I have loved animals since I can remember. We always had a dog and a cat when we were children. The cat was mine and her name was Oscar. Yes, I know, it’s a boy’s name but when you are 8 or 9 years old you assume it will be a boy. She was found dumped at a building site not far from our house, so tiny and ravenous she had to come home with me. After much persuasion my father allowed her to stay and my mother arranged for the necessary alterations for said cat! I would imagine her talking to me, telling me about her day’s adventure. Our dog was an ordinary 5-7 variety – no pedigree, but lovely to me even so. He too would tell me about his day while I was at school. I have always believed animals converse with each other and understand humans more than we know.
Through the years this belief has grown stronger with the pets we have owned. I may have told you how, when reading stories to my children, I would use different accents and voices or would just make up conversations between them. Now I have written these stories down and given them all a different character with an identifying accent.
George, our English springer spaniel, was the first to speak out loud to us. He was quintessentially English. We bought him from a rare breed farm in Stokenchurch, Buckinghamshire. He was the only male with spotted legs and was absolutely gorgeous. I adored him. Then came Lizzie. She was a short haired jack Russel and although you wouldn’t say she was pretty, you could say she was a handsome dog, if that makes sense. Lizzie was white with two black ears and taller than her sister, Phoebe, who looked more like a westie than a jack Russel. We bought them together because the children couldn’t decide which one to have. Phoebe was long haired and a mixture of black and white with two black ears, one of which refused to stand up! I gave Lizzie a plain speaking voice as you can find in a character, with a London sort of accent. Phoebe, as I mentioned in my previous post, had a Yorkshire accent and a soft character. Last but not least, Cathas made an entrance. He was a lovely looking ginger cat with amber coloured eyes and the most spiteful nature I have witnessed in a cat. He would spring onto your back as you walked down the stairs. His extremely sharp claws would lock onto your back and pierce through your clothing, shredding your epidermis to ribbons but, we loved him. He had a Spanish accent and a self-pleasing character. The only reason for making him Spanish was because the family we bought him from had moved from Spain.
We all lived together quite happily each with our unique characters and me with over active imagination.