Animals and the Afterlife (26 page)
Shelter Dog
Gail De Sciose, Animal Communicator New York
I
WILL FOREVER BE GRATEFUL
to a male sheltie whose name I never even learned. When I took my basic class in animal communication, I was originally very skeptical about the truth of communication between species. I had been motivated to pursue this field because I had been a volunteer at a big city animal shelter for several years. I thought animal communication would give me another way to reach the frightened and often badly traumatized animals who were turned in to the shelter. After the weekend workshop, I began having experiences that convinced me that animal communication was, in fact, true. However, I still had reservations about being able to contact animals who had left their bodies and were now in spirit.
About six weeks after my initial training, I made the acquaintance of a beautiful male sheltie who had been turned in by his owners because they no longer had time to care for him. He had a very bad skin condition and was contagious to the other dogs in the ward. He had to wear a plastic collar so that he wouldn’t bite and scratch himself. I had to content myself with just being able to talk to him—both verbally and telepathically. This went on for a period of three weeks, and the dog and I developed a friendship. It was obvious that he really missed his people. He was very depressed and gradually started to pick up kennel cough and other shelter-borne conditions. Nothing that the shelter veterinarians could do would help, as his will was broken.
On the last day that I actually saw him, it was clear that he was dying. He had a vacant look in his eyes and coughed dreadfully. Even in this terrible condition, he would come over to the edge of his cage and look at me whenever I could get back to talk to him. I told him not to be afraid—that he would soon be able to leave this diseased body and be free. I told him how much I loved him and that I was sure he would be fine once he was in spirit. I left the shelter that day with my own heart very heavy. This once beautiful dog was only five years old and could have had a long, happy life if he hadn’t been abandoned by the people he had loved.
T
HAT EVENING
I was at a meeting where we did a group meditation. In the midst of my meditation, my friend the sheltie came to me. I could see him running in a field, and the sores on his back were completely gone. He looked healthy and happy and I could feel the love in his spirit. I was very joyful to see him in this state, as he had been so pitiful earlier in the day at the shelter.
The next time I went to do my volunteering, I asked when this particular dog had been euthanized. It was approximately the same time that he had come to me in my meditation! I felt certain then that he had come to show me that he was fine now that he was out of his body and in spirit. From that moment on, I have never doubted that we can communicate with departed souls, and it has been my privilege to speak to hundreds of animals in spirit.
Wolf Speak
Myriah Krista Walker, Residential Counselor for Developmentally Disabled Adults Colorado
S
HELBY WAS THE ONLY GIRL
in Ayla’s litter of four puppies. I had given her away to friends at the wee age of six weeks old. This was the normal age to give a puppy away, once weaned.
But not according to Ayla. She didn’t forgive me for a long time. Shelby had been her favorite puppy. When I gave the second pup away to friends, Ayla clutched the remaining two pups to her closely. I allowed her to keep them, watching as they grew and marveling at the ways of a mother who devoted herself completely to teaching them wisdom.
Walking with wolf dogs among civilization is a challenging experience. No matter the hybrid percentage that lies in their biology, their natural hunting instincts prevail. The human in the pack must take diligent care and many precautions to keep their charges at home.
Alas, one evening Ayla broke through the fence in the yard and took her three-month-old pups for a cruise in the ranch lands that surrounded our small town. A rancher, alarmed by the sounds of squawking in his yard, fired shots at the dogs until they fled.
All this was unknown to me as I sat soaking in a hot bath. Ayla and I had always had a rare and beautiful telepathic communication, and so when her face suddenly appeared as though hovering above the waters, I did not think it unusual. She and I could mind-talk, using pictures and images and feelings.
Although I’ve always been able to communicate with animals, Ayla was the first one with whom I had complete and total communication abilities. We spoke as clearly to each other through silent thought and feelings—as clear as two humans talking audibly did. There was nothing in my heart she didn’t know. It was as though she was simply an extension of my soul.
Now soaking in the bath, I sent a wave of love from my heart to her vision and mentally said, “I love you, Ayla!” Pure love emanated from her eyes, filling my heart to the brim. I saw a golden energy emanate from the vision. I held on to it for several moments until it dissolved into the ethers. Still unaware of the events that had transpired, I felt grateful for a companion who could communicate in such a way, simply because she loved and because she could.
My husband had been watching television, unaware that the dogs had escaped. When I came downstairs and opened the back door to check on the dogs, I realized they were gone. The vision of Ayla’s love still fresh, I now knew something was terribly wrong. I knew she had come to say good-bye, and my heart lurched.
It was not until the next morning that we learned what had happened. My husband made several frantic calls around town searching for the dogs. Finally, it was the sheriff who gave us our answers. Ayla had led the pups to within two blocks of home before the shots in her body became fatal. The sheriff had found the pups mourning beside their mom, but they were too skittish to be caught. My husband was able to coax them to him and brought them home.
One pup was unharmed; the other had been shot and eventually had to be euthanized. Nikoma was his name, and at the moment of his death he also appeared in vision, linking to my heart.
Eventually we found a home for the remaining puppy. Within two months, however, I received an unexpected gift. Shelby’s caretaker had died, and his girlfriend did not have the time to devote to her that she needed. Ayla’s favorite pup was returned to me!
Shelby lived with me for six years. Ours was a bond of the heart. She helped raise my children, was a gentle guardian of our home, walked with me through divorce and remarriage, and kept my heart alive and open with her playfulness.
Her golden eyes would pierce through me sometimes. Often were the times she simply wanted to be held while we sat together on the couch. She was an eighty-five-pound puppy that never grew up.
My second marriage began to fail. Due to alcoholism and the growing violent nature of my husband, it became necessary for me to leave my home and move away. At the time I moved, I could not take Shelby with me. The people I was to stay with had no room for a dog. I prayed I would one day be able to have her with me, but feared at our parting that it would not be so. She sat before me on the floor, and I spoke to her from the silent depths of my heart. She whined, and then placed her forehead against mine. We lingered for several silent moments, heads bowed to one another touching. It was the last time I saw her.
Months passed, my husband disconnected the phone and I knew not where he or Shelby was. Then one day, a friend who had lived near them told me that my husband had been picked up for drunk driving and Shelby had been impounded. She was never released, and had been put to sleep.
Oh, my friend! I stood outside my new home and wept. I felt so helpless and angry. I wished there had been a way for her to still be with me, but I knew in truth there had not been.
Suddenly a vision of her came fully into view. There was her face, smiling and happy. Her gentle presence vivid. Something within broke open, and I found myself telepathically howling to her spirit. I heard her howl in response. The depth of my own inner howls rose from our joint sorrow. I was too clutched with tears to give physical voice to this pain, but my heart sang loudly.
Then, in the canyon where I live, an audible sound came to my ears. The sound of coyotes howling. On the inner planes they heard our communion, and sang long and mournful in the afternoon sun. Now the howls of sorrow were heard both within and without.
The vision of Shelby remained until our howls subsided and my heart emptied. The howls of the coyotes subsided as well. Pure love emanated from Shelby’s eyes, and I both saw and felt her smile. Around her lay a new paradise, full of color and aliveness.
“Oh, forgive me!” I began to sob again. A wave of forgiveness, understanding, and eternal love washed over me as her smile radiated a golden energy into my heart. She continued to broadcast these feelings until the guilt dissolved within my heart. “There is only Love,” I heard her heart speak.
I learned that day there is no difference between the voice of our hearts and the sound that comes through physically. There is only Love, real and full and eternal.
Kim’s note:
The Animal Safehouse Program at the Rancho Coastal Humane Society in Encinitas, California, provides emergency shelter for the innocent companion animals of domestic violence victims. Because of this special program, women are no longer forced to choose between abandoning a beloved animal and staying in an abusive home. If needed, please check for a similar program in your community. It is my hope that one day such a program will be available everywhere, or better yet, not needed at all.
Millions of spiritual creatures walk the Earth unseen, both when we wake, and when we sleep.
—J
OHN
M
ILTON
T
HE ROUGHLY ONE
-
THIRD OF OUR LIFE
spent sleeping is much more than merely a lot of down time. This is a time when we seem to be most receptive to mystical encounters, without the “logical” mind telling us that such things aren’t possible. True, the subconscious mind does its work and sorts things out in the dream state. However, it’s been my experience that there’s often a lot more going on. Dreams contain a wealth of information and valuable experience if we only pay attention.
Dreams of departed loved ones are often, though not always, actual visitations. It seems that it’s relatively common for our departed loved ones to make contact with us while we’re dreaming—and during that magical “twilight” stage between sleeping and wakefulness. Those who experience such events can usually tell the difference between “just a dream” and a visitation.
Many people have experienced these so-called dreams. Some of their stories are included later in this chapter, but first, I’d like to share a story of my own….
O
NE THING
I
LEARNED A LONG TIME AGO
is that grief, like love, has no boundaries. It matters not the size, appearance, condition, or status of the beloved. Love is love. And so it is with grief upon saying good-bye to that beloved.
I had just buried my only two remaining beloved animals a week apart and was still trying to make sense of the grief. It’s never an easy thing to bury our loved ones, and this was no exception. Jameth and I have no children, so for us, our animal companions
are
our children, and we were now childless. One by one, all of the members of our little animal family had reached old age and died, and the losses had become increasingly difficult to bear. We all know that we will, more often than not, outlive our beloved animals, but the reality of this usually does not fully register until they pass. So Jameth and I, in a heartfelt and tear-drenched moment of conviction, decided not to let any more animals into our collective life for a while, as the pain of saying good-bye was just too much to bear. We felt solid in our decision and certain that nothing could sway us from this.
The next day, while sitting in an office waiting room, I happened to recognize a woman sitting nearby. Our eyes met in mutual recognition.
“How’s your little rattie?” she asked. By chance, we had been together in that same waiting room several weeks earlier, when my beloved rat, April, was dying. Knowing that my precious little companion didn’t have much time left, I had taken her on all my errands with me, cradled in a little baby blanket. I didn’t want to leave her alone, and I wanted to be sure she’d die in my arms when her time came.
Because I’ve had pet rats for the majority of my life, and because rats have an average lifespan of only a few short years, I’ve had to say good-bye to more than my share of beloved animals. Some people ask, “Why rats?” My response is, “Why not?” They’re as soft as kittens, as playful as puppies, and as charming as little Disney characters who ride around on your shoulders and whisper in your ears like little fairies, caressing your cheeks with their rose petal ears. There’s something about communing with a creature so tiny and so vulnerable—yet so trusting and so personable—that leaves an irreversible mark on your soul. When they grasp your finger in their tiny hands, something takes hold of your heart.
Over the years, I’ve met many people who, upon discovering my love of rats, proceed to tell me their own story of an unforgettable little rat they once loved and lost. More often than not, the story ends with the remark that they could never get a pet rat again because they don’t live very long and it’s just too heartbreaking when they die.
Amen
.
In response to the woman’s question about my “little rattie,” I informed her that April had recently died. After expressing her condolences, she asked me if I wanted another rat.
You can’t just replace them like that,
I thought to myself.
She then went on to tell the story of a little white rat, crouched in the corner of an aquarium with a large boa constrictor. The rat was supposed to be lunch, but for some reason, the snake just wasn’t eating. Meanwhile, the rat was starving, having been in there for nearly two weeks with virtually no food or water. The woman had been entrusted with the care of the snake by a friend who had moved away, and she’d had no idea what she was getting herself into. She was distraught and unsure what to do. It pained her to feed the snake live animals, but she didn’t think there were any other options. And she didn’t count on
this.
As the woman told me the story of the snake who wouldn’t eat the rat, my heart went out to the rat … and to the woman (and to the snake, for that matter). The rat was in danger of either starving to death or being eaten alive; the woman was torn up about having to make weekly trips to the pet store for live, terrified rats in little paper bags; and the snake was probably tired of sitting in an aquarium and worrying about lunch biting back. (The rat had apparently already bitten the snake in the nose; in his shoes, I must admit, I’d have surely done the same thing!)
As the woman headed in for her appointment, we quickly exchanged phone numbers. Worried about the little rat, I agreed to take him off her hands and find an alternative way to feed the snake. In exchange, she agreed not to feed the snake any more live animals.
Since the rat was still in the snake’s aquarium, I knew I had to do something fast. So I called everyone I could think of who might know of a less violent way to feed a snake. Sure, snakes eat rats (as well as other animals) in nature, but this wasn’t nature. This was a captive animal in an aquarium (a completely unnatural environment for snake and rat alike) where the “prey” didn’t even have a chance. No chance to live their life first, and no chance to escape their predator. They just had to sit and await their demise, often with a lot of time to think about it first. I don’t think that’s what our Creator had in mind. No survival of the fittest or natural selection was going on here; whereas in nature, often the predators go after the prey who are already sick and going off to die, serving as a sort of natural euthanasia.
When some of the people I talked to tried to pull the “snakes eat rats in nature” explanation on me, I politely reminded them that wild canines and felines eat rabbits in nature, but that doesn’t mean we should be feeding live bunnies to our family dogs and cats. Part of domesticating an animal involves domesticating their diet, because they are actually no longer a part of the wild. Why should rats be an exception to this rule?
Finally, I got some good advice from a fellow rat lover: packaged snake food (not ideal, but certainly a step in the right direction). I informed Jameth and we jumped into action. He joined me on a search for packaged snake food, which we found at a nearby pet store, complete with instructions on how to get the snake to eat it. We called the woman and headed to her house to exchange the snake food for the rat. In keeping with our decision not to let any more animals into our lives, we were determined to then find the rat a good home.
L
IFE HAS A WAY OF BRINGING US
the thing we think we want least when, in reality, it’s what we need most. There he was, little Henry the Rat, peering out at us from the aquarium. His powder white fur hung loosely over his emaciated, dehydrated body, and he seemed so small and helpless next to the giant boa constrictor.
We quickly helped Henry out of the aquarium and into a travel cage, where we had food and water waiting for him. In almost two weeks, he’d had nothing to eat except an old, dried up piece of garlic bread, which he was choking on when we arrived.
We gave the woman the packaged food and showed her how to feed it to the snake. She was visibly relieved that it wouldn’t be necessary to put any more live animals into that aquarium. Upon noticing the wounds on the snake’s face, I felt that the snake, too, was relieved at no longer having to contend with meals that bite back. It was a unique sort of happy ending as the snake and the rat parted ways.
Poor Henry was so dehydrated, he drank from the little water bottle almost nonstop during the car trip home; and then he began to eat his first real meal in weeks. Once home, I opened his cage door to give him more food, but instead of eating it, he immediately climbed out onto my hand and up my arm. He paused midway and looked up into my eyes for a long while. I felt him saying “thank you” from the bottom of his heart. He then climbed up to my shoulder and began to softly lick my face and gently groom my hair, the way rats show affection.
“He’s tame,” I called out to Jameth, heading over to show him what was going on. As soon as we approached Jameth, Henry literally reached out to him with his tiny hands. Jameth put out his hand, and Henry immediately climbed up his arm, paused midway for that same silent “thank you” and then headed up to his shoulder to offer the same gestures of affection he’d already bestowed upon me. Henry made it perfectly clear that he understood
exactly
what we had just done, and his gratitude was unmistakable.
All prior plans of finding Henry a good home were quickly washed away with every lick of his soft tongue. He had already found a good home, and we were parents once again.
Henry quickly regained his health and settled happily into his new home. He was like our very own Stuart Little, and we lived that magical fairy tale for the rest of his life. He slept in a little bed of his own next to my pillow, and I felt like the luckiest person in the world each night, nestled happily between Jameth and little Henry.
One day, we realized that Henry would like a rat companion of his own, so we adopted a beautiful little beige-and-white powder puff at a local animal shelter. We named her Ginger. She had been found in a nearby canyon by a compassionate couple that rescued her but couldn’t keep her. When they found her, she was shivering, starving, and terrified, obviously having been dropped off by someone who didn’t know (or didn’t care) that she couldn’t fend for herself in the wild (she clearly was
not
a wild animal). Since people don’t commonly adopt rats from shelters, she had been there for many months (this was a no-kill shelter). The day we brought her home, she began chattering happily (the rat equivalent of purring), clearly delighted to finally have a family.
Henry adored Ginger and followed her around everywhere. He assisted her in collecting treats and making elaborate nests each day, and he groomed her thoroughly before snuggling up with her each night. Whenever a vacuum cleaner or other apparent threat entered the room, rather than running away, he stood in front of her to protect her. The four of us became a family, and whenever Jameth and I went on a trip, Henry and Ginger went, too. (We had Ginger spayed before we brought her home, so there were no babies.)
Whenever Jameth and I went out in the evening and left Henry and Ginger home alone (where they had free run of our small apartment), we returned home to find the radio blasting loud music and the two of them prancing together joyfully on the bed. They had figured out how to turn the radio on, but only did so when we weren’t home. It seemed they loved to “crank the music and party” whenever they had the place to themselves.
By opening our hearts up at a time when they might well have closed forever, Henry had opened the door for many more homeless rats to find their way into our lives. Over time, Henry and Ginger became the King and Queen of an enchanted little kingdom of very happy rescued rats, which eventually became known as the Rat Refuge.
Days became years, and when Henry’s time inevitably came to pass, I wasn’t ready to say good-bye. Then again, I wonder if we’re ever really ready. He had begun to slow down and then had lost interest in food. When we took him to the vet, nothing conclusive was found—other than old age—so we brought him home to die.
I think those of us who love and lose animals often drive ourselves crazy with guilt over the decision of euthanasia. No matter what we decide, we often beat ourselves up for it, convinced that our final decision was the wrong one. This was no exception. Henry began to have trouble breathing, and his condition rapidly declined. He still wouldn’t eat, his body weakened, and he was clearly struggling for every breath. No treatment seemed to help him. I agonized over what to do. I didn’t want to let him go, but I didn’t want my own pain to force him to stay. I didn’t want to give up hope of a miracle by giving in too soon, but I didn’t want to cause unnecessary suffering by giving in too late.