Animals and the Afterlife (37 page)

Bubbles

Dawn E. Hayman, Animal Communicator/Co-founder, Spring Farm CARES New York

A
PONY WE NAMED
B
UBBLES
arrived here at our facility when she was in her thirties; she was probably around thirty-two or thirty-three. She got the name Bubbles because she had no teeth and we had to feed her her food mixed in water; she would stick her head down in the bucket and blow bubbles. She also had a very bubbly kind of personality. She was a little Shetland pony—incredible character. Kids adored her. She was very effervescent. One of her favorite things was eating glazed doughnuts, believe it or not, and there was a volunteer that used to come here once a week with a bag of glazed doughnuts. When Bubbles saw that doughnut bag come in through the door she would start nickering and twirling in circles. She would go nuts to have her piece of glazed doughnut. Every Saturday morning, without fail, that was her routine.

Bubbles died of old age. About six months after she died, her spirit announced to me that she was coming back. This was an incredible message because I usually don’t get things in time frames about when they are coming back. She was very specific that on April 21st she was going to arrive on our farm in utero and she was going to be born here. I immediately said, “Forget it; the chances of this happening are so slim.” She told me she would be a Shetland pony again. We don’t do any breeding here; we are a rescue facility. There aren’t very many pregnant Shetland ponies that are running around as strays out there. So I immediately thought,
It’s never going to happen
.

Nevertheless, I asked if there was anything that we needed to do. And she said, “No, but you may want to tell your friends that if they ever found a Shetland pony in need of a home that you would be interested.” So we said, “Okay, we can do that.” We did that. April started ticking away, and all of a sudden on the 19th of April I got a phone call from a friend of ours. And she said to me, “There is this very strange situation; there is an elderly woman who is not taking care of her horses—she has a whole bunch of Shetland ponies and a lot of them are pregnant, and I’m looking to place them. Would you be interested in taking one? We have to get these ponies out of there because they are starving.” I couldn’t believe it.

“You have to be kidding; yes, we are interested, we will come and take one.”

She called me back the same day and told me she had been slightly mistaken; all of the foals were born already and they were a couple of months old and would we take a foal? I asked Bubbles, “Would you have been born already?” and the answer came back so strongly, “No, I’m going to be born in the barn. I’m going to be born in the same stall that I died.” I thought,
Well, this isn’t it. This isn’t the one
. It was a roller coaster, but on the 20th of April the friend called back again:

“You aren’t going to believe this. I just went over there. There is one mare who hasn’t foaled yet, and she’s due to foal any day, so we’ve got to get her out.”

We went over to the place and, interestingly enough, the mare had never been handled. She had never had a halter on her; she had never had anything done with her. As soon as she saw us come in the door, she walked right up to us. We put a halter on her, and we led her out to the trailer. She got right on.

We brought her home. It was April 21st, the date Bubbles had told me she would arrive on our farm in utero. As it turns out, the mare was put in the same area where Bubbles had died, which was in an area in our indoor arena where we put up temporary corral gates, and totally by coincidence that is where she ended up again; it was the only place we had available. So here was the pony ready to foal any day now. We were sleeping out in the barn with her in case she had problems foaling because these mares were all starving, and they were in really bad shape.

To add more to this story, our barn manager, a lady, had a small child whom she would bring to work with her every day. To backtrack just a bit, the original Bubbles used to babysit for her, and our barn manager would actually put the baby in a little rocker in front of little Bubbles’s stall. When the baby woke up, Bubbles would reach out and rock the rocker, and rock the baby back to sleep. This little girl was about a year and a half old when Bubbles died. When the new pony came and was getting ready to give birth, they happened to be here, and the little girl was with her mom. Her mom said, “Do you mind if I let her watch the pony be born?” I said, actually not, that would be wonderful for her. As we were watching the birth, our barn manager said to her little daughter, “Who is that? Who is that?” as the foal came out. The little girl, clear as a bell, said, “It’s Bubbles, Mommy, it’s Bubbles.” The little girl and the pony were so connected when she was an infant. Nobody had talked in front of her about Bubbles coming back.

What clinched it for me was the day after this pony was born. We named him Mr. Bubbles. He had that same personality again. We were having a garage sale as a fund-raising event, an open house type of thing. It was a Saturday morning and people were coming to take tours of the barn. Our volunteer came in with glazed doughnuts for the staff—
not
for the horses. We had a table set up with refreshments on it, and it was in front of where the newborn foal was. The volunteer had put the doughnut bag on the table there. All of a sudden, I heard one of the people on the tour yell, “Look, Mom! Look at what the little pony is doing!” I turned around and Mr. Bubbles was squeezing through the bars of the corral gate to reach for the doughnut bag. Newborn foals just don’t do that.

TeeJay

Jeanie Cunningham, Songwriter/Producer California

B
ACK IN THE EARLY
’80
S
, I had a beautiful black Great Dane named TeeJay. She was my pal and we adored each other. One day when she was a puppy, she accidentally fell in the pool. I jumped in and pulled her right out, and from that day forward, she
hated
the pool.

When she was about two, we would chase each other around the pool, and I’d run to one end, she to the other. I’d tease her and say, “Aw, c’mon TeeJay, you
know
you want to go swimmin’ … in the pool!” And she would bark ferociously back at me (
most
disrespectfully), and then race around to wherever I was, stick her head between my legs and pretend to snap at my hands as I’d try to grab her front legs. As we played, she let out the most ferocious growls. We
loved
this game. It went on for another eight years until she had to be put to sleep at the age of ten.

I was devastated. Her back legs had given out on her, she’d stopped eating, and the dreadful day that I’d always put off in my mind had finally arrived. She died on her favorite blanket, surrounded by my friends and hers (two other dogs included), underneath “her” lemon tree, as she was gently put to sleep. In spite of the presence of the other two dogs, TeeJay’s absence created a
huge
void in me. I grieved and grieved over her.

Finally, after about two months, my best friend Ayn had seen enough of my teary red eyes, so she bought a book about Great Danes and gave it to me

“I think it’s time you thought about getting another one,” she said. After my initial horror that she could even
think
that TeeJay could ever be replaced, I started to leaf through the book. About a week later, in total agreement with her, I began to hunt for another black Great Dane.

Somehow, none of the puppies that I went to see really
did
any- thing for me. By the time I visited a third litter, I had almost lost hope. And then, one day, someone told me that a litter had been born less than five miles from my home. So, after a few weeks, I decided to go over and take a look.

I walked in to a litter of seven puppies. Three were black. Two were female. All were adorable. After allowing them to climb all over me, and smelling the sweet fragrance of their puppy breath, I noticed that one stood off by herself. The mother dog came into the pen, and all the puppies headed for her, except this one in the corner, watching me carefully. When the other pups went for their mother, this little pup wriggled over to me. I picked her up. Snuggling her close, she just seemed to …
fit
… I can’t exactly describe it. So I lifted her up to my face to smell her puppy breath, and the little cutie proceeded to suck my nose. This was a bonding moment, strange as it could be, perhaps, but a bonding moment.

I took her home and named her “Ebony.” And I introduced her gently to the pool so that she knew the parameters of it by the time she was two months old. She tolerated it well and didn’t show much fear or interest either way.

Two years later, I was on one end of the pool, and she on the other. Though her markings were different from TeeJay’s, from the angle at which I was viewing her, I felt a sort of “deja-vu.” Out of the clear blue I decided to tease her about going into the pool. “Ebony! Whaddya say? Let’s go sa-wimmminnn! In the
pool!”

She proceeded to bark at me in a
most
disrespectful manner, then raced around the pool to where I was, thrust her head between my legs, and let loose with the most
awesome
ferocious growl, all the while pretend-snapping at my hands as I tried to grab her legs….

“TeeJay? TeeJay, is that
you?”
She responded with another enthusiastic growl and thrust with her head, almost launching
me
into the pool!

I then exclaimed, “You dawg!
Come here leedle dawgie—where’s your baby?”
(TeeJay used to have this squeaker toy that was “her baby,” and she’d go grab it and squeak it merrily, while driving the rest of us crazy with the noise.) Ebony then went racing into the house, searching for something. She acted as though she wanted to go into the front yard, so I let her into the front, where the lemon tree is. She jumped up (just like TeeJay used to) and picked a lemon from the tree, then placed the slimy treasure in front of me for me to throw. She had never done this before, and yet, it was one of TeeJay’s favorite pastimes: picking her own lemons, tossing them around the yard, then chewing off the peel underneath the shade of her lemon tree. And now, here was Ebony, doing the
exact
same thing.

I’m beginning to think that one option for the tremendous glut of animal souls (and I
do
believe that
all
animals have souls) leaving this planet after their brief lives, is for them to return to their people if they so choose. Ebony, with the exception of her markings, is/was TeeJay.

Miss Ebony died last year, at the age of ten.

I haven’t felt the same compulsion to seek out another dog just yet—I still have two remaining. But I’m keeping my eyes peeled
just in case
TeeJay decides to come back to chase me around the pool again.

Sil

Lisa Ludwig, Telecommunications Circuit Designer Utah

O
N
M
ARCH
23, 1979, the little stray cat I had adopted a few weeks before gave birth to five adorable kittens. One of the kittens was a calico, beautifully colored with red, white, and black. I decided to keep this kitten, along with the mother, and find homes for the others. Unfortunately, the mother disappeared after the kittens all went to their new homes.

The calico kitten grew into a gorgeous Maine Coon cat with long fur. I called her Sil, which was a nickname—short for silly because she would play the silliest games with her toys. Her official name was Calamity Jane. We bonded like mother and daughter. She thought she was human and understood everything I’d say.

Sil was always in excellent health until one morning, July 8, 1994. As I was packing to go out of town for a business seminar, she began throwing up again and again. When I called the vet, he said he was booked until 2:30
P.M
. I explained that this was an emergency and I had to be at the airport by 1:00
P.M
. He said to drop her off before I left and they would contact my mother when they could look at her to report the problem.

When I dropped her off, she was in terrible pain and it broke my heart to leave her there alone, but I felt like I couldn’t do anything else. I told her I’d be back, and they whisked her away from me before I was really able to say good-bye. I kept praying that she’d be okay … that this wasn’t anything too serious.

At 4:00
P.M
. I was still on the airplane and said a prayer to God that she could be at peace. I was hoping the vet would be making her as comfortable as possible, whatever the problem was.

When I got to my destination that evening, I called my mother to get the prognosis. She informed me that Sil’s liver and kidneys had been shutting down and she had been in the dying process. They said they had given her something to stop her from throwing up, but she was in so much pain, it was inhumane to let her suffer and they recommended she be put to sleep. They did so at 4:00
P.M
.

Needless to say, I was devastated. Even though we all know we will outlive our pets, it is never something we’re ready for. So there I was, out of town, stuck in a seminar, fighting back the tears all day long because I felt I should have been there for her but couldn’t be. She had always been there for me, through thick and thin, and now I had deserted her in her greatest time of need and left her alone in the place she hated the most.

I had a dream the next night that Sil came out of the grave, shook off the dirt, and walked away, perfectly fine.
That was a strange dream,
I thought as I awoke the following morning.

My mother brought her home and buried her in her favorite place in my yard before I got back. We mourned her passing as much as losing a daughter or granddaughter. We’d had fifteen wonderful years together.

The first morning I was back, when I was just beginning to wake up but not yet totally awake, I heard Sil at the foot of the bed (in her favorite spot) doing her little snoring-purr. (She actually snored as she got older.) Since I was not totally awake, I just thought,
Oh, that’s Sil, as usual, snoring on the bed.
Then I remembered,
But she’s gone.
The sound was so loud and clear, and I had to open my eyes to confirm what I’d heard. Of course, I didn’t see her, but I then
knew
she had been there and was trying to tell me she
was
okay and at peace.

I continued to mourn anyway because it felt like someone had ripped my heart out, and I felt so guilty. My two other cats also missed her and felt my pain. One of them would bring me all her toys every night in an effort to comfort me.

One night, at the end of August, I was lying in bed, missing Sil terribly. Suddenly, a wonderful peace flowed over me and a thought came to my mind:
Don’t worry about it; she’s coming back.
My logical mind dismissed that thought as wishful thinking. But I couldn’t get over how I suddenly didn’t feel the pain in my heart and was so peaceful. I went to sleep.

The next day, I had a psychic reading for fun. The woman seemed sweet reunions to be very accurate about me and made several predictions. At the end of the reading, I asked her if she could access information about our animals.

“Like a lost animal?” she asked.

“No,” I replied. “Like an animal who has died. Are you able to communicate with them? I had a cat that died six weeks ago and I was wondering if you could find out if she’s okay, if she understands what happened when she passed, and why I couldn’t be there for her.” (That was all I had mentioned about her the entire time. I didn’t even mention her name.)

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll ask my guides.” She closed her eyes and paused very briefly, then said, “They said not to worry about it; she’s coming back.” The
exact
same words I had heard the night before. I just about fell off the chair.

I then asked, “Does she forgive me, does she … “

The woman interrupted me and said again, “They said don’t worry about it; she’s coming back. She will be the first animal that crosses your path and will look like she did before.”

With that I left, and as I was driving away, a sudden feeling of forgiveness, peace, love, and the sensation of an immense burden being lifted came over me. It was so strong that I had to pull over and began to cry uncontrollably.

A moment later, the thought came to me,
She’s coming back in November. My brother will find her as a kitten and will give her to me.
Again, my logical mind said I was just imagining this, but yet a little voice told me not to disbelieve it totally. I began to feel a lot better then.

November 1994 came and went. December came and went. January came and went. There was no kitten yet. By then I deduced that I had just imagined the feeling earlier and maybe she was happy to be where she was and wasn’t coming back. I put the idea out of my mind.

At the end of October 1995, my brother called me.

“Lisa,” he said, “I have something for you. It’s your birthday present. And it’s alive.” I thought he had a plant for me.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s a kitten that looks just like Sil,” he replied. “She even acts like Sil. She doesn’t like me, just like Sil didn’t. We found her with her litter mates in the road, dodging cars, and brought them home. You really need to come and see her. I know how bad you felt when Sil died, so I thought you’d like to have her.” I just about dropped the phone and fainted.

When I went to see her, she was so little. We figured that she and her sisters were only four to five weeks old. I told my brother I thought she should stay with her litter mates a little longer for security development and I would take her home a couple of weeks later. So it was the first week of November 1995 when she came home. She immediately went to Sil’s favorite spot on the bed. She started to play with the same kinds of toys Sil liked. She acted eerily like Sil. The resemblance was amazing. I named her Calamity Jane, but I call her C.J. My other two cats accepted her right away, and they are all good friends.

C.J. was the first animal to cross my path, as was predicted by the psychic. I’ve talked to four different psychics since then, who have all said in their readings that C.J. is Sil. None of them knew anything about the story. The only way the subject came up in their readings was that I asked them what they could tell me about my current three kitties, one of which is C.J., of course. That’s all I said. One of the psychics was a pet psychic who described each of them perfectly. I then asked him about Sil … as to how she was doing in Heaven, etc. He immediately replied with, “She has come back as C.J.”

I believe animals often come to us as guides, teachers, or other higher beings to be with us on Earth. I believe they are from a higher place. I know Sil/C.J. is supposed to be with me for a long time. I know that my other two cats selected me as their human, also, and it was arranged that we get together. I love them dearly as well.

So we are living happily ever after.