We love our companion animals, and when they are ill, or injured, or stressed out, we suffer with them. Frosty came to us shortly after my 19-year-old cat Boo died. He was rescued after escaping from a garage where he had lived for nearly a year, and I had brief moments when I thought he might be the reincarnation of my father.
Something about Frosty's eyes told us that he was connected to something beyond this world. A communication teacher we consulted confirmed that this deep spirit did, in fact, work elsewhere while my husband Dave and I were fast asleep at night. At the time, I had no idea that we could ask animals in spirit what their jobs were on "the other side" - but this made our soft and serene white kitty that much more mysterious.
When Frosty began to cry one evening, Dave called me from a business meeting to join him at the emergency vet. It was the blood cancer returning with a vengeance. We had spent thousands of dollars to have it diagnosed and put our brave cat through a surgery that removed his spleen, only to be told that the recurrence rate was nearly 100%.
Now, we stood together in the examination room, while the kind doctor went to prepare the syringes to ease Frosty's transition from the body that caused him such distress. I laid my hands on his body, and felt the energy vibrating, as I connected with him to ask whether this was the right thing. His answer was immediate and direct. He was ready to go.
I was concerned about his buddy Tucker, our hippie-love-child in an apricot cat's body. They had been rescued by the same woman a few weeks apart and were often wrapped together like a pretzeled pair of conjoined twins as they napped. Should we bring Tucker back to see his empty body, so that Tucker would understand the sudden disappearance of his friend?
I asked Frosty, "What should we tell Tucker?" Again, the answer was clear and immediate, saturated with a shaman's certainty. "Tucker knows," was the entire reply. It was enough.
The vet returned and administered the sedative. I laid my hands against Frosty's head and back while she injected the final, deadly solution. I was shocked at the speed with which it took effect. Frosty was gone, as suddenly as if he'd leapt through a window left open by mistake. My hands were still hovering above his body, and I looked at the doctor with puzzlement. "Why is there still so much energy?" I asked. In a matter-of-fact tone, she replied, "You're a biologist. You know that the cells, organs, and systems of the body continue to break down for awhile, and there are a lot of reactions going on."
What a curious process, I thought. The soul is gone, but the body is still humming, slowing down like a little windup toy running out of energy.
Dave and I returned home, and found Tucker sleeping alone. We were grieving, but relieved that Frosty had been freed from his pain. We felt that he was near us, and it was odd that Tucker didn't seem to be upset or confused by his absence. If we sensed that Frosty was laughing and flying free on another dimension just beyond our conscious perceptions, was he also aware of what had happened?
We looked at each other and it all became clear. Tucker knows, just as all animals know. They are connected and present in a way that human beings often struggle to relearn. Physical death is simply a leap through an open window to a place where they fly free.
When you must make the right decision for an animal you dearly love, go into your heart and ask the question, "Are you ready to go now?" If you are truly connected with loving intent, you will know what to do. Animals know, and they tell us - if we simply listen with our hearts.
Filed under: Death