Seth and Cat Telepathy

Seth and Cat Telepathy, Jane Roberts, The Nature of Personal Reality, Lynda Madden Dahl

Seth and Cat Telepathy

You must look to the natural universe that you know. You must look with your intuitions and creative instincts at the creatures about you, seeing them not as other species with certain habits, not as inferior properties of the earth…but as living examples of the nature of the universe, in constant being and transformation.
—Seth,
The Nature of the Psyche, Session 798

How consciousness of all species communicates between Framework 2 and Framework 1 is dazzling to behold, because it shows so clearly how the pieces of the Now’s spacious present arrange their reflection in Framework 1’s physical reality. Here’s a personal story that still amazes me, because it centers around the Framework 2 communications between animals themselves, and how Stan and I became intimately exposed to its workings. If this story doesn’t convince one of animal telepathy and psychic connection beyond the physical, and the fact that animals have feelings, it’s hard to imagine what would.

Two newborn kittens—later named Benji and Chumley—were found near death by Stan and me on our deck. We knew Bertie, one of our untamed, very skittish cats never touched by us, was their mother, because it was obvious she had just given birth. And it was also obvious she didn’t intend to take care of her babies, so we took them inside. Stan and I never saw either kitten near their mother again, even when they eventually learned to venture outdoors on pleasant days. Chumley died when they were six months old from a strange, unknown disease.

Meanwhile, when Chumley and Benji were a couple months old, a little black and white female who looked a lot like Benji and seemed to be about the brothers’ age, showed up alone at the house. Whitney seemed to prefer the solitude of herself over mixing with the other cats, and stayed aloof and outside. Probably part of the reason for her aloneness, we later discovered, was because she was nearly deaf.

Mama Bertie, who was terrified of almost everything, made the deep bramble bushes on our property her home, her haven, a place of paths and solitude and safety. She became ill when Benji was about a year old, but her inclination to run from even common noises and her fear of humans meant we had few options to helping her fight her illness. Stan tried to coax her into carriers, he set Have-A-Heart animal traps for her, he laced her canned food with antibiotics. But Bertie steered clear of it all. And she became more and more ill, from what we had no idea. And finally Bertie was dying.

I was out of town the day she passed on, but Stan phoned to tell me the heart-wrenching story. He’d been cutting wood since early morning and reorganizing the wood pile not far from Bertie’s favorite path into the bramble bushes. Bertie had crawled deep into her safe place soon after he started his chores, and to his eye, it looked like she was near the end.

Sad at heart, and not knowing how to physically help her, Stan moved a log close to the brambles, sat down, and simply talked to her, quietly and, he hoped, soothingly. But Bertie was in great pain by then, and to Stan’s anguish, she started crying. He couldn’t see her, but he sensed she was going into convulsions. He dropped his head into his hands, mentally sending her words of love and encouragement.

When Stan finally looked up, Benji, who had been in the house all morning, was about six feet away, staring at the brambles. Shortly thereafter, little deaf Whitney joined Benji, and for the next twenty minutes, until Bertie was finally at peace, they didn’t move from each other’s side. Stan’s first words to me on the phone were, “I guess we now know who Whitney’s mother is, and her brother, too.” And we both felt the tightening in our throats.

A newborn baby, taken from his mother and raised indoors; a little deaf stray, choosing to live outdoors and alone. Coming together, in consciousness, to share with their mother her last moments. And, one might ask, how did the cat indoors, 30 yards from the bramble bushes, hear his mother’s distress? How did a virtually deaf cat hear her mother’s distress? And why were they not joined by other cats during their vigil? And my personal question, because I cherish him so: Was Chumley there, also?

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Excerpted from upcoming (mid-June, 2014) Living a Safe Universe, Vol. 3, by Lynda Madden Dahl. Lynda is the award-winning author of seven Seth/Jane Roberts-based books. She is co-founder of Seth Network International, the global meeting place for Seth readers; published a quarterly magazine, Reality Change: The Global Seth Journal, for seven years; has produced numerous Seth conferences and been a speaker at many others. You are invited to become her friend on Facebook and on Twitter, and follow her at Lynda’s Seth Talk Blog.

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