I knew before I went to Wales that once I got back Morgan would start letting go. How did I know? It was just a gut feeling. A knowing. We hadn’t communicated it this time. We didn’t need to.
On the first two train journeys back to London I sobbed quietly as I looked out of the window, vaguely registering countryside and houses. I was listening to music and aware of random lyrics about letting go. I knew straightaway these would be the tracks I played for Morgan as he let go and ascended. The third and last part of the train journey I tried to read a book as distraction, but there were those words time and again – ‘letting go’.
I walked through the door of my home about 9 p.m., after a five-and-a-half-hour journey, feeling emotionally drained. Morgan had struggled to his feet and found the strength to walk into the hall, where he stood waiting for me, leaning against the wall for balance. I walked towards him, registering how frail he had become.
‘I am ready now,’ he said.
It was clear. I heard the words inside my head in my own inner voice, but the tone was his, the character behind the words was his. Morgan had told me what I’d been anticipating for the past six months.
Silent, I kneeled down, gently took him into my arms and held him close to my chest.
OK, I said silently in my mind. Knowing he’d made his decision.
He had asked and I would honour his wish. I had been honouring his wishes against the views of some friends and even my own partner at times, and I wouldn’t falter now.
25 July 2011: Gratitude
This morning Morgan lies on the duvet in the living room and I hand feed him some white fish. He takes it, but with a hint of desperation, the whites of his eyes bulging. After setting up some bedding on the sofa, I lift him up to lie with me, his head alongside my leg. With my hand resting gently on the softness of his head, I thank him for being in my life.
He closes his eyes and relaxes into a very peaceful sleep, breathing softly beneath my hand, his chest very gently rising and falling and his beautiful dark brown eyelashes closed shut.
I feel unable to speak to the vet to arrange an appointment, but Jo offers to make the call.
Later in the afternoon I pull out the essential oil candles I purchased in Glastonbury especially for this time: the black one for protection, the white one for peace and the green one for love. I thank Morgan for everything he has shared with me and remind myself why he has been so significant in my life:
I am grateful for Morgan’s presence in my life because:
He is so gentle.
He is very patient.
He has loved me unconditionally.
He has caused me to change my life.
He has caused me to look at myself.
He has caused me to look at my beliefs.
He has helped me to become a better person.
He has given me the strength to help many animals.
He has given me the strength to help many guardians.
He has given me the strength to share my knowledge and love of animals with others so that they can go on to improve the lives of the animals they love.
He has reminded me of the importance of happiness.
He has helped me reconnect with nature.
He has introduced me to people I would not have chosen to meet.
He has shown me pure love beaming from his deep soulful eyes.
Jo has an overnight work trip, so this is my last night with Morgan when it’s just the two of us.
26 July
Today is our last day. I am sitting typing my feelings and the unfolding of Morgan’s story as he has instructed, while he is lying in his bed across the room snoozing quietly.
Tomorrow the vet will come and help release him from his body.
As I write that line he struggles to his feet and comes over to me. I can feel he wants to be held, so, covering his weeping wart in a towel, I pick him up and put him on my lap. We stay like this for 90 minutes. He relaxes and goes to sleep. I softly stroke the thin white hair across his rib-prominent chest. I stroke all four legs and hold his paws. I am savouring the moment. In his younger, more vibrant years he would never have tolerated this level of contact. I stroke his ears. Admire his black button nose. And I listen to his breathing, feel his heart beat under my hand and think about letting him go. Tomorrow he will no longer be in his physical body and what will be left behind will be purely his shell – discarded like a cocoon when a butterfly has flown free.
The phone rings and breaks our bliss. It’s Jo, asking me to pick her up from the train station. She’s returning from the press night of her show and I’ve asked her to pick up some flowers.
Morgan is now asleep, leaning his body against my leg. It feels peaceful and I feel so connected with him that I don’t want to move. Jo amiably agrees to get the bus some of the way and I agree to pick her up closer to home.
I have become so used to Morgan having an awareness of external events that I’m not in the least surprised when he asks to get down a few moments after Jo requests collection. Settling him on his duvet bed on the floor, I close the door to prevent him struggling up the step to the kitchen, grab the keys and lock the door.
He is still cosy and asleep when we return less than five minutes later. Jo has bought up the flower shop and has her arms laden.
2:56 p.m.: Countdown
The clock counts down. The time is approaching when Morgan will be given the drug that will stop his heart and end his dear life. My hero, my mentor, my best friend. The agony feels so intense, I feel myself breaking into bits, flying in every direction. I feel lost.
Jo arranges three large vases of flowers. There are sunflowers, daisies, tall pure-white blossoms and many flowers in lilac, purple and indigo. She has gone all out, no expense spared.
I place two vases in the fireplace on either side of the candles then gather all the rose quartz crystal in the house and scatter the pink tumble stones around the candles.
‘I like it,’ Morgan tells me from where he rests on his bed.
I want to make it perfect for him, a peaceful shrine. On the mantelpiece I place four gold-painted china letters that spell LOVE, more candles, a soft toy dog in Union Jack material which I bought months before when we were on ‘Morgan’s last holiday’ down in Kent, a gold pot beautifully decorated with birds and flowers, and his photo, the one where he is beaming the biggest smile, his eyes sparkling with happiness. His true essence shines out from the picture frame. I wonder if I have done enough to make it right for him.
‘I like it,’ he tells me again. His communication is short but clear.
I play relaxing music to help us all stay calm, different CDs by Bliss. The lyrics fill my eyes with tears of both sorrow and joy.
My desire is to keep everything relaxed so that Morgan can enjoy his final day incarnate on Earth. I try and focus on the relief he will feel when he lets go of his body and remind myself it is his decision and his timing.
Lucinda Drayton’s beautiful tones sing out again: ‘Got to keep the faith, keep your faith in love.’
I spend a moment letting my Facebook friends know that Morgan will be transitioning. Many have been asking after him and know I have been a devoted carer over the past few months. People like to help, as that is human nature, so I offer a suggestion which I know will fit well with Morgan’s own wishes: ‘I invite you to light a candle for Morgan and send loving rose-coloured light. This light will carry the vibration of the heart chakra and support his transition.’
27 July: Transition Day
I am up with Morgan a few times in the night. At 4 a.m. he wants to go downstairs. I put on my robe, gather him into my arms and carry him down. There’s a sense of urgency from him and before we reach the last step he can no longer control his bladder. I hold him tightly and whisper, ‘It’s OK.’
In the kitchen he’s not interested in eating very much. He’s tired. He knows what day it is. I try hand feeding him chicken. He accepts, but has no desire to eat directly from his bowl.
Afterwards I place a duvet on the sofa and lift him on. He immediately relaxes, lying on his right side, his head closest to me. I stroke him gently and he drifts off to sleep. Every now and again he wakes and I reassure him I’m with him and he’s OK. We stay like this for hours. Time ticks on from 4 a.m. to 5 a.m., then from 6 a.m. to 7 a.m. I see the clock counting down and it feels surreal, as if I’m observing it but not really taking part.
I have the desire to write Morgan a letter explaining how incredibly special he is and why I feel so grateful that he is in my life. I want to put my feelings onto paper. Resting my left hand on his shoulder, I write them all down. My heart goes into every word. Occasionally I pause to think and feel before resuming. I want to give this to Morgan as an expression of my love.
Jo wakes up and comes to join us.
‘I’m writing a letter to Morgan to let him know everything he means to me. Maybe you’d like to do this too?’
She agrees, and while I am showering she sits with Morgan and composes her own words in a card. I notice there is a Chinese symbol on the front and under it one word: ‘Tranquillity’.
We take it in turns to sit with Morgan on the sofa and to make cups of tea. We oven-cook some more chicken and the smell wafts into the room. Morgan decides he wants to get down from the sofa and after a comfort visit to the garden manages to walk, completely unaided, through the living room into the hall, receives a bit of a hand up the step and then continues unaided into the kitchen, where he stands still.
‘Chicken,’ I feel him request.
Jo cuts it up while I steady him. She starts to hand feed it to him and he takes it with great enthusiasm. But then he takes us both unawares by walking over to his empty food bowl.
‘He wants it in his bowl!’ I say, surprised.
We oblige and he amazes us further by standing all by himself and eating every last piece. We both know this isn’t a gesture of wanting to continue, this is a last-ditch effort to eat as much of his favourite food as he can, with as much dignity as possible, before he says goodbye.
It’s now 10:30 a.m. Even though we’ve been up since 4 a.m., the time has flown past. It’s time for Jo to head over to the veterinary surgery to bring the team back to our home. The vet doesn’t have a car, so this is the one condition of the home visit.
Morgan wanted a home visit and so did we. He was always anxious at the vet’s. We also preferred his last moments to be somewhere he felt comfortable, especially as we had the gift of time to make the arrangements.
Jo and Morgan have a moment together then she picks up the car keys and leaves. I lie on the floor opposite him in front of our very large mantelpiece set up like an altar with the candles, incense and flowers. Looking into his eyes and holding his left paw in my hand, I feel tears streaming gently across my face and into my hair.
‘I love you. I love you. I love you,’ I repeat like a mantra. ‘You are a great dog.’
I explain what is going to happen and that all he has to do is let go. We lie like this for a few minutes then I start to feel panicky. What if it goes wrong? What if he feels pain? I am suddenly fearful and reach out for guidance from my pack of Doreen Virtue’s Archangel Michael cards. I spread the deck out picture face down and out of a pack of 44 I discover I’ve chosen ‘God is in Charge’. The saying that goes with the card is a prayer and I read it then say it out loud:
‘Dear God, please help me let go of this situation, giving it in faith and trust to your Divine wisdom and infinite love in order to resolve and heal everything and everyone involved.’
I feel an immediate sense of peace descend and wonder how I could ever have doubted that Morgan would be in safe hands.
I lie back down with him, calm again. I hold his paw, look into his eyes and repeat my words of love and gratitude.
He makes a move to get up and I help him until he is balanced on his feet. I gently support him as he goes towards the back door and out into the garden. Looking back, I can see he was aware Jo was returning with the vet and nurse.
The weather is beautiful – bright and sunny with a pale blue sky and cool air. Morgan turns right out of the door to take a long drink from his stainless-steel water bowl, makes his way onto the lawn, wobbling up the right side beside the railway sleepers, and empties his bladder at the top. He then loops around to the left and starts to wobble his way back down the lawn towards the middle of the garden. I realize he wants to transition here, so I take his pale blue fleece off the clothes line and spread it out on the lawn. Morgan topples towards it and sits there, then lies down. I feel he has decided – this is where he wants to be: on the earth, under the sky, surrounded by trees and plants. Sitting beside him, I take his paw in my hand and stroke the top of his head, knowing he will never stand again.
Over and over again I tell him how special he is. ‘I love you. I love you.’
At some point the doorbell rings.
I kiss him and say, ‘OK, my darling, they’re here. They’re going to help you transition.’
It had always been our wish that he would die peacefully in his sleep. Isn’t it everyone’s wish? But Morgan was too frail, too worn out. He’d tried. He’d tried on Monday and I’d called in Light from above and visualized him leaving his body and ascending, but it wasn’t to be. Just before he’d gone out into the garden, when I was lying on the floor holding his paw and waiting for Jo to bring the vet, I felt he’d tried to ascend for a second time. He’d closed his eyes and tried to drift by himself. Jo had even thought she might arrive with the vet to be told his services were no longer needed.
I remember the walk to the door to let them in. Jo had deliberately not taken a key so I’d have notice of their arrival. As I walked towards them, time seemed to slow down. I remember understanding that when I opened that door it wouldn’t be long before Morgan was no longer physically with me. I had to force myself to put one foot in front of the other.
Opening the door, I could only muster ‘Hello’ before I turned and walked back to Morgan. I hadn’t wanted to leave him even for a second, but he was exactly where I’d left him. Even when the vet and nurse joined us, he didn’t move. He didn’t lift his head. He barely moved his eyes. He was just waiting, perfectly still and knowing.
I checked the procedure with the vet who, to our great disappointment, wasn’t Morgan’s usual vet but a locum, because Morgan’s vet had broken for his summer holiday just days before. I hadn’t wanted the locum – someone I didn’t know and who didn’t know Morgan. I’d even picked up the cards for guidance on this, but before I’d even spread the deck out I was stopped by Morgan’s reassurance: ‘The locum will be fine.’ If he felt OK about it then I would too. We have to accept we can’t always control everything, even with the best will in the world.
The locum very briefly explained what he was going to do, I questioned him on it and then he gave me more details. He wanted to get straight to it, but that felt wrong to me – disrespectful.
‘Morgan is telepathic. Can you explain to him everything you’re going to do?’
‘Telepathy is thoughts, isn’t it?’ he replied.
‘Yes, that’s right, but if you can still say the words out loud then there’ll be pictures behind your thoughts and he’ll understand what you’re going to do,’ I said to him, thinking Please don’t question me on this. I didn’t know this man, but I wanted to be sure that he saw Morgan as a sentient being and gave him due respect rather than seeing this as just a job where he was indiscriminately ‘putting someone’s pet down’. If it had been Morgan’s regular vet I wouldn’t have needed to say anything because he understood and knew about animal communication.
The locum shaved a few inches of hair off Morgan’s left front leg then prepared the needle. It was filled with a vivid blue liquid and measured according to Morgan’s weight. Jo stroked his neck while I looked into his eyes and stroked his side. The locum explained what he was going to do and then inserted the needle into Morgan’s vein and slowly pushed the liquid in. Within a second Morgan stretched his head back and the needle jerked and fell out and in that moment I knew – he had gone.
The vet seemed surprised, as he’d pushed in less than half of what he felt was needed. But I put my hand on Morgan’s heart and for the first time I didn’t feel a thing.
‘He’s gone,’ I whispered, barely able to speak.
The locum got his stethoscope out and listened. After a short moment he confirmed that Morgan was no longer with us and reiterated he was amazed how little of the drug had been needed.
It was no surprise to Jo and me. Morgan had only needed a slight helping hand. His energy was flat. He was worn out. He’d decided to let go and, more importantly, he’d said he was ready. It was his wish, his divine timing. We weren’t expecting him to fight the additional help. We only wished for his transition to be gentle.
So many different sources were supporting him. Some of his human friends and our students and clients had lit candles and sent healing love, and some animal friends in the place we call heaven, including his previous guardians, who were in spirit, did whatever they do to help a soul transition.
Morgan had gone home. He was flying free now, flying home.
His eyes were open but he wasn’t behind them. They were vacant. He was very, very still. It was about a minute later that I remembered to ask the time.
‘It’s 11:12,’ the vet said.
So it had been 11:11 a.m. when Morgan had ascended. I’d wondered whether he would go then. I hadn’t got a watch on, but I wasn’t surprised that the timing would work out for Morgan to ascend at 11 minutes past 11 in the year 2011. He had transitioned on a Balsamic Moon day, which represents endings, particularly relationship endings.
We exchanged pleasantries with the vet and nurse. Neither Jo nor I remember what they said to us. Jo drove them back to the surgery. I wouldn’t have had the strength. I don’t know how she did it.
I stayed with Morgan. I put my arms around his body and very quietly sobbed into his hair. I stroked his head and kissed him time and again. My beautiful boy had gone. I looked into his eyes but he wasn’t there. It was just his shell. I missed his presence immediately. My heart broke, shattering into thousands of pieces, scattering in the wind.
It was silent. Peaceful. I didn’t hear my neighbours, I didn’t hear any traffic, I didn’t hear the birds. I engaged with the silence. It was like hearing stillness, if that is possible. It was just Morgan and me. Together, out on the grass, in the soft sunshine. It was as if time had stopped.