I approached another counselor. “Can I talk with you a minute?”
I learned that Joey had been taken away from a terribly abusive, alcoholic father. Because Joey was so disruptive, he could not even be allowed in a classroom at the facility. He was constantly acting out, starting fights, breaking windows. “We’re really sorry we brought him,” she said.
I told her that Joey was just the kind of boy who needed the Gentle Barn the most, and I convinced her to let me work with him instead of having him wait on the bus.
Joey was about eleven but was very small for his age and had mousy blond hair. I knelt down beside him, my eyes just about level with his, though he refused to look at me. Although he was thin, almost frail, heheld his body rigidly, as though he were wearing a full suit of armor. No one was getting in.
“That spider is so small and helpless. You’re huge next to him, huh?”
Joey didn’t answer and pretended not to be listening, but I kept talking.
“He’s hiding under the rain gutter trying not to be noticed. There’s nothing he can do to protect himself from you, and he’s hoping you’re not going to hurt him.” I paused a minute. “Do you know what that feels like?”
Joey was silent for a while, his eyes shifting. He was thinking it over. Slowly his chin started to quiver and his eyes began to glisten. “Yes,” he said finally. “I do know what that feels like.”
I told Joey the animals were just like him. They needed protection, just as he had needed protection. “Will you do that for me, Joey? Will you help me protect these animals?”
When we rejoined the group around the picnic tables, Joey stood at the back but was attentive to my every word. Once we were in the barnyard, I saw him watching the other kids with the animals. If someone ran after a hen, he said, “Hey, don’t chase that chicken. Remember what Farmer Ellie said. The chicken’s saying no.” If someone yelled, he asked them to talk more quietly so they wouldn’t make the animals uncomfortable. I kept tabs on him through the whole visit, watching him and interacting with him. At one point, Joey and I walked into the barn, and I spotted a mouse in the corner. I pointed the mouse out to Joey, then sat down and patted the ground next to me. Joey sat down by my side, and together we watched the little mouse foraging in the straw for food. He told everyone who entered to talk softly so they didn’t scare the mouse. Joey had turned from aggressor to protector in an afternoon.
As I worked with group after group of children and teens, I began to find my rhythm and to see what worked and what didn’t. I was eager to teach the kids everything I knew about animals. One of my favorite things to talk with them about was how animals communicated. I would start off many of my groups by talking about body language. I’d frown and hang my head and then ask the kids what emotion that was. “Sad!” they’d shout. I’d move through the different emotions, and the kids would guess each one.
“I didn’t say a word, did I?”
“No,” the kids would say.
“But you guessed what I was feeling. Well, animals speak like that all the time.”
We’d talk about how each species has their own vocabulary. A dog wags his tail when he’s happy, but when a cat “wags” her tail, she’s annoyed. Cows and sheep swing their heads when they say no or want you to leave them alone. Goats lower their horns to say no. Baby horses smack their lips, like chewing, to show submission to another horse. And Katie, of course, was our ever-present example of saying “Back off” with her ears.
I also taught the kids that communication had to go both ways between humans and animals. We not only had to listen for what they were telling us, but
we
had to talk to
them
. With one group of at-risk girls, I asked, “Would it be OK for me to come up to one of you and start brushing your hair without asking you?”
The girls laughed and shook
I learned that Joey had been taken away from a terribly abusive, alcoholic father. Because Joey was so disruptive, he could not even be allowed in a classroom at the facility. He was constantly acting out, starting fights, breaking windows. “We’re really sorry we brought him,” she said.
I told her that Joey was just the kind of boy who needed the Gentle Barn the most, and I convinced her to let me work with him instead of having him wait on the bus.
Joey was about eleven but was very small for his age and had mousy blond hair. I knelt down beside him, my eyes just about level with his, though he refused to look at me. Although he was thin, almost frail, heheld his body rigidly, as though he were wearing a full suit of armor. No one was getting in.
“That spider is so small and helpless. You’re huge next to him, huh?”
Joey didn’t answer and pretended not to be listening, but I kept talking.
“He’s hiding under the rain gutter trying not to be noticed. There’s nothing he can do to protect himself from you, and he’s hoping you’re not going to hurt him.” I paused a minute. “Do you know what that feels like?”
Joey was silent for a while, his eyes shifting. He was thinking it over. Slowly his chin started to quiver and his eyes began to glisten. “Yes,” he said finally. “I do know what that feels like.”
I told Joey the animals were just like him. They needed protection, just as he had needed protection. “Will you do that for me, Joey? Will you help me protect these animals?”
When we rejoined the group around the picnic tables, Joey stood at the back but was attentive to my every word. Once we were in the barnyard, I saw him watching the other kids with the animals. If someone ran after a hen, he said, “Hey, don’t chase that chicken. Remember what Farmer Ellie said. The chicken’s saying no.” If someone yelled, he asked them to talk more quietly so they wouldn’t make the animals uncomfortable. I kept tabs on him through the whole visit, watching him and interacting with him. At one point, Joey and I walked into the barn, and I spotted a mouse in the corner. I pointed the mouse out to Joey, then sat down and patted the ground next to me. Joey sat down by my side, and together we watched the little mouse foraging in the straw for food. He told everyone who entered to talk softly so they didn’t scare the mouse. Joey had turned from aggressor to protector in an afternoon.
As I worked with group after group of children and teens, I began to find my rhythm and to see what worked and what didn’t. I was eager to teach the kids everything I knew about animals. One of my favorite things to talk with them about was how animals communicated. I would start off many of my groups by talking about body language. I’d frown and hang my head and then ask the kids what emotion that was. “Sad!” they’d shout. I’d move through the different emotions, and the kids would guess each one.
“I didn’t say a word, did I?”
“No,” the kids would say.
“But you guessed what I was feeling. Well, animals speak like that all the time.”
We’d talk about how each species has their own vocabulary. A dog wags his tail when he’s happy, but when a cat “wags” her tail, she’s annoyed. Cows and sheep swing their heads when they say no or want you to leave them alone. Goats lower their horns to say no. Baby horses smack their lips, like chewing, to show submission to another horse. And Katie, of course, was our ever-present example of saying “Back off” with her ears.
I also taught the kids that communication had to go both ways between humans and animals. We not only had to listen for what they were telling us, but
we
had to talk to
them
. With one group of at-risk girls, I asked, “Would it be OK for me to come up to one of you and start brushing your hair without asking you?”
The girls laughed and shook
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