If Animals Could Talk...

...what do we think they’d say? First thing that sprang to my mind was ‘stop killing us!’ Let’s face it, humanity does plenty of that. 

It reminded me of The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy - the televised version shown back in the 80s on British TV. Arthur Dent - one of the only two humans who survived the destruction of the Earth to make way for a hyperspace bypass - is introduced to the Dish of the Day at The Restaurant at the End of the Universe. The dish turns out to be an Ameglian Major cow, an animal created to actually want to be eaten and capable of saying so clearly and distinctly. Arthur’s two alien companions - Ford Prefect and Zaphod Beeblebrox - are quite happy to discuss what bits of the animal are best and how they should be served, guided by the animal itself as they investigate its haunches.

Arthur is horrified. “I don’t want to eat an animal that’s lying there inviting me to!”

“It’s better than eating one that doesn’t want to be eaten...” counters Zaphod. 

Which would you prefer? To be honest, I like eating meat and I’m not giving it up any time soon. I’d even kill and prepare it myself if I had to. But if my prospective dinner turned round and started chatting to me? Possibly not, however keen it might be on the idea of being consumed.

Some people believe animals can talk, and to a degree they can. I have bantams, the little half-sized chickens, and you can tell the difference between the contented clucking, the ‘I’ve just laid an egg!’ squawk, and the ‘cat,cat!’ screech. The kids adore the chooks, and the fresh eggs are a bonus, but they’re never going to end up on the dinner table. Sometimes, when I sit and watch them pecking away and one suddenly raises its head and eyes me, I wonder what goes through their minds. Do they even know what I am, aside from a source of food and the occasional nuisance when I shoo them back into their coop? Do they just see me as part of the landscape like a tree or the kids’ play equipment? Are they eyeing me up as a potential meal, remembering back to the time their T-Rex ancestors would have eaten something my size as a snack? Or are they just wishing they could say “more corn, minion!”?

From left to right - Chiana, Kyru, and Rush

So, as a newcomer to Romancing the Genre (thanks to Judith and Sarah for inviting me!), here’s a bit about me -

Bio

A stay-at-home mum of three who spent twelve years working as an Analytical Chemist in a Metals and Minerals laboratory, Pippa Jay bases her stories on a lifetime addiction to science-fiction books and films. Somewhere along the line a touch of romance crept into her work and refused to leave. In between torturing her plethora of characters, she spends the odd free moments trying to learn guitar, indulging in freestyle street dance and drinking high-caffeine coffee. Although happily settled in historical Colchester in the UK with her husband of 20 years, she continues to roam the rest of the Universe in her head.

Pippa Jay is a dedicated member of the SFR Brigade, a community of science fiction romance authors and publishing professionals committed to writing and promoting the very best in the genre.

Stalk me!

Website – http://www.pippajay.co.uk

Blogs – http://www.pippajay.blogspot.co.uk

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http://www.romancingthegenres.blogspot.co.uk/

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My cat said he loves me...

Yeah, right. I'm kind of glad my pets can't talk. At least, not in English.

I think most domestic animals view human behaviour with a mixture of confusion and incredulity.  Plus, if they're a cat, a healthy dose of contempt.

What on earth is that human doing? they say to themselves. Why must I participate in these strange rituals to get what I want? Where is the food, and when can I have some? Why is there someone on my side of the bed? Why is there never anything good on television?

My cat would kill me and eat me, if only he were a little larger and not quite as lazy. Still, it's the thought that counts. The day he learns to open one of those pull-top cans that cat food comes in? I'm screwed. Until then? Opposable thumbs, big fella. Watch 'em and weep.

Dinner is the major part of his day - nay, of his existence. If he could speak, his conversation would be something like this.

{Silence. For hours, until he's ready. Glares. Licks himself.}

"Where's the food?"

Yeah, that'd pretty much be it. Plonk on lap. Sleep now.

My dog, on the other hand, just wants attention. He doesn't care what kind - so long as he's on your radar, he's happy. Even being a bad dog is better than being ignored.

His idea of a cool car journey is not to stick his head out the window and hang his tongue in the wind. He just sits on the passenger seat and stares at you while you're driving. Intently. Kind of like he looks in the picture. What now? What now? What now?

Dog can do this for hours on end. Honestly, it'd be creepy if he wasn't so dense.

It's also kind of cool that pets don't understand English when they hear it. It means that I can say whatever I like, so long as it's in that cheerful, 'good boy!' tone of voice. The names my dog gets are unrepeatable. But does he care? Not a whit. So long as I'm calling him something, he's happy.

The cat routinely gets labelled 'Fatty' and 'Boombah' and 'Waterbag' (imagine that big floppy orange fella stretched out on his side and you will see this) and he just carries on, oblivious. On the other hand, maybe he does understand, and he's just biding his time...

Anyway, I'm not sure what this has to do with romance novels. The hero in my latest book has a cat, Rudolph, who eyes him with disdain and demands food. Damn, I've stereotyped a cat. Still, the fact that my hero is a 'cat person' (as opposed to a 'dog person') is shorthand for so many things.

Dogs assimilate, cats go their own way. Dogs obey, cats ignore. Dogs are Royalists, cats are republicans (lower-case r, of course). Dogs crave validation. Cats, au contraire, couldn't care less whether you like them or not. They don't need you. Dogs do.

Do you think owners choose pets that reflect their own personality? Is a romance between two cat people going to be a different story than a romance between a dog person and a cat person? Or is it all just about the cute furry animals?

A Tribute to Kiko

This month’s theme “If Animals Could Talk…” made me scratch my head. What do you mean if????

Okay, so Kiko the Magnificent couldn’t actually talk—actually she rarely meowed—but that little kitty communicated with me on a far more complex level. To show you what I mean…

Once, I was watching a movie with my husband, and got up, for apparently no reason. He asked, “Where’re you going?”

The question startled me. I wasn’t exactly sure. Without thinking, I replied, “The cat needs some water.”

Then I headed upstairs, almost trancelike (okay, maybe I exaggerate a bit about my zombie state).  There she sat. Patiently waiting by her water bowl.

During the seven wonderful years Kiko allowed me to live in her house, there were daily incidents similar to the one above. I seemed to “know” I needed to move a pillow off a chair because Kiko had decided to sit there instead of her usual spot. A thought would pop in my head and I’d go get a blanket. Kiko would snuggle beneath it, like she’d requested it. I’d stop writing and go remove that tee shirt that had somehow ended up covering her food.

How else, other than mental telepathy, could a cat learn to fetch? Yes, if I threw a toy small enough for her to carry, she’d retrieve the item and bring it back to me. Even more impressive, she liked to play hide-and-seek, always hiding before I got to ten and always tagging me before I found her.  I didn’t teach her that game. I never rewarded her with treats for behavior. Somehow, I just knew that’s what she wanted to do.

So it was very weird I didn’t know she was sick.  I got no sense of her disease, only noticing when she stopped eating.  I know what you’re thinking. Cats are very good at masking illness. Maybe, but that cat and I were synched—I should have known. Our mental connection sometimes freaked my husband out.

But you see, my husband was also very sick. Dying actually. I’m convinced my little kitty wanted to spare me more pain. When I took her to the vet, she said Kiko wouldn’t live more than a month. My cat stayed on this earth for another four months, hanging in there to get me through a horrific time. She spent most of that time in my lap, looking at me with those beautiful green eyes, projecting the same thought: it will be all right.

A year later, tears are welling in my eyes as I write this. But I’m also smiling.  I can still sense Kiko. And she’s saying, “See. It’s all right.”