Animals and the Afterlife (28 page)

Iggy and Milhous

Lance Payette, Attorney Arizona

I
AM A
49-
YEAR
-
OLD ATTORNEY
and had the following experience. I have had enough similar experiences involving humans that I am sure it was a genuine contact.

When my wife and I were first married, we got an incredibly intelligent Siamese cat whom we named Iggy. Two years later, we got an extremely good-natured German shorthair pointer whom we named Milhous. Milhous and Iggy never fought, and they grew up together. Iggy would often go over and nuzzle Milhous.

Milhous finally had to be put to sleep after a long and happy life. Iggy was still alive. The following year, we were living in an apartment in Phoenix. Milhous had died before we had moved there and thus had never been in the apartment. One night, I had a very vivid dream where I went out into the hallway of the apartment and saw Milhous sitting in the living room. I said (in the dream), “Milhous, buddy, what are you doing here? You’re dead.” I then went back into the bedroom and said to my wife (in the dream), “Hey, Milhous is here!” Right then, Milhous walked into the room and stood there. Iggy climbed up onto his back and sat there very solemnly. I said to my wife (in the dream), “Uh-oh, he’s come for Iggy.” I told this to my wife the next morning.

Lo and behold, Iggy developed kidney failure and had to be put to sleep within the month. We buried him (along with another cat, Bumpus, who had grown up with him) in the same place as Milhous—sort of a “shrine” we had created with rocks, benches, and wind chimes.

Tiger

Regina Fetrat

W
E HAD A DOG THAT ADOPTED US
from a neighbor’s house. He was later given to us to keep as our own. We named him Tiger. He was shepherd/ lab mixed (I believe with maybe a little St. Bernard).

We did not have Tiger long when one day he began to limp. He lay by the spring for hours. We had to go out for the day, and when we returned, we could not find him. We are way back in the woods, so we know that he was not taken or anything like that. He had gone into the woods and we did not find him anywhere.

A week or so later, I had a dream….

I saw my young daughter, Angela (then three or so), in the front yard with Tiger. They were playing and he was very happy. I just watched them play.

The next morning, I asked Angela if she dreamed about Tiger. She said yes, they “played in the front yard” and he told her “good-bye.”

Daisy

Regina Fetrat

A
FAMILY FRIEND HAD A DOG
named Daisy who was always tied up—her existence was on a six-foot chain. She was not tended well other than being fed. Her job was to guard the gate and bark at intruders. She smelled so bad that visitors could seldom stand to pet her.

The owner went on a trip, and I was asked to take care of her while he was gone. I bathed her and we had a great time doing things a little differently than normal.

Many years went by and I was no longer in contact with Daisy or her owner. One night, I suddenly had a dream. In the dream, Daisy came to me and thanked me for our time together. She said that it had made her very happy. A week went by and I could not keep from calling her owner. He told me she had died of cancer the week before.

Kim’s note:
Dogs who are kept on chains and considered by their “owners” to be nothing more than “biological burglar alarms” live a miserable existence because they aren’t given the love, freedom, and companionship they need. Regina was perhaps the only human who ever treated Daisy with the care and respect she deserved, so it’s no wonder that Daisy came to visit Regina rather than the man who neglected her.

Billy

Angelique Spieler, Retired Wedding Photographer; Creator, “All Critter” Sympathy Cards (see Resources) California

I
T HAD BEEN A WONDERFUL VACATION
. My divorce was behind me. My newfound “single” freedom was expressed and enjoyed completely on my first-ever river-rafting trip.

A new romance already pulled at my heartstrings—but a little fur- bearing “pistol” was about to make his appearance known.

Murphy’s Law always rules. Our excursion bus was late getting back into San Diego proper, thus causing me to enter my hometown of El Cajon in the “wee” morning hours. As I took my exit off the freeway, a frightening sight lay before me. A mother cat and eight or more kittens were trying to cross the mist-filled road. I dramatically slowed my speed and pressed on my horn, hoping it would frighten mom and babies back to the safety of the curb, at least for a while. It worked.

I quickly parked my car and spent the next three hours chasing mom and kittens back again and again away from the road. Other drivers had various opinions—some gave a thumbs up and others, well, they expressed their feelings with obscene finger language. Despite my best efforts, I was only able to save one curious, beautiful black- and-white male kitten. I swept him up and raced home to make him breakfast and put myself to bed, or so I thought. That first night with Billy, as I named him, was typical of every day and night thereafter—he was my wild child! He’d race pell-mell throughout my apartment, chase his tail and holler whenever he caught it, stop playing abruptly, groom, nibble his food, and off again to the races. He playfully wore out my two other very tolerant adult cats who would stare at me with a “Come on, Mom, give us a break.” I’d then banish Billy to the front room of my small apartment for a short time-out for all.

Billy grew into one of the largest, tallest domestic cats I’ve ever seen, long of body and big boned. He never lost his kitten crazy side, always a teenager. This sweet boy oozed of affection. He enjoyed being carried around draped around my neck, sitting on my head or pressed very close to me at night. He followed me everywhere and sat close by quietly, wherever I went throughout my apartment. He made me feel very wanted and loved. According to my neighbors, about half an hour before I’d arrive home (no matter what hour it was that I left work for home), he’d caterwaul, crying for me loudly—he always knew when I was on my way home.

Enter the two-legged love interest of my heart—my future husband Martin. Billy was very sweet to him at first—much kinder than he’d been to other male suitors. He didn’t try to stare him down or leave poop in his sneakers. But the closer Martin and I became, the more demanding Billy became of my attentions. After all, he had been the “man” of the house for so long. He’d even growl when things went bump in the night when I’d lived alone.

Martin was always up first so he fed our three cats and our dog, Moca. But one morning Billy didn’t come for breakfast. Martin called and called—no Billy. He left me a note telling me Billy didn’t come to breakfast. So I called and called and searched, too—to no avail.

Martin came home a bit late that day and said with tears in his eyes that he had something to tell me. I grilled him with, “What’s wrong? Is it my daughter? My father?” He shook his head. “Your mother? What then?” I was getting impatient.

“It’s Billy—he’s gone.” I didn’t think of Billy. He was too street smart—he always came home—it couldn’t be.

“Are you sure it’s him?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I only left you the note to stall, to tell you myself. I found him and moved his body so you couldn’t find him.” Billy had died directly in front of our neighbor’s driveway. Martin had actually found his body that morning because he was waiting to be picked up by his ride-share directly across the street. How grateful I was for the love he showed me by removing Billy’s crushed body from my eyes. Little did I know I was to begin a self-inflicted marathon of emotional torture that almost made me insane with grief and guilt.

T
HREE DAYS
. It took three days for the facts to sink in and the timetable of events to come together. Precisely three days after Billy’s death, at 3
A.M
., I bolted upright in a sitting position like a bullet leaving a gun. My heart pounding so hard, I began coughing to breathe; I was sweating profusely and wailing out loud, waking Martin. As I clasped my body, arms crossing my chest—trying to hold in the horror of what had actually happened—I cried out, “It was me! It was me! I killed Billy!”

As I’m a professional photographer, I had been out late picking up photos and an order from my processor. I was furious they had botched yet another order. I was very angry and driving too fast. I took the familiar sharp right hand turn onto the street near my house with way too much speed. I temporarily lost control of the car; it swerved way to the left. There was no other traffic at that hour. No one behind me, next to me, or in front of me—so what was that loud crack I heard? I forcibly gained control of the steering wheel, and steered it out of my neighbor’s front driveway, not realizing at the time that I had just run over Billy.

It wouldn’t stop—the horror of what I’d done haunted me day and night for weeks on end. I’d cry continually and uncontrollably. I’d throw up after eating. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I had nightmares reliving the event. Sweating, heart pounding. Heart palpitations. Finally, I actually prayed to the powers that be to release me of my torture. Instantly, like a huge gentle hand pushed me to my pillow—instant deep, peaceful sleep and then a wonderful and miraculous dream….

I smelled a meadow. I saw that below the meadow there were gentle rolling hills, where I heard and saw children of all ages playing with animals, all kinds of animals. There were beings in white shimmering robes and shepherds’ staffs standing nearby. Then he appeared right in front of me—my wild child running about with his rabbit-like hop, chasing a white butterfly. It was clear. It was real. His shiny black and white coat set off his beautiful gold eyes. And then there was the distinct white stripe running down the full length of his nose. It was Billy, my handsome Billy. Happy, joyful, and whole. He was an arm’s length away. He turned and looked right at me, bobbing his head in a gesture of “come and play with me” as he had always done as a kitten. Again, he was distracted by the white butterfly that enticed him back to a happy game of chase. Off he went, bouncing and playing in Paradise.

I woke ever so gently, not ever wanting to leave this peaceful place. I was puzzled but delighted by the distinct aroma of roses that filled and lingered in my bedroom.

Finally, it was over. I realized that I had been forgiven. At last, I had been set free of my never-ending torment of grief and guilt and heartache.

I was finally able to accept that it was a terrible accident and nothing more, and I was able to move forward. I’ve learned that forgiveness given or received is one of life’s greatest gifts, especially to oneself.