Some Days
What the Dogs Know — Stories from a shelter volunteer and animal communicator
When I arrived, Bella was gone. Adopted. I had been looking forward to her hugs all week, and then she wasn't there.
Nobody at the shelter knows what I do beyond the leash and the poo bags. I do the work. I let the ordinary be ordinary. But something else happens in the middle of it. As an animal communicator, this is how I've come to know who they are. With Bella gone, something felt different.
We were short a volunteer today. I felt the pressure of it — more dogs, same time, a need to keep moving so everyone got a walk.
But I am getting better at this. Last week after walking every large breed that wanted to pull and run, I felt I could handle the two small chihuahua dachshund mixes sharing one kennel — likely siblings, nearly puppies. I don't often get the chance to walk small dogs, and I was the first one there. But before I grabbed them — I checked next door at Bella's kennel.
In her place was a young golden shepherd mix sharing three different names she liked — Mary, Izzy, Lois. We walked the forest path and she didn't pull. Her nose stayed alert. When I felt myself settle into the rhythm of it I asked her to describe the home she wanted. It has become part of my core questions at the shelter — that, and what name do you really want to be called.
She showed me a farmhouse at the end of a long rural road. Not many people. Corned beef hash — it was all she'd known and she loved it without apology. If it had to be a city home, she wanted trees outside. A crisp white interior. Open and spacious, she said. Which felt to her like the farm.
I returned Lois to her kennel and went to get the puppies.
The moment I walked out the door I started to question my decision. The larger one was already pouncing on the smaller one. For the entire walk I kept them on opposite sides of me, a small referee between two siblings. At ten pounds each, they were more to handle than any of the larger breeds alone.
Together I called them Tom and Teddy — which felt about right for the first five minutes. Tom acted like a twelve year old kid at the pool who pushes the smaller ones in and laughs, doing it out of fun, not quite registering that the other one isn't having any. I sensed that Teddy didn't feel well. Either way, Tom had street smarts and he knew it. His brother was a different kind of dog entirely.
When I asked Teddy what he really wanted to be called, he said Marvin. Not Teddy. Marvin — the piano guy in the back of a jazz bar, unhurried, playing something nobody asked for but everyone needed. He kept his distance the whole walk, staying just outside what Tom could take from him.
When I asked if they wanted to stay together in their new home Marvin went shy. He whispered, as if Tom was listening, that he would be fine either way — that he would be loyal to his sibling. But as I nudged I sensed something underneath. He didn't want to seem ungrateful. In reality Marvin would be happier in his own home. Tom had bullied him for a long time.
Later when I walked past their kennel, I saw it confirmed — Tom was harassing Marvin. It looked like play from the outside. I knew it wasn't. I mentioned the behavior to one of the techs and left it alone.
But I carried it with me. Through the next walk and the one after that. The other dogs needed their time and I gave it to them. It was hard to let go.
Then there were two Alaskan huskies, both wanting Irish names, and a big guy as if he was a stuffed ham on Christmas Eve with short legs.
But my last dog of the day had no name. The paperwork said she was a stray. There was something about her not needing a name. All black, long hair with a few waves — as if crimped with a curling iron in the 1920s. She stepped aside when I opened the kennel. Timid. Uncertain of things in the way.
We made it into the sunlight. She slowly found her footing.
At the picnic table the dogs come to say hello, lean in. She did too. But she couldn't settle. She kept scanning — the way you do when you're looking for someone and you're not sure they'll be there.
She kept showing me a little boy at a baseball diamond. A family that was busy. A dog who had gotten lost without intending to.
I set a pink bubble around her when I returned her. I set an intention for the family to find her.
They're out there, I told her. They'll come.
I was almost to my car before I understood why this day felt different from the others. As someone trained in animal communication and psychic work, you learn to stay neutral. It's not detachment — it's discernment. Knowing where one experience ends and another begins.
But I hadn't walked away neutral. I noticed sadness. I carried away some of their stories.
Some days that's what they need to show you. And you let them.
If your animal is acting out or doing something you can't explain — there may be more going on than behavior alone. Wherever you are, that's where we start. Book a session.
*The names of the animals in this series have been changed to honor their privacy while they wait for their people.
Lesley Ames is a certified animal communicator and psychic medium based in the Pacific Northwest, working with clients in the UK, Europe, and around the world. She works with people and their animals — helping them hear what's already there. You can find her at lesleyames.com.