Animals and the Afterlife (2 page)
A note to skeptics …
I
T WAS ONCE BELIEVED
that the earth was flat and not round. It was once considered an indisputable fact that women did not have souls. It was once considered absolute truth that those of certain races were inferior. Galileo was once ridiculed—and even considered blasphemous—for proclaiming that the earth was not the center of the universe after all.
Those of us who know better realize how ridiculous—and in some cases, dangerous—such belief systems can be. They are usually based on arrogance, self-interest, or simply, ignorance. Throughout history, there have been those who have risked their reputations—and, in some cases, their lives—to question such proclamations and to make the truth be known.
I herein offer this latest bit of truth, for those who have remained uninformed up until this point. I, too, have a skeptical nature—yet I understand that there comes a time when enough facts have been gathered to overturn former, outdated beliefs. I contend that, in regard to animals having souls, that time is now. This truth has been a long time in coming.
My journey into this realm has been eye-opening, mind-expanding, and very healing. It is my intention that others will be comforted by the overwhelming evidence of life after death for animals; the highly substantiated notion that our loved ones never really die, no matter their species, no matter their size.
—
Kim Sheridan
A note to those who are experiencing grief
over the loss of a beloved animal …
M
Y DEEPEST SYMPATHY
is with you on the loss of your precious companions. I truly understand the depth of the pain and grief you are now enduring. It was that very pain upon the loss of a beloved companion animal in my own life that originally led to this book. Only those of us who have had such sacred relationships with these special beings known as animals can truly understand what you are going through. It is my hope that this book will provide comfort and assistance in getting through this difficult time. May you find support, understanding, comfort, and peace in these pages.
—
Kim
-
C
HAPTER
1
-
If having a soul means being able to feel love and loyalty and gratitude, then animals are better off than a lot of humans.
—J
AMES
H
ERRIOT
“I’
M LOSING HIM
.” The voice on the phone sounded vaguely familiar, but the words were so choked with tears that they were nearly indistinguishable. I heard sobbing.
“Oh God, he’s dying,” she cried. “He
can’t
leave me.” I then recognized the voice. It was an acquaintance of mine, whose whole world revolved around her sweet little companion, Sparky. She was divorced, and her children had grown up and left home, so Sparky was her closest companion. Each evening when she came home from work, Sparky was there, waiting for her. Each time she arrived home late because she’d had a date, Sparky was there, waiting for her. Each time she came home distraught over a broken relationship, Sparky was there, waiting for her. She often commented that this sweet little angel in fur was the only guy she could count on … and the only one she needed.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do without him,” she sobbed. Sparky was old and she had known his time was coming, but still the moment was hitting her like a ton of bricks.
“I feel so helpless. What should I do?” she asked, sounding desperate.
“Just hold him,” I instinctively replied, “pet him, tell him you love him,
be
with him.” My response was automatic. It seemed so clear to me what he needed, what
she
needed. I knew because I had been there. Too many times.
“His breathing seems slower now,” she said quietly, almost surrendering to the inevitable. The two of us stayed on the phone and wept as little Sparky made his transition.
This was the first time someone had turned to me for support in their grieving, but it wouldn’t be the last. As I eventually came to realize, this was a rite of passage for me, a step into a future for which I had been preparing my entire life….
O
NE OF MY EARLIEST MEMORIES
takes me back to a time when I was about three or four years old. One night, I had a dream. It was so vivid and felt so significant that its memory has remained crystal clear for decades.
In the dream, several large porcupines, who were bigger than me, were just outside the house, trying to get in. I was terrified of them and tried desperately to keep them out. However, they were determined to get in, and eventually they did.
At that point, my intense fear gave way to wonder as they began to communicate with me, sharing feelings of unconditional love and understanding. They spoke to me not with words but with
thoughts
. Looking back, I now realize that it was telepathic communication, although I didn’t know what that meant at the time. They told me that I had nothing to fear; they were my friends. They looked different than me, but inside, they were just the same. They needed warmth, shelter, and companionship, just like me. And they were very wise.
In the dream, the porcupines stayed for a long while, and we had a wonderful visit. When it was time for them to go, I was sad. I knew I would miss them but that they would always be my friends. I awoke feeling that something significant had taken place. I had received an important message. And so began my journey with the animals.
M
INE, LIKE MANY, WAS A CHILDHOOD
filled with a wide assortment of animal friends. I still clearly recall the wonder of attending to newborn kittens at my cousins’ house; the joy of feeding the bunnies next door whenever the neighbors were out of town; and the lump in my throat when my parents took my brother and me all around town, searching for our lost dog, Charlie, who never returned. These were important events early in my life, urging me to consider the relevance of other beings.
I grew up in suburban Southern California, a place of dry summers and wet winters. On rainy days, the snails would come out of hiding and gather on the sidewalks and in the streets near my home. It broke my heart to see them get crushed on their journey, so I spent many a rainy afternoon picking them up, one by one, and putting them near the house, where they would be safe. At one point, I had all of the other neighborhood children joining in the effort, and it felt like an immensely worthwhile cause, helping out those small, vulnerable beings. I just
knew
that those creatures had feelings and that their well-being really mattered.
At a very young age, I became known as the “neighborhood vet,” often nurturing injured baby birds with an eyedropper feeder and a warm bed. Usually when someone found an injured or abandoned animal, I was the first one they called. Sometimes these animals were dropped off at our front door, and I always did the best I could for them.
When I was five years old, my family went to dinner at the home of my dad’s business associate and his wife. The couple had unconventional taste in animals, and their menagerie included, among other creatures, several graceful mallard ducks in the backyard and a large family of pet rats in the living room. The rats had so much personality, and I was so taken by them that I didn’t want to leave. It was love at first sight. Noticing my delight, our hosts offered me a baby from a forthcoming litter.
Before long, I was the proud caretaker of my very own little rattie named Queenie. (When I use the term “my” in reference to an animal, I mean it only in the most endearing way, much like one would say “my best friend” or “my beloved,” rather than thinking in terms of ownership. I’ve always thought of animals as individual beings worthy of our respect, rather than mere property that we own. When the word “pet” is used in this book, it means “beloved animal who is a part of the family”; it does
not
mean possession. When we share our lives with animals, we become their guardians; not their owners.)
Queenie was an affectionate beauty dressed in white with a velvety black hood that covered her head and shoulders, then narrowed to a stripe down her back. She was the first of many rats I have loved since then. I didn’t find out until much later that society had a less than favorable impression of rats, not that it would have mattered anyway. In my world, rats were friendly, smart, lovable companions who taught me responsibility and compassion.
Due to my painfully empathic nature (I was often called “a very sensitive child”), I couldn’t stand to see animals—such as rats, who are extremely active, social creatures—just sitting in cages all day. It occurred to me early on that it was no different than locking a human in jail, despite the fact that no crime had been committed. So, my beloved rat companions led very active lives.
Each day when I returned from school, I headed straight to the rat cage to free my nocturnal buddies just as they were awakening from a long nap. They spent the rest of the day riding around on my shoulders or running and playing freely in my bedroom as I did my homework. On weekends, they joined my friends and me as we played, and all of the children adored them. Back then, I only had one or two rats at any given time, but I proudly told everyone that when I grew up, I was going to have a Rat Room filled with rats who could run and play freely
all the time.
My rat companions were always returned to their cage at bedtime, until one night when I was awakened by a gentle pressure on my chest. I opened my eyes and was greeted by the pretty beige face of my sole rat companion at that time, Champagne. She was curled up on my chest and looked at me as if to say, “I want to sleep here with you.” She had figured out how to open her cage door, and I watched in amazement as she later headed back to her cage to go to the bathroom and get a bite to eat, then returned to join me in bed once again. From that point on, I spent every night with the warmth and comfort of a little companion curled up on my chest or snuggled up against my cheek.
I never actually went to a pet store or breeder and purchased a rat; they always just came into my life, given to me by friends, schoolteachers, or people who just couldn’t keep them for whatever reason.
They still come into my life, now as rescues from a multitude of unfortunate situations. (I never breed or buy them, because unfortunately, there are far too many homeless animals in our world already, and this includes rats.) I’ve always felt good to be able to provide a good, loving home to these creatures in need. Now I realize that they’ve provided
me
with a far greater gift.
Looking back, I can see that perhaps they’ve come to teach me, not only about unconditional love, acceptance, and compassion; not only about life; but also about death. Domesticated rats have a very short lifespan, two to three years or so being the average. So, on a regular basis for most of my life, I’ve been faced with the death of a beloved friend. Over and over, I’ve had to face the pain and the emptiness, the tears and the questions, which have pushed me ever further to seek answers. By opening my heart to the love of animals whose lives are so brief, I have learned volumes about life and death.
W
HILE GROWING UP
, my brother and I spent the majority of our summers on our grandparents’ ranch, an enchanted oasis tucked away in the pristine mountains of west Texas. Our parents could only join us for short visits, as they had jobs back at home, so my brother and I stayed with our grandmother and grandaddy, and our Texas cousins often joined us.
The Ranch was a place with no television set and a million reasons not to need one. Hundreds of acres of wilderness provided a vast playground, filled with wide-eyed cows, playful chickens, majestic antelope, nervous deer, and an assortment of other amazing animals. In that setting, I found endless entertainment and friends galore.
I’ll never forget Buck, the young deer who took a chance and was rewarded with endless back rubs and treats from my brother, my cousins, and me. Somehow, Buck knew that we were different than the big people. We hadn’t been corrupted. We wouldn’t be participating in the annual massacre known as deer season, one thing I hated about The Ranch.
Buck regularly came right up to the house to play with us, his friends. To commune with this wild, beautiful creature was an experience that touched a deeper part of me than anything else ever had. To look into his eyes and see that great soul looking back at me taught me more than any Sunday-school lesson.
One deer season, a hunter mistook Buck for “just another deer,” and I knew I would never see him again. That was when I learned not to necessarily trust grown-ups, and I understood for the first time why animals didn’t necessarily trust them either.
As a gift from our grandparents, each grandchild was given our very own cow, and mine was named Bracelet because one day she stepped into a large, round, ring-shaped object that got stuck around her hoof and made it look just like she was wearing a bracelet. One year, Bracelet had a daughter, and I named the calf Daisy. They were both so sweet and timid, and I spent hours petting them and assuring them that I’d always take good care of them.
Duffy, my grandparents’ dog, was my other good friend and my protector. He was a large border collie who kept a watchful eye over the yard and accompanied me on long hikes. I always admired how brave he was, but even
he
trembled and hid at the sight of a gun. He knew there were forces greater than himself, and in observing him, I learned about my own limits.
When my grandaddy got sick and had to be moved to a nursing home, and my grandmother relocated to the nearby town, Duffy went to live with my uncle. But Duffy missed The Ranch too much and was last seen trying to make his way back, a journey he never completed. I never had a chance to say good-bye.
That was always the case when animals died during my early childhood. One day they just weren’t there anymore. Not only would I miss them and regret all the things I didn’t get to say or do, but I had no idea where they went, and no one had any real answers for me.
I don’t think life has ever dealt me more than I can handle, although it often seems to reach my upper limits. I think perhaps there’s a reason I wasn’t there to witness death early in my life. Maybe I wasn’t ready to face it head-on. Death needed to present itself to me gradually but repeatedly, giving me a little more each time.
And so loss came to me, time and again, always when I wasn’t around to stop it—or to see what it looked like. My first dog ran away from home. My first rat died while my family was out of town and a neighbor was looking after her. My first deer friend was killed in Texas while I was in California. My first cow was sent off to slaughter, and I wasn’t told until much later what that meant.