Chapter 6
by Cindy Clarke
There were only twenty of us there that night at Roland’s signature Channeled Messages for the Soul event, each signing up weeks in advance for a more intimate opportunity to speak with him—and, hopefully, the loved ones we lost. Roland made it very clear that “before we get started, I am here to tell you that I am just the messenger. You don’t need a guy like me to tell you what you can experience yourself. Your loved ones are right there beside you. They are always with you. Their love, your love, is eternal. The bonds between you and them can never be broken. I will share their messages with you and tell you what I see and hear,” he explained. Then with a smile he added, “With the exception of your dogs. I don’t do dogs.”
We laughed, some heartily and others, like me, a bit tenuously and a little disappointed. I had just lost my fifteen-year-old chocolate Lab, Jake, an all-tongue and tail-wagging member of the family that brought endless joy to me, my daughters, and Butch, a huge cat that he had played and slept with for almost fifteen years.
We found Jake at our town’s dog pound, where he was the sole occupant and was caged away from people in a cement box of a building that was located on the edge of the local dump. He was a purebred Labrador, just eight and a half months old. He had been unceremoniously dumped there by someone who found his energy and exuberance to be way too much for his immaculate city apartment. A friend of the dog warden called me right after Jake was abandoned, knowing my love for furry, four-footed friends and my reluctance to ever say no to any living thing in need.
I was at the dog pound in an instant, peering in at the big brown puppy from a tiny speck of a window high up on the wall. As I looked in, he looked up … and bowed! He didn’t have much room to dance but I think he would have given the space. It was obvious that he didn’t like being away from the action or from anyone who would happen by. He had me the moment our eyes met.
Of course, I took him home with me that very afternoon. He bounded into the back of my red Chevy Blazer and was raring to go. The only sign of the trauma he experienced from being left behind by his person was an occasional whimper when we parked in our town center. Had he been there before with the person who didn’t want him anymore?
Dogs are sensitive creatures. They have an uncanny sixth sense that lets them feel things others can’t. They have the innate ability to detect unseen sadness, hurt, and heartbreak as if they were pieces of clothing displayed for the world to see. Jake came into our lives just when we needed him most. A divorce, a move, financial hardships, and an uncertain future had upended our family … and somehow this once-brokenhearted dog stepped up to the role of chief snuggler, face licker, and smile maker without hesitation.
He loved everyone he met: our family, who loved him unconditionally; the people he jumped on; to the baseball players who yelled at him when he caught an outfield ball; my girls’ friends, who cringed at his wet tongue when they were all dressed up; and the once-wary dogs, cats, and rabbits he gently sniffed and made fast friends with. As often as he could be annoyingly “in your face,” a day wasn’t the same without him in it. He really was a joy.
Jake lived to a ripe old age for a big hundred-pound Lab, and I think he could have gone on a lot longer than his fifteen years simply on his will to love, despite his baseball-size cysts and swollen abdomen. No matter the ailment or the pain he would endure that last year of his life, he never let on that life was getting tough. He was still the same old playful Jake on the inside even as his body failed on the outside.
While walking had become increasingly difficult for him, one Saturday morning he couldn’t get up. He was too heavy for me to lift, although I tried to fashion makeshift lifts and bands to help him stand. Nothing worked. Sunday passed the same way, with him lying on his bed, Butch by his side, tail thumping when he saw me, tongue outstretched to give me a loving lick. On the third day that Jake could not move, I called the vet for a home visit. His assessment left no hope for recovery. Jake would no longer be able to stand or walk, let alone run again.
It was time to let him go.
For days afterward, the emptiness in our house was palpable. With Jake gone, there was an eerie quiet in the front room where he slept and happily greeted visitors. Even his kitten Butch felt it, succumbing to his grief and passing away only six weeks later. I had never experienced anything like that before.
It may come as no surprise that Jake was on my mind when I sat there listening to Roland. What did happen that night was a surprise, though, and one no dog lover will ever forget.
Roland was immersed in the moment, sharing messages from moms, sisters, and best friends to sons, daughters, and brothers who ached to hear from them, when he stopped as though he was being nudged by someone—or some dog—that wanted his attention right then. He went over to where he had been sitting and pulled out a Purple Paper. He looked right at me as he read what he had written days earlier: “Jake can run again.”