Jake
Jake was a very special cat right from the start. His life was short but he taught us so much about presence, confidence, connectedness. He always seemed much more like a human than a cat, wasn't afraid of strangers or car rides, for example. Jake not only taught me about life, he offered me his dying experience, which I was fortunate to share. Looking back, that was the first of several animal deaths I've attended to date. And after his death, I discovered his role as a sort of guardian angel. Take a moment and let yourself look into his eyes. Perhaps you, too, will feel his protective energy and wise attentiveness.
Buzz Aldron
For several months after the workshop with Marcia Zais, I offered to practice with animals of email friends and acquaintances. Sandy Berge was kind enough to send me some pictures of Morgan horses from her Sable Morgan Farm breeding program in Canada. A young Sable Morgan Farm foal was the first baby horse with whom I'd communicated. I'd been told that the babies are easiest, sort of fresh and full of life, sometimes having stories about their past lives to share. This gorgeous foal was indeed full of energy and quite clear what his real name was Buzz Aldron! Not considering it my role to edit what animals tell me, I passed this along to Sandy. Tolerant of this news, she considered changing his name however the foal's prospective buyer liked his original name, Sable Sneaky Pete. I will always remember him as Buzz. He thought himself an explorer, a brave horse with many adventures ahead.
Porcupine
I have a drawing not a photograph of Porcupine, and a story to share, written in January 2001...
I've been visited by a dying animal, again. Last year it was a mouse that lay in my path and invited me to be with it while it died.
Today it's been a porcupine. And it's still dying. I've talked to him, sat with him, breathed with him, cried with him. I have never been near a porcupine before, and didn't want to risk the quills or else I would have picked him up and held him in my lap. When he was still able to crawl, he kept moving himself to face me, creeping close. I let him come within a couple feet then moved my upturned bucket back a little, apologizing with an explanation of my concern with his quills.
I called the police who sent word out to the game warden, but I didn't hear back from anyone. I was hoping they'd have a way to euthanize him.
I get the sense he's an old fellow, has enjoyed his life around here. I first saw him just before Christmas, waddling along the road that passes my house. I hadn't known they are nocturnal animals, or I would have been surprised that he was out in the day.
This afternoon his moving appeared difficult but he waddled from in front of the next house down, to in front of my drive, with a few criss-crosses along the way. And now, for the past few hours, he's been lying in the snow, breathing, occasionally moving his head or forearms. I feel so helpless. I'd still be out there sitting with him if I hadn't gotten so cold.
I keep going out to check on him and let him know it's okay. One time I find him still, totally still. I shine my flashlight and look closely. No breathing, no eye movement. He's gone. I wish him well and thank him for his efforts to be near me in this unusual way. And I cry.
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Leslie Desmond and Don Douglas, February 2001 Clinic
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