight. The strain on one or more areas of his body could then have caused him to compensate in other areas, causing strain in those areas as well. The result would be a horse unable to move smoothly or efficiently.

I asked about his feet and was told that he was shod in front, that she was using a new farrier, and that her horse did not seem comfortable on his feet.

So we had a horse whose feet were bothering him, who had tight shoulders, a sticky ribcage, and a sensitive back, and who was wearing a saddle that did not fit properly. It was no wonder that the horse was unable to collect properly! Further, the woman said that in order to get her horse into shape, she needed to ride him every day. So we had a horse who was fairly uncomfortable in his body being asked to perform at a level that caused him discomfort—every day.

I suggested a physiologically correct barefoot trim that would bring the horse’s entire body back into balance, continued body work of some kind (with me or another practitioner) that would help him to regain his balance and strength, and a saddle fitting session with a knowledgeable professional. I also suggested the horse be given a bit of time off while these issues were being addressed.

The woman thanked me, but she seemed genuinely surprised that all of this was necessary. She explained that she had just wanted me to tell her horse what was expected of him—collection and good manners in the field. I explained again that collection is a matter of strength and proper training in using the hind end; it is not something that you can merely request. I also gently explained that riding in a field is very different from riding in an arena (she was relatively new to riding) and that perhaps the issue of his running off had to do with her confidence and experience as a rider.

She did not sound convinced.

This was not the first time someone had asked me to resolve a problem merely by telling the animal to stop (stop running away, stop digging in the yard, stop peeing outside the litter box, stop biting . . .) Sometimes this is possible, for example the cat who did not know that her early morning howling was annoying and stopped as soon as I explained it to her. More often, though, the animal reveals to me the behavior’s underlying cause (physical or emotional), which the human caregiver then needs to address.

It can be difficult at times, because of the tunnel vision we sometimes have, because of our desire for quick fixes and immediate results, but we need to fully hear and address the messages, physical or otherwise, that our animal companions are sharing with us. True communication is mutual; true communication is a two-way street.

Until next month,

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in September 2007.

© 2007 by Pamela Sourelis

Several years ago, I was standing in a long line at an area tack store (the long line was the result of a summer sale) and struck up a conversation with the woman ahead of me. One topic led to another, and we had come around to the topic of bare feet versus shod. The woman’s horse was intermittently lame. She was sure that a proper barefoot trim would solve his problems, but her veterinarian didn’t agree. So the horse was shod, with wedges and pads, and received daily doses of drugs. Her horse remained lame. The woman told me that she wished the veterinary community would catch up with the new research on feet. Clearly, she said, a physiologically correct barefoot trim was best for the horse.

Puzzled, I asked her why, if she was convinced of this, her horse was shod. She said it was because her veterinarian told her to keep him shod. She said again that she wished the vets would learn about barefoot because then they could share that information with their clients—and then she could take her horse barefoot, something she was convinced she needed to do.

To say that I was dumfounded would be an understatement. Here was a woman who had clearly done her research on barefoot, understood its benefits, and was convinced that this was the route her horse needed to take. Yet she ignored her own intelligence, never mind instinct, and took a path counter to her sense of what was best for her animal companion.

This is, of course, an extreme example. But I’m guessing that each of you (and myself as well) at one time or another, has silenced the voice inside that clearly indicated which path to take.

At a recent Reiki class, a student was working with my dog, Elika. Elika is a wonderful teacher; she is very clear about where on her body she would like you to place your hands. If you place them incorrectly, she will try to move them with her head or front paws; she will squirm around in an effort to reposition her body under your hands; she will even stare at the area of her body needing attention. She is very gentle, but she is not subtle.

So here is my little Elika, lying on her back, looking at her belly, trying to squirm underneath the woman’s hands so that they are placed on her belly (they were on Elika’s chest), and the woman asked me, “Do you think I should move my hands”? Now, I understand that the woman was just learning. But the question was so absurd that I just looked at her—and then at my squirming dog. The woman, seeing the silliness of the situation, laughed, then moved her hands to Elika’s belly.

Recently, I worked with a tiny dog who had gone into liver failure and was in the hospital for a week. In our first session, the little dog told me that she would be fine; she had been depressed, but the Reiki seemed to lift her spirits and raise her energy. Coupled with the excellent veterinary care, she recovered well enough to come home. Once the dog was out of danger, the human told me that her dog had become ill several hours after receiving a battery of shots. She was sure that the shots had precipitated the illness (which began with diarrhea and violent shaking). She had questioned giving her little one all of those shots at once, but she had questioned silently. Now as she was reading more about adverse reactions to vaccinations, she was wishing she had listened to the small voice asking her to reconsider giving so many at once.

Is my point that you should leave your brain behind and simply go with your gut? Not at all. Do your research, but do it with your heart as well as your head. Do not do something merely because someone tells you that this is how things have always been done. Look deeper. Look into your own heart. Look into your animal companion’s heart.

And most importantly, listen.

A few years ago, I was giving myself a little Reiki, which always puts me in a meditative state. I saw a river, quiet, winding. Suddenly, hundreds of wild horses galloped to the bank of the river. I heard a voice. It said, “They are here to teach us. Listen.”

I took this to mean that the animals are here to teach us not only about them but about ourselves as well.

Listen.

Until next month,

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in July 2007.

© 2007 by Pamela Sourelis

A year ago, when I introduced this column, I said that I would be writing about my experiences (and yours) with animal communication and Reiki energy healing. Beginning this month, though, I am also going to occasionally write about my experiences with neuro-muscular retraining (which Iíve been practicing for about 12 years). Simply put, neuro-muscular retraining is movement re-education, a method of teaching an animal to trade inefficient movement patterns for more comfortable, effective ones. Most of us have probably had the experience of thinking our horse was misbehaving and then finding out that the issue was really the result of pain (ill-fitting saddle, unbalanced feet, stiff ribcage or neck) rather than a behavioral problem. We always feel awful, of course, wonder how on earth we missed the signs, and swear it will never happen again. Many of us may have also thought at one time or another that our horse was purposely giving us a hard time when he or she refused to comply with a request, only to find out that the horse was reacting from fear, not belligerence, and that we needed to take a few steps back and fill in some gaps in the horseís training.

I wonder, though, how many of us have considered that our horseís refusal or reluctance to do what we ask could also be the result of an inability to effectively move in the way we are asking. In other words, he doesnít do it because he canít. This may or may not be a pain issue, but for the moment, letís assume that itís not. To illustrate, Iím going to share an experience I had with my beloved thoroughbred, Nikos, who passed away three years ago. At the time, of this story, he was 23 and had been with me for five years. Together, we had transformed his movement from stiff, rigid, rushing into limber, fluid, and powerful.

I had a friend who was a natural horsemanship trainer. Iíd done some work with her horse, and so (because barter is a wonderful thing), she was giving Nikos and me a lesson. The woman was a wonderful, soft trainer, and although Nikos already had excellent ground manners and had become very soft under saddle, I thought it would be fun to take a few lessons with her.

In this lesson, she was showing me how to use a soft rope to teach a horse to give to pressure (a fundamental rule of natural horsemanship). She placed the rope around one of Nikos’ legs at a time and gently pulled upwards; Nikos lifted his foot. Then she draped the rope around his hind end, gently pulled to the left, and Nikos stepped over with his hind legs, right leg over left. It took very little pressure because Nikos already understood the premise of giving to pressure and was very light.

Then my friend placed the rope around Nikos’ barrel and gently pulled to the left. She wanted him to move laterally, to step right leg over left in front and back at the same time. But he didn’t. She applied more pressure to the rope, then more. But Nikos did not move. He stood rooted to the spot, clearly thinking, beginning to look perplexed.

I told my friend that I was sure Nikos knew what she was asking him to do, but that for some reason he was having trouble doing it. I continued watching him. My friend applied more pressure to the rope. Nikos clumsily stepped over with his hind legs. She released then tried again. This time he stepped over with his front legs, just as clumsily. Aha! Now I understood. I told my friend again that Nikos was unable to do what she was asking. She told me, very kindly, that he had to learn.

“But,” I said, “You aren’t teaching him. You are asking and asking, but you aren’t teaching him how to do what you are asking.”

From watching Nikos, it had become apparent that, for whatever reason, he was feeling disconnected between front and hind. He could move the front, he could move the hind, but he could not perform the simple lateral move my trainer friend was asking for (a movement that he ordinarily had no problem with).

“Let me show you something,” I said and asked her to remove the rope.

Standing behind Nikos, I placed one hand on the left side of his seat bone and gently pushed toward his head. When I released, just as gently, I watched for the tiny head bob that would indicate the movement had traveled along his spine all the way from hind end to front. There. I then stepped over and placed my hand on the right side of his seat bone. Again, I gently pushed, gently released. Again his head gently dipped and raised.

I stepped away. “Now try again,” I said. My friend placed the soft rope around Nikos’ barrel and applied gentle pressure, asking him to step to the left. He gracefully stepped over, crossing his right feet in front of his left. My friendís eyes widened. She moved to the other side, placed the rope around Nikos’ barrel, applied gentle pressure. He gracefully stepped to the right.

“See,” I said, “you had to teach him how to do it. I don’t know why, but he was disconnected today.”

Perhaps the rope itself, draped as it was around his middle, had disconnected his front end from his hind (in much the same way that a girth does over time). Pushing through his seat bones, sending a gentle force up along his spine, had reminded Nikos of the connection between front and back, and in less than a minute he had been able to gracefully and willingly comply with the trainer’s request.

I remembered this incident recently as I worked with my green TB cross. On a large lunging circle, he kept tossing his head going left. He can be a pickle, and my first instinct was to ask him to knock it off. But then I noticed that he wasnít lifting his left hind leg as cleanly as usual, that there seemed to be a tiny bit of stiffness in his hips. He wasnít in pain, just wasnít able to move efficiently until I addressed the issue. I can get pretty focused on tasks, so I was glad I hadnít pushed him, glad Nikos popped into my head with a reminder.

Until next month,

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in June 2007.

© 2007 by Pamela Sourelis

I’ve been working with a cat for about a year and a half. She is an elderly cat, very thin and frail, but with a huge spirit. Her female caregiver is the one who hired me. She said she could never tell her husband what she was doing because he would think it was stupid.

The cat had colitis, a spastic colon that made eating and defecating painful. She would howl after she ate; she would howl when she had to use the litter box. The woman was, of course, very upset. The cat and I began with three Reiki sessions in three weeks (across distance; I have never met her face to face) and then reduced them to once a month. From the first session, the cat was able to eat without howling. After about a month, she started gaining weight. We continue the monthly sessions because of the cat’s advanced age and because she always seem revitalized, energized, and happy for weeks afterwards.

The woman writes me lovely emails about how the cat loves the Reiki sessions, how they have prolonged her life and improved its quality. The emails are gracious and touching, and make me feel grateful to have these two beings in my life.

The woman’s husband began to notice the changes in the cat. After about a year, the woman told him what was going on. She was surprised that he didn’t seem surprised. Seems he knew all along.

The man now has cancer. I asked the woman if her husband had considered Reiki for himself. At first she said she wouldnít even suggest it, that he would never agree to it. But then she finally asked. He said it was fine for the cat but not for him.

The woman has painful arthritis in her knees. I asked her if she had considered Reiki for herself. She told me that she was afraid. She said her cat always falls asleep when I work with her. The woman said that this is good for the cat, but that she herself needs to stay in control.

I have been working with a beautiful Golden Retriever. When I met him, the dog could barely walk up and down the stairs but can now leap up on a bed. The woman who is his companion and caregiver suffers from rheumatoid arthritis, spends a lot of time in bed, and flies to the Mayo clinic every few months. Her illness takes up huge chunks of her life. I explain that Reiki could at the very least help to ease her pain and could very likely help her to recover from infections and viruses more quickly. She says that would be wonderful. She says she can certainly see the effects on her boy, then tells me how much her body aches and that she needs to go lie down.

Over the years, numerous dogs, cats, and horses have told me that their human companions are stressed out, depressed, cranky, or unhappy, that their human companions need to take better care of themselves. They have asked me if I can help. I deliver these messages to the humans, who most often laugh nervously, then change the subject.

It is curious. It seems that we humans are attached to our illnesses and disabilities. Some of us define ourselves by them; we become our arthritis, our slipped discs, our insomnia, become our depression, our eating disorders, our addictions.

But who could we be if our knees stopped hurting, if our backs stopped aching, if we could count on a good night’s sleep? Who could we be if our stress disappeared, if our depression lifted, if our hearts became light?

The woman with the cat, the woman with the painfully arthritic knees, said to me, “We don’t want to let go of our afflictions. That would mean we would have to change.”

But who could we be if we wanted for ourselves the same quality of life we want for the creatures in our lives?

Who could we be?

Until next month,

Be well,

Pam

*This column originally appeared in From the Horse’s Mouth in May 2007.

© 2007 by Pamela Sourelis