Duck, It's a P7!



Duck, it’s a P7!

Teresa Frisch, RN, RMT, IARP 3.14.09

Our country home was bordered by a large wood and stray dogs would frequently make their way out of it, stopping by the pond for a drink on their way up the hill to the house. I am a really soft touch when it comes to dogs and I can’t stand seeing them hungry for food or love. Sometimes I fed them and sometimes I took them in and tried to find homes for them. We always had dogs for pets, so whenever I did this, I risked life and limb myself and put our pets in jeopardy as well.

One mild fall morning found me outside, trimming flowers before the inevitable frost at the end of the week. Something rustled to my left and I immediately froze, wondering what sort of creature would be so close to the house in broad daylight. Being very still, I finally spotted two big brown eyes and a snout peeking through the rust-colored chrysanthemums. A beagle!

Beagles are big-time “talkers.” I knew, because I grew up with them and I can mimic their whiney little puppy cries. As soon as I did, it began nudging out of the mums toward me, one tentative paw at a time. He was hesitant, but not too spooky. He still responded to coaxing, his ribs weren’t showing and he wasn’t covered with burrs. These were all good signs that he hadn’t been lost and on the road for long, and it was only a few minutes until I had him in the garage with me. At that point he decided that I was “friendly” and that he was going to be at my heels no matter what.

Keeping him in the garage and away from our miniature daschunds took on all the machinations of Houdini, but I managed to make it through the door and into the kitchen. I grabbed an old bowl and filled it with table scraps and dry dog food, cringing while he began howling loud enough to wake the dead. Worse, he was beginning to scratch on the door that came into the house. I was already going to be in trouble for taking him in but if he scratched that door there would be hell to pay when my ex-husband came home. Argh!!!!!!

The two doxies were raising hell on the inside and the beagle was braying on the outside. Me? I was trying to juggle the chunky portable phone, the bowl of food, get the door open, keep the doxies from defending their habitat and the beagle from claiming it as his, all while trying not to fall out of the house and down the steps. I was due at my second shift job at the hospital in six hours and breaking my neck was not in my game plan.

I made it, but don’t ask me how. He was a cute little thing, all shiny black-brown and had those big, woeful eyes that only beagles can claim. He began wolfing down the food while I sat on the steps trying to figure out who I knew that I could talk into owning this wonderful dog. There we were, settling into our respective spots with me, as usual, trying to make it right for everybody and manage to stay out of trouble myself. The beagle began dozing on the rug at my feet while the doxies whuffed at the sill, seriously hoping they could make it through the door so they could get a piece of this guy.

I called my usual sympathetic cohort in stray-dog-crime, my friend Vickie B. Vickie lived just a mile over as the crow flies. She was home and knew the drill. A fast call to the county animal shelter was a bust. No lost beagles in yesterday’s lost and found ads either. This wasn’t good. Her family had just gotten two border collies and they were full up on their dog quota just like we were. The two of us agreed that there was no way we could let him wander, but the bottom line was that no matter what we did, we were the ones who would be in the proverbial doghouse for taking in another stray.

The newspaper was due any minute and she agreed to take him, hoping to find his owners. She had a fenced in back yard and I didn’t, so her house was better. I only needed to transport him the mile and a half (not as the crow flies) over there. He, on the other hand, was not at all happy about the short trip. As we climbed into the car and his wails became crescendos in tempo and volume, I considered the fact that he might become so upset that his generous lunch might come back to haunt me every time I got into the car. As always, I was pushing the envelope and courting disaster in one way, shape or form.

I am a firm believer in seatbelts. Midmorning traffic was usually light on the highway so I made an exception, even though I didn’t like it. I kept my right hand on his hindquarters, propped his front paws over my left forearm and drove with my left hand on the steering wheel. So far, so good. He was effectively pinned between me and the steering wheel and I wanted to keep him that way, but in the meantime I was going deaf. I had never heard such howling!

I remembered a skittish terrier puppy that someone gave to us when I was seven. We second graders had just learned our first song: “When The Red Red Robin Comes Bob Bob Bobbin’ Along.” Corralled in an old chicken coop, my dad told me to sit very still in the far corner and try singing to the puppy. It worked then, but this day I just wasn’t up for warbling the Robin. For whatever reason, I started hearing Ray Charles’s smoky tones singing “Hit the Road, Jack” in my head so I went with it and began to sing.

That was back in the day when I could actually carry a tune. I thought it was probably my alto, or the almost monotone, or the repetitious nature of the lyrics. Whatever it was, that beagle didn’t just calm down, he totally relaxed and rested his chin on my left forearm. For the duration of the five minute drive I sang quietly, over and over:

“Hit the Road Jack and don't you come back
No more no more no more no more,
Hit the Road Jack and don't you come back
No more
What'd you say?”

We made it safely to Vickie B.’s. Stewing, we launched into Plan A. Neither of us could keep him and didn’t want him to go to the county humane society. She would check the day’s lost and found in the paper and if that didn’t pan out, she had a couple of possible beagle foster homes in mind. Most of my morning shot, I left her preparing to make phone calls. The beagle had collapsed in a nest of old blankets and was snoring. As I headed for the door I told her that if he started howling again she should sing “Hit the road Jack” because it seemed to mesmerize the poor thing.

I checked in that evening and the next day, hoping the odds were with us, or better yet, the beagle. Vickie had conned her husband into keeping him an extra night in case the lost and found ads might pan out the next day. It worked, but she was in a total dither waiting for me to call so she could tell me the story.

The owner had already come and claimed him. Our beagle had escaped his yard with his sister, Jill, and she was found dead on the road. You guessed it. His name was Jack. No wonder he settled down when I started to sing!

There are a few possibilities as to why that may have happened:

•	I don’t recall asking him what his name was when I found him, but I always talk to creatures as if they understand me. It would be logical that I would have asked Jack his name. In remote viewing we “ask the librarian a question and say ‘I’ll go wait over there.’” That means we’re accessing our subconscious for information. I was in a serious need-to-know mode right then, and sometimes the subconscious is so desperate to get your attention that it will do whatever it needs to do to hit you upside the head with information. Sometimes it’s a song or phrase that’s familiar, and sometimes it’s something that makes no sense to you until after you get your feedback. When that happens in controlled remote viewing, it’s called a Phase 7 (P7). So I asked a question and got an answer.
•	Another thought is those pesky time loops and retro causality, like the movie Ground Hog Day and / or déjà’ vu. I would have been ahead in time when we found out Jack’s name and sent the information back to when I needed it. Confession. Thinking about time loops drives me nuts and I sincerely hope somebody figures them out so we can all just get on with it. I have enough problems thinking about moving forward (seems normal) instead of all that up-and-back and up-and-back and up-and-back. If we find out we are doing that then maybe we can figure out how to improve things back then so when we do move forward…. see my point? They make me dizzy just thinking about them!
•	And the last thing to consider is telepathy, and yes, it does exist. Jack new his name and he jolly well didn’t shut up until I knew it too.

Beats me. Like remote viewing, instead of “just get a perception and write it down,” change it up just a little. “Just get an experience and write it down and get an experience and write it down and get and experience and write it down…..” until the next time. Do it enough and we may just figure it out yet.

Revised tlf 3.27.09