Animals and the Afterlife (29 page)
Miracles happen, not in opposition to nature, but in opposition to what we know of nature.
—S
T
. A
UGUSTINE
I’
VE FOUND THAT IT IS QUITE COMMON
for people to receive some sort of sign, or message, after the passing of a beloved animal. These signs are often subtle and are perhaps missed by many. When noticed, they seem to deliver the simple message of “I’m okay—and I still love you.” It is important to be open to such signs, as they provide tremendous comfort when they occur and are acknowledged; and in my opinion, that’s their purpose. I have found that there are certain recurring themes, and I’ve heard the same stories over and over by countless people all around the world who are unaware that others are having virtually identical experiences.
Many people become aware of the presence of a beautiful butterfly after the passing of a beloved animal, and the butterfly often appears while the presence of the deceased animal is simultaneously felt. Butterflies symbolize rebirth and life after death, as the caterpillar appears to die but then emerges from the cocoon as a beautiful winged being. The theme of butterflies is a very common one in after-death communications. These butterfly encounters sometimes continue on a regular basis for quite some time, almost like little messengers there to assist during the grieving process.
Besides butterflies, the most common signs seem to involve birds, rainbows, and moving or falling objects. Also quite common are cases in which a departed animal’s fur, whisker, or other item mysteriously appears in a spot where it wasn’t found before. Then there are the more unique signs that are specific to the people receiving them, such as sighting specific or unusual animals in specific or unusual places; or hearing songs—either literally or mentally—that almost seem to deliver a personal message at just the right time.
I found that many of the “signs and messages” reported to me by people from all walks of life were remarkably similar not only to one another, but also to my own personal experiences. As I collected countless stories with the same recurring themes, I was reminded of my own “butterfly encounter” after June’s death (mentioned in Chapter 4)—and other such occurrences—which happened long before I became aware that other people were having similar experiences.
I recall an incident that took place when our beloved rat, Melanie, passed away. Melanie was a beautiful Siamese rat who was left in a cage on the side of the road one winter day. Luckily, a friend spotted her cage and called me; and Melanie became a special part of our family, where she remained for the rest of her life. She lived to a ripe old age, and thankfully, died peacefully at home surrounded by the people and other rats who loved her.
After my beloved companion animals pass, I always have their bodies autopsied. (The term generally used for this procedure, when performed on animals, is “necropsy”; but I prefer to use the term “autopsy,” since that is the term commonly used for the identical procedure on humans, and I feel that our language should reflect more equality than it currently does.) Afterward, their bodies are returned to me for burial. The reason I have them autopsied is to learn more about their health so that I can be in a better position to help other animals. I began doing this a number of years ago, and as a result I’ve already learned a great deal that I’ve indeed found quite helpful for other animals.
When Melanie’s autopsy report arrived about a week later, I sat down in my office to look it over. I began reading it thoroughly. Suddenly, I felt as if something had just happened but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it … almost like my attention had gone somewhere else for just a moment, and then my focus returned to the paper.
I blinked and looked at the paper again, and there was a piece of Melanie’s fur. It was right in the spot where I had already been reading, and it hadn’t been there just a moment before; but there it was. I was holding the paper somewhat upright and didn’t even know how it could stay there without falling off, let alone how it got there in the first place. I was dumbfounded.
I knew it was Melanie’s fur, because it had that unmistakable Siamese marking on it (off-white fur with a darker brownish tip), and there were no other Siamese rats in the house. The paper had never been in contact with Melanie’s body, having arrived via fax. My logical mind struggled over the impossibility of such an event, until finally, I surrendered to the possibility that Melanie had just given me a most amazing gift. I was so touched by this keepsake of Melanie that I took a small piece of tape to attach it permanently to the piece of paper, where it remains to this day.
S
OMETIME LATER
, a woman contacted me with the following:
The day after Leo died, I found some of his fur on my bedroom floor. I know for a fact it was not there before, because I had thoroughly vacuumed the room. The first thing that came into my mind was that it was his way of telling me he is indeed still here with me. Am I crazy for thinking that?
I was amazed at how often I was asked this very question. Thanks to my own experience, no, I don’t think it’s crazy to think that. I found it interesting that the people who had this type of experience always took it as a sign or message, without even knowing that anyone else had experienced the same thing and had reached the same conclusion.
Thomas Goheen of Fullerton, California, who had both
felt
and
heard
his departed cat, Dooie, also shared the following experience:
In one of our rooms there’s a phonograph, an old style console wood one that I keep a blanket on top of to keep the wood safe because it’s really old. I’d had the blanket on and off this thing numerous times since Dooie was gone—probably twenty or so times—and I remember one day thinking,
I wish I had one of his whiskers to save;
and when I raised the blanket off, there was one of his whiskers sitting there on the phonograph, just like it had been placed there for me to find.
I
N ADDITION TO THE MORE COMMON SIGNS
, I’ve come across a number of cases in which the spirit of a departed animal appears to be captured in a photograph. Such was the case with a special little bird named Raffie.
Judith Collins, a writer in Texas, rescued Raffie, a young, sickly parakeet, from a cold, dark back closet of a pet store where he had been left to die. She nursed him back to health, and the two developed a magical bond. Raffie had free run (or rather, “free fly”) of Judith’s condo, where he spent the rest of his happy life.
Judith consulted animal communicator Gail De Sciose both during and after Raffie’s life. After his death, Gail explained to Judith that, in spirit, Raffie was flying freely in a jungle setting. Meanwhile, Judith had photographed some of Raffie’s favorite things as a memorial to him, and she was stunned when the photos were later developed. The lighting in the photos was so unusual that it gave the appearance of a jungle setting, with shadows creating the appearance of jungle plants with sunlight showing through the leaves.
She also took some photos of the cedar box that held Raffie’s ashes, and in the photos, hovering in the background above the box, appeared to be a small white bird (who looked just like Raffie, right down to the unique “double tail” he had developed toward the end of his life as his tail feathers separated).
For approximately ten days after his death, every photo that was taken in Judith’s dining room (where Raffie’s ashes were kept) had the most surreal, mystical light. There was no logical explanation for it.
I have occasionally noticed similar, though less dramatic, inexplicable phenomena in my own photographs. When we buried our beloved rat, Jonathan, I took several photographs of his grave. In two of the photos—one of his box before it was buried, and one of his gravestone after the burial—there appears a white glow in the shape of a rat’s hindquarters and tail going off the edge of the photo. I have no idea what could have caused this. There might very well be a “logical” explanation for this, but then again, there might not.
With all that I have seen and learned, it appears that there are no coincidences—that everything happens for a reason. If we keep our minds open, we find that signs and messages are all around us.
Frosty’s Mist
Rob Armstrong, Internet Retailer and Web Developer California
I
NEVER THOUGHT
that I would see a trace of her beautiful sapphire-blue eyes again after her graduation from this world, but in some form, I believe I did. Frosty had been my sacred cat companion for fifteen years, and as with most people who share their lives with animals, the energy that we shared was extraordinary. Besides the games we would play—tag, fuzzball, hide and seek—every night she laid her beautiful little cat body next to my head, her eyes seeking deeply into my mind and soul, as if she knew me completely. And if she could talk, she wouldn’t anyway, because there was not anything to say; it was already being said by the gaze we shared.
I can honestly say that no human relationship has matched the type of love we shared. There is something to be said about being in the presence of another being with no exchange of words, just absorbing all that is there in the silence of the state of just being present. If more people tried this, I think we’d see better relationships.
Frosty and I shared some beautiful times together, and I am sure we both grew from having the gift of each other’s company; I know I did. She taught me unconditional love; animals are good at that, you know.
Frosty started showing signs of diabetes a year prior to her life graduation. For over a year she put up with me sticking a hideous needle full of insulin in her neck each day. I look back, and knowing what I know now, I would have attempted to cure her with a more holistic way of healing. I have learned that what kills us humans tends to kill our animal friends as well.
At the animal hospital, I gazed into her vibrant blue eyes for the last time as her pupils dilated and I sensed she was no longer looking out from that venue. Although I did not see her leave her body, I knew she was no longer there. But I still felt her presence.
The next day, my girlfriend April and I took her body to a pet cemetery. We said our good-byes, kissed her, put a flower next to her with a photo, and covered her with my baby-blue baby blanket. We then sealed the casket and wrote loving words with a pen on the outside. When we were ready, the cemetery caretaker lowered the casket into the ground and handed us the shovel to toss in the first bit of earth.
April and I both felt as if we were burying our child, and we were. We put the flower arrangement in the freshly laid grass and proceeded to take photographs of each other with the grave site and flower arrangement. I then said to April, “I wish she could show us her spirit, to let us know she’s okay.” I then thought to myself, as I clicked off three photos of the flower arrangement,
I wish she would show me her spirit in the photo.
I had forgotten about my wish as April and I looked at the photos the next day. It caught both our eyes simultaneously; although at first we didn’t put it together with the wish, it did not take long for us to remember it the more we analyzed the photo. Although it is quite transparent and light, there is something there. A blue, misty fog. April and I went through all the obvious explanations. Glare? No, it was a very black day, overcast. Perhaps it was something to do with the camera or maybe the film. After debating back and forth, we remembered that I had taken three photos, one right after the other, within seconds of each other, and the camera did not move between shots. We looked at the first two photos and there was nothing; but the third one, curiously enough, was the only one with the blue mist.
We held the possibility that the blue mist was Frosty’s energy or spirit, and it comforted us in believing our little friend was saying good-bye and was okay.
Kim’s note:
It’s not uncommon for a mist such as this to appear in a photograph of a grave site (or other location) shortly after the death of a loved one. This misty form has long been interpreted as the ghostly presence of a departed human. As this story illustrates, apparently the same holds true for departed animals!
