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Blessing the
Bridge:
What Animals Teach Us About Death,
Dying, and Beyond
by Rita M. Reynolds |
Creating a Sanctuary
In the midst of a routine day I gathered my dog,
Oliver, into my arms, and held his soft, small body
close to mine "There is a strong possibility,"
I explained, "that the cancer growing inside you
will eventually cause us to be separated from each
other." As the word "separated" left my
mouth, his face rose to mine. Although blind, his eyes
danced, shining with life. I sensed that he was seeing
on another level, within and through me. "You will
change worlds and I will have to remain behind, but I
will always love you." Oliver turned his head
downward as my words and tears cascaded over him. A
knowing flowed between Oliver and me that in truth we
could never be separated, and that everything was
perfect, even the cancer.
But I had not always felt so. When I had heard the
diagnosis three months earlier, I had immediately made
Oliver’s cancer an enemy. That cancer was the monster
that would tear my dear friend of eight years away from
me. Later, in a reflectivemoment I realized that by
declaring war on the cancer, I was making all of Oliver’s
cells—the whole basic structure of his body—my enemy
as well. From that moment, rather than cursing his
cells, I began loving and blessing them, even the
cancerous ones, hoping this approach would cure him.
But what if he died anyway? I asked myself in
doubtful moments. Would I have accomplished anything
at all, or wasted energy, time, and emotion? Was I
entrapping myself in false hope, blind faith, and utter
stupidity? I wondered if I was setting myself up for
a hard and terrible disappointment.
Oliver’s tumor was in his bladder. The medical
prognosis was that the cancer would not respond to
surgery, chemotherapy, or radiation. After introspection
and prayer, I decided to begin my own integrative
therapy for Oliver. My intuition, always my best guide,
directed me to use sound and music therapy, color and
light, supportive nutrition, and the prayer support of
friends and family. At the same time, I also realized
that it might just be Oliver’s time to go.
As we proceeded with these alternative healing
methods, I began to realize that everything I was doing
for Oliver was appropriate for possibly curing his
physical condition, while at the same time helping him
through his dying if that would be the outcome. I was no
longer attempting a "cure-or-nothing
approach," which would imply success versus failure
or winning versus losing. I had ended my battle against
the cancer.
No longer was this therapy focused on my little dog
alone. Now, Oliver and I were moving in tandem through a
mutual and inter-supportive healing on infinite levels.
As with so many of the animals who had been in my care,
I was once again learning when and how to let Oliver go,
making sure I did so with unconditional love, grace, and
peace.
We walked through our healing, step by step. Nothing
long range. I felt compelled to give up all my goals,
including healing him. My job was simply to offer Oliver
my full participation and accept each moment as perfect,
no matter what was going on. It was easier for Oliver,
he had no expectations. But I also knew Oliver and I
were not alone. There was a boundless, pure spirit that
led us with love. Oliver shone with that love.
But when finally faced with the certainty of Oliver’s
impending death, I once again struggled with my
emotional attachment and inevitable sense of failure. I
questioned everything. Was the pain I saw cross his face
only momentary? Would it pass, and then we would still
have more time together? Or was it his way of asking for
compassionate release? I could not decide, so I turned
within and prayed for help. The guidance came and I knew
Oliver was ready to leave.
The day before Oliver died, he laid his head on my
foot as I wrote down my thoughts about him. He
communicated to me, Don’t begin missing me yet.
Share this moment with me, everything is as it is
meant to be. And if you let me, I will guide you for all
the moments to come."
"I will," I responded, out loud, knowing he
was pleased. And so Oliver’s life on Earth ended well.
My friend and teacher joined me in this lifetime as a
honey-colored terrier named Oliver. Through his living
and dying, he taught me there is no such thing as life
versus death, or success versus failure. Love given and
received, moment by moment, is all that really matters.
****
Since childhood I have been offered countless
opportunities to understand the essence of death, and
despite the pain and suffering that seem to accompany
it, to realize its luminescence. I have learned over the
past four and a half decades that the animals come to
teach me, among other things, a new understanding of the
dying process from which so many of us uncomfortably
turn away.
Animals are masters in their own manner of the flow
of birth, growth, death, and beyond. They continue to
impress upon me the importance of preparing—not out of
fear, but out of wonderment—for one of the most
important events in every life: death. The animals have
taught me ways to approach death and dying that can
enrich and enlighten.
I haven't always thought that to be true. I've done
my share of cursing and fighting death, of begging my
creature friends not to die, of wrestling with "Why
this one, why now...?" My preference would be for
everyone to live forever, provided they are in good
spirits and excellent health. Few people will hear me
state that the death of a friend, human or animal, is
easy or immediately enlightening when I am in the thick
of it. Honestly speaking, I dread losing my companions.
Loss hurts, it is exhausting, and while I do always grow
spiritually, emotionally, and mentally with each
passing, I never look forward to another’s death with
joy and anticipation.
"May you live to at least 40," I tell each
of the animals who come into my care. "May my
children inherit you," I whisper into the long,
soft brown ears of my three donkeys who have a long life
span and may out live me. I'm not ashamed of this
attitude. I would be more ashamed if I denied my
vulnerability. It is my vulnerability that keeps me open
to the suffering and pain of others, which in turn,
stirs within me the compassion and loving kindness that
always are the best healers.
Over time I continue to learn how to be fully open
and willing to take on the suffering of others in order
to return support, love, and compassion to them. I often
spend years in a powerful, loving relationship with a
creature and allow myself to become hopelessly attached.
But I am willing to learn through the shattering times
as well as the exquisite times. I've stood by my animal
friends while they've experienced all manner of passing,
from peaceful to painful, from too quick to agonizingly
slow. But for all my complaints, I hold them, love them,
and try to pay attention as they die.
Frequently, my journey to a more expansive
understanding of dying has been rough, the learning
difficult, the sense of loss enormous. My own resistance
and past conditioning have been stubborn. But still my
beloved teachers come: finned and furred, shelled and
scaled, two- and fourlegged, and no doubt some back for
second and third attempts to enlighten me. It’s worth
their effort, the animals assure me, and it's definitely
worth mine. Repeatedly, the animals have shown me death
from different angles and perspectives. They've led me
to face my own fears of mortality and move past them by
demonstrating their own immortality. The animals’
teachings guide me through my life’s work of helping
those who are dying, and to comfort those who must say
goodbye and remain behind.
****
It is impossible to open one's doors, literally and
figuratively, to creatures and avoid the trauma of their
illnesses, dying, and death. My passion for helping
injured, abandoned, and abused animals began early,
probably the moment I was able to crawl after bugs. Bugs
were my first friends and there always seemed to be
plenty of them in need of rescuing. To this day I help
spiders and hornets out of the house and check water
buckets in the donkey and goat barn to invariably find
one or more unfortunate creature struggling for his
life. From bumblebees to tiny beetles I lift them to
safety, sending them along the fence rail, never
doubting that their existence is as precious as any
other being on this planet.
Ever since I was a child, when given a choice of
footwear, I wore moccasins. It was instinctual for me,
as was lying in the grass for hours, watching the
miniature world of insects and bugs, or climbing a tree
as high as I dared and conversing with birds and
squirrels. Moccasins, still my favorite shoe, close the
distance between myself and Earth. With moccasins I can
step lightly, silently, and reverently. They allow me to
make every step a gentle, respectful one. Boots, even
sneakers, clump and crash across the ground, crushing in
wide swaths plants and animals who make their homes and
paths there.
Even when I stumbled perilously through adolescence
and early adulthood I kept my great love for Earth and
all her nonhuman beings. I found I related more easily
to animals, trees, wind, and stones than to others of my
own species. Always, they have all been part of the
"group" I call my family.
Dogs and cats in increasing numbers came later when
in 1978, married with two young sons of my own, we moved
from New England to the small farm in the foothills of
the Virginia Blue Ridge Mountains where we still live
today. We already had two dogs and two cats when we
arrived at the farm, only to find an unwanted beagle on
the doorstep of our new home. From there it didn't take
long for that invisible sign to "appear" at
the end of the farm drive that apparently said, Vacancy.
Wounded, starving, orphaned or abandoned? Apply within.
All applicants accepted. Eventually, I formally
named our farm turned sanctuary "Howling
Success."
I established one rule early on. Whatever creature in
need appears here, stays for life; no one is turned
away. And by some magical accounting, no more animals
have arrived than could be well cared for at one time.
Yet, hardly has one died than another suddenly arrives
on the front lawn. Or an animal becomes known to me
through someone in such a way that there is no doubt the
animal should be with meat the sanctuary.
Along with dogs and cats come the more unusual ones.
There have been a variety of goats, including Marigold,
rescued from death because she only produced buck (male)
kids. There were six stray domestic ducks who wandered
into the backyard one evening; the black-and-white
spotted rooster, Cezanne, who fled from a neighbor's
yard (he was destined for soup) to hide among our hens.
Cezanne died of old age ten years later. A partial list
at best, that also includes Betsy and Bob, the two
orphaned newborn field mice I found in a hundred pound
sack of grain; a one-eyed hen named Robyn; three shaggy
donkeys, and an ancient box turtle named Henry who lived
in our rose garden.
Our sons, Michael and Tim, loved each new addition to
our family and helped tend to the creatures with only
mild complaint. They learned invaluable lessons in
caring for other living beings through life and through
death. My husband, Doug, however, not quite the animal
enthusiast I have always been, tolerated the on-rolling
influx of needy animals with useless protests that got
lost in the uproar of barks and brays, quacks and baas.
Still, he has, without exception, been a strong and
caring supporter, and none of my work with the animals
would have been as successful without the close and
caring nature of Doug, Michael, and Tim. But to be fair,
originally the chickens were Doug’s idea. The first
afternoon in our new home, the previous owner, Lennie,
asked if we wanted to keep the twenty-two hens and one
large rooster he had raised there. New to Virginia and
to farming I said, "No," at the precise
moment, Doug, raised on a farm, said, "Yes."
The chickens stayed and I've taken care of them since,
never regretting a moment with them.
Despite such initial hesitancy on my part at times,
(rare though it has been) each animal has quickly taken
its place on the farm, seemingly of his or her own
accord. As if with a mind of its own, this small
sanctuary has from the beginning evolved almost by some
preordained plan with purpose, direction, and certainly
adventure. The animals who come here always enrich my
life with a new perspective on caregiving. I have
learned when to press on in the support of the process
of life and health, and eventually, inevitably, when to
let go and support the dying process.
****
Over the past fifteen years of working with animals I
have learned how to allow a dying creature’s passage
to unfold as naturally as possible without the
interference of confusion, fear, or regret on my part.
Fifteen years ago, however, I was far less prepared when
Domino died. But it was the day Domino died that I began
my own journey—in a most unexpected way—into
conscious dying work with animals and their families.
Domino wasmy mother's dog and his death from leukemia
had been both shocking and painful for everyone. While
my mother appeared to cope, I sensed in her a grief too
deeply tied to a lifetime of loneliness and abuse to be
fully resolved. And there was my mother’s fear of her
own mortality and the vast uncertain mystery that
stretches beyond the last breath. I, too, had great
difficulty facing the situation. I had too little
spiritually to offer my mother in order that we might
both understand and successfully work through Domino's
dying. I believe this hurt me more than Domino’s
actual death.
That afternoon when Domino died, we placed his body
in the back of our car and drove over Afton Mountain to
the veterinary hospital for cremation. Nothing much was
said until I suggested we stop at a restaurant at the
top of the mountain on the return trip. The view across
the Shenandoah Valley to the west and Albemarle County
to the east always seemed to lift our spirits. Over
lunch my mother reminisced about her beloved companion
and I, barely nibbling my sandwich, tried to listen
politely. My mind, however, seemed to be pulled
elsewhere, as if into a void, beyond my control.
Suddenly, there was what I have come to accept as a
knowing—my intuition perhaps, or an unseen angelic
guide? Both were supportive "friends" familiar
to me since childhood and I was not surprised to receive
a brief yet complete message. The message seemed to be
absolutely appropriate while at the same time
distressing. However, the message was clear: The work I
was supposed to do for the rest of my life involved
helping animals through the dying process and assisting
humans in understanding the true nature and luminescence
of dying and life beyond. I would provide a hospice for
animals and their human families—a novel idea at
least. From the message, I surmised that much of my work
would be with elder animals. Then the void dissolved
without further explanation.
I have always honored my intuition or from wherever
or whomever such guidance comes, yet this time I balked.
Here it was, probably my great purpose in life, but I
questioned how could I possibly help others with their
dying, and be there for families with their grief when I
cried over dying butterflies? Silently I announced to
the mysterious messenger that I would prefer any other
kind of work with animals and their human families, but
not this. In my mind the matter was closed. We do, after
all, have free will. This being the case, I said nothing
of the message, or my thoughts regarding it, to anyone
else.
My animal care work continued, tending to those who
found our sanctuary, sometimes by twos now. With Michael
and Tim both in elementary school, I began writing
articles about my animal-related experiences, striving
continually for public awareness of the sanctity of all
life, an issue that has been precious to me since early
childhood. However, in my writings, in my day-to-day
interaction with "our" animals, I continued to
stubbornly ignore, avoid, or otherwise cringe from the
less-than-pleasant aspects of illness and death.
A sense of infinite compassion and unconditional love
have always been a part of me. My life’s work is to
relieve suffering wherever I encounter it. Albert
Schweitzer's ethic of Reverence For Life, but especially
animals, plants, and trees is and has been my personal
philosophy since I was five when my grandmother first
began reading his books to me. And there was that rule
about not turning anyone away. So quite naturally, and
with increasing frequency, I began to find myself
assisting both elderly and dying animals, as well as
responding to the pain and grief people feel when losing
their animal companions.
As the years passed and the opportunities arose, I
was amazed at how easily I accepted the work. Step by
step, as if in some structured university/universal
program, I began to understand the process of death in
new terms and constructively began to practice what I
had learned.
Still, I had not connected with the idea that the
animals were the teachers and I was the student. I did
not realize this had been unfolding for many years until
a most remarkable presence entered my life. In May 1994
my veterinarian, Dr. Robert Partridge, asked if I could
help find a loving home for his parents'
thirteen-year-old golden retriever, Penny Partridge.
Both in their eighties, Mr. and Mrs. Partridge had a
difficult time caring for Penny. Giving her up was
extremely painful for them, but their selfless love made
them look to her best interests. Throughout the summer I
tried to find Penny a good home, but no one wanted such
an old dog. They didn't want her "dying on
them."
In August, Dr. Partridge asked me again, this time
with a definite note of anxiety in his voice. His father
wanted Penny euthanized, he said, if no home could be
found. Yet Penny was still amazingly spry and healthy
for her age and size. Again I offered to continue the
search, apologizing for not taking her in myself. Our
house was already bursting with thirteen resident dogs.
Late that August I sat on the front porch swing,
sipping a fresh cup of coffee and enjoying the early
morning sun rising from the mountains and fields around
our home. Once again I felt myself drift into that void—a
place filled with peace and light, a comfortable and
familiar place I trusted completely. And there,
streaming through my consciousness came that knowing,
this time thrilling in its perfection and
appropriateness: Penny was to come here to live out
the rest of her life. Somehow I felt this was all
part of a magnificent plan; the synchronicity was
perfect, the full purpose yet to be revealed. This time
not only did I listen carefully, I agreed without
hesitation, in fact with expectation and joy.
Penny arrived three weeks later with a contented
sense of already belonging. During her stay with us she
reminded me of many excellent qualities of life I had
temporarily forgotten. She faced change with a sense of
adventure, and she taught me the importance of
playfulness no matter what one's age or creaky bones.
During her time in our home, and later, in her passing,
Penny demonstrated how to bring people together in a
loving manner. Strength and courage were qualities she
displayed daily, as did all the other animals around me,
both wild and domesticated. Yet in Penny, they were
qualities that seemed to shine. For the first time in
her life she learned how to manage stairs. She
discovered cats and found them fascinating to watch, to
wash, and to chase. And she learned about pecking order,
alpha dogs, packs—all new to one who once had been an
only dog.
Penny had been with us only six months, yet there was
a familiarity about her as if she had lived with me
forever. I felt as if some ancient sage dwelled in that
massive golden frame. Then one evening without warning
she simply collapsed. In subsequent days we discovered
she had developed inoperable cancer that would become
increasingly painful. She was euthanized by the gentle
hand of Dr. Partridge.
Penny’s death at the age of fourteen offered me new
experiences and insights into the passage from life. For
example, Dr. Partridge phoned with the news of finding
her cancer, immediately following the exploratory
surgery. Together we agreed it would be kindest to Penny
to simply not let her wake up from the anesthesia. This
meant, however, that I would not be present at her
death. And initially, this was difficult for me. I did
not want Penny to feel I had abandoned her. Yet, as I
sat in prayer, I felt strongly that she understood my
physical absence at such an important time. And in some
inexplicable way, Penny assured me that on our soul
level, we were not apart from one another at all.
In moving through my own grieving process over Penny’s
death, I followed the steps I had offered to others so
many times in the past few years. I sat in silence and
sent loving, supportive messages to Penny. Then I spoke
aloud to her, sensing that wherever she was, she would
hear and appreciate my words. In meditation I visualized
our minds and hearts joining. I allowed myself to
continue to cry as needed, sometimes in the middle of
the night, often as I set out dinner bowls for the other
dogs, hers painfully absent. I washed and put away Penny’s
favorite blanket, to be used for the next animal in
need. I wrote a lengthy letter to Dr. Partridge, his
family, and the hospital staff who had gathered over the
months to assist her transition from her previous home
to mine, and from mine to the beyond. I detailed all she
had reminded me of, new things she had taught me, and
the ways I would continue to honor her presence in the
universe.
I realized I could, after all, keep an open door and
heart to other elder animals in need of love and
assistance in their final days on Earth. I could be a
gentle "embrace" that eased their journey
through dying. Finally, a few days after Penny’s
death, I stood in the middle of my living room
surrounded by thirteen eager canines and eight pensive
felines, and declared these intentions to Penny
Partridge, and all of Life everywhere.
Since Penny’s passing I have often felt her spirit
close by, almost as if I could see her, but not quite.
The guidance I received after Domino's death seemed to
be the same "voice" or energy that led Penny
and me to each other. The bond Penny and I formed
inspires me to continue the work in her memory.
Penny Partridge left me with a new awareness about
life and death. And now, each creature, in his or her
own way, continues to broaden that awareness. No two
experiences are ever the same. Sometimes I am
overwhelmed by the waves of beauty inherent in the
process of death. At other times, I only get a glimpse
of that beauty. Each new encounter with an animal's
passing requires that I have enough humility to
recognize and accept all that I still don't know. Then
and only then am I able to firmly integrate their
teaching into my heart and be ready to pass it along to
the next one, human or creature who, through her
suffering, calls me still deeper into my own evolution.
© Copyright Rita M. Reynolds. The above piece is
excerpted from Blessing the Bridge: What Animals
Teach Us About Death, Dying, and Beyond by Rita M.
Reynolds. All material is copyrighted and cannot be
reproduced or used without permission from the
publisher, NewSage Press. To learn more about this book
visit the publisher’s web site at www.newsagepress.com
Rita Reynolds is the founder of Howling Success, an animal sanctuary located in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains near Charlottesville, Virginia. For the past 25 years her sanctuary has been home to hundreds of animals. Reynolds is
the author of "Blessing the Bridge: What Animals
Teach Us About Death, Dying, and Beyond." She is also the founder and editor of laJoie, The Journal in Appreciation of All Animals, first published in 1990 and distributed internationally. In addition to her animal family, Reynolds shares her home with her husband and two sons.
Rita Reynolds is currently establishing a community hospice program for animals and their human families. She also provides individual consulting for those who are facing serious illness or death with a beloved animal companions. Reynolds can be reached at PO Box 145, Batesville, VA 22924. You can also reach her by email at:
Lajoieco1@aol.com.
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