I could see that condescension and prejudice towards other animals were embedded in our language like sexist terminology. The human race was racist on a species scale. To us, only a human could have the characteristics of a person, could be an individual with feelings, appreciation, uniqueness, a soul. Yet Alice’s behaviour displayed all of these attributes. She had a personality of huge and varied dimension. It seemed to me that we humans were simply self-conscious animals. And by withholding this concept of “self” from other animals, we maintained our position of superiority over them. From this pinnacle it was easier for us to control, experiment on, and kill them.

The same idea, as the Nazis knew so well, could be applied to human beings. Destroy their sense of being a person, and their ability to resist is impaired. Make them “nonpersons”, and you can do what you want to them with a clear conscience. This has been done to our co-animals. We have defined them and put them in their place: under our thumbs (and under our belts).

Alice did not see things this way. She went about her life with no regard for any differences between humans and cats. And as she and I shared our lives, had mutual experiences and common memories, as our habits formed into routines of living and we became part of each other, I could see no difference either.

Like any relationship, the physical appearance of the Other had become secondary. I no longer saw a cat; I did not notice fur, whiskers, and paws. Before me was another unfathomable soul on the earth. My human bias faded away and now I began to interact with Alice as a person and as an equal.

Alice and I began to have cat naps together. This was easy to do. If I was ensconced on the couch in front of the TV, she usually got on my lap and slept. Instead of continuing to watch the program, I would switch off the set and doze with her, perhaps only for five or ten minutes.

The effect was immediate and salutary. I awoke less frazzled, calmer; the world seemed manageable. Small things – a jar lid not turning easily, a ringing phone, my fumbling fingers on a shoelace – did not irritate me as they had.

At the cottage, Alice opened up the world of animals to me. I was one of them, and we lived together in this landscape, the terrain where humans had their proper place – not lords and masters but merely part of the scheme of things.

And she unlocked the cultures of rocks and trees and insects. Here they all were, carrying on their lives whether human beings were present or not. If a tree fell in this forest, it would indeed make a sound: a squirrel or a blue jay or an otter would hear it. No humans were necessary to actualize an event.

***

Alice taught me a great deal about the pitfalls and limitations of spoken language. We spent our days in relative silence, but I never felt that we were not in continual communication. She was always immediately responsive; there was no warming-up necessary to our encounters. Our minds were rubbing up against each other as tangibly as her body was winding around my legs when we stood in the garden together.

I trusted her. She was true. There was no need for words. She reminded me of what I had not thought about for a long time, of when I was taking care of my father, many years before.