Cast
Cast: a young man or woman.

Scene
When I was five I got a budgie for Christmas. My big sister named him Couscous and I taught him to say “Hello Polly,” which wasn’t either of our names, but hey, I was five. Couscous was my best friend and I told him everything. I would dream about him saying “Hello Polly” almost every night, and though he got out and flew away after a few months, the dreams lingered for a long time.

A few years later my big sister got a kitty and I insisted she be called Quinoa. Mum and Dad convinced me no one would know how to pronounce that so we settled on Polenta instead. I didn’t like the name because I don’t like the grain but mum reminded me she was Sal’s cat and not mine and I had no right to throw a tantrum, despite the fact that Sal had named Couscous Couscous.

Polenta was gorgeous but very vocal. If she wasn’t meowing because she was hungry – which was usually at four AM when she was near my bedroom door – she was purring like it was a competitive sport. She disappeared for a week once and I swore on Santa Claus she came home at night because I could hear meowing but it turns out she’d been trapped in a garage down the street and I got smacked for fibbing.

When I was ten I read The Horse Whisperer and fell in love with the romantic notion of talking to animals. I would sit with Polenta for an hour at a time, telepathically telling her all about my friends at primary school while she meowed incessantly. Dad told me if I was going to stare at the damned cat I could feed the damned cat. I tried to feed her polenta but she didn’t care for it.

The Davidsons moved in in the year 2000 and brought two dogs with them – a yapper and a barker. I developed an appreciation for the law this year because dad said he’d cave their heads in with a shovel if it wasn’t illegal. Shortly after they moved in I discovered I was an animal whisperer: I could hear what they were… thinking from within about fifty metres. When they weren’t making an actual racket, Rex and Zippo would fill my head. I’d hear a (barks) and (yaps) every morning when Mr Davidson was getting ready for work. I complained about their noise and mum said I had the hearing of a hawk. Not quite sure she got her simile right.

When a twelve-year-old discovers they have psychic powers, they don’t want to tell their family, but they want to tell someone. I told a friend, who demanded proof, so I headed around after soccer practice to speak to the family angelfish. I stared at it. It stared back with its beady eyes and fish mouth (makes a fish face). “Nothing,” I said. “I don’t think it has a brain. But I can hear a possum outside.” My friend asked, “What’s it saying?” “I don’t know. It doesn’t speak English. I’m not quite sure what (makes possum noise) means.”

Naturally, they didn’t believe me. Why would they? Why would anyone believe someone who claims to hear animal sounds in their head and how could I ever prove a chicken once told me (makes chicken noise)?

That year, I found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. Once I made a connection with any animal, its voice would come to me whenever I was near it. My walk to school was beginning to sound like feeding time at the zoo. Dozens of birds, cats, dogs and other creatures were chattering away in my head. An iPod on full blast was about the only thing that helped, but even that only helped so much. Imagine walking to school listening to this (sings a couple of lines from any popular song with interjections of cat, dog and bird noises)...

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