The first time I wake up late: 8:15 a.m.
The first time I look down to where Morgan would be in his bed, barely inches away from me. Empty. No bed. No Morgan.
The first time I walk downstairs in the morning not carrying Morgan in my arms, trying to get him to the back garden before nature calls.
The first time I’m not holding him steady while he eats.
The first time I’m not helping him walk, supporting him as he wobbles, or carrying him back to the living room to place him gently on his bed.
The first time I’m sitting on the sofa without him lying on the half-folded duvet on the floor.
The first time I’m sitting here and his bed is not where it should be.
I hate this feeling. I hate this empty space. I miss him so much. I miss his eyes and soft face. I miss his beautiful presence in my home. He has changed my life in so many ways.
Caring for him virtually every day for the past six months has opened my heart wider than I ever thought possible. We were so close, so in tune. My heart was bursting with unconditional and all-encompassing love for him. As he grew weaker, my love intensified. I knew I would do anything for him.
Sitting here without him now is the worst feeling. The biggest and most loving influence in my life has died.
I feel numb.
I pick up his photo and burst into tears.
‘Write it all out,’ I hear him tell me.
But now I don’t know if I am just making it up. Is it just my mind wanting to hear this or is it really Morgan telling me what to do? Without Morgan’s physical presence, doubt has crept in.
Silence.
8:44 a.m. We would have been up together, just the two of us, for about five hours now. So much time spent together. Now nothing. I want to lift him onto the sofa next to me.
Jo and I grieve in a different way. I am busy being; Jo is busy doing. She cleans. She pulls up the off-cuts of carpet. This is her way. She tells me she looks down to where Morgan’s bed would have been and sees him lying in it peacefully with a smile on his face. She sees the positive rather than the pain. She experienced death when she was a child and her family taught her that it was a positive rather than a negative experience. She was told death wasn’t the end and that ‘loved ones look over you and will be with you all your life’. So her outlook on death has always been incredibly optimistic. I grew up with media and books informing me that death was a very traumatic thing and in a family where tears of grief were hidden.
Regrets start piling in on top of one another. I wish I had spent more time with Morgan. I wish I hadn’t gone away to teach in Wales.
12:55 p.m. His bedding has been put in a pile. All the towels and covers have been washed. Most are dry; some are hanging on the line in the sunshine. It feels fast. Yet I’ve been expecting this moment for months.
Jo is the most grounded and practical person I know. She does not outwardly cry over things that matter and told me she wouldn’t over Morgan. She still hasn’t shed one tear; I have wept an ocean. Neither is wrong, neither is right. It’s not that she doesn’t feel or didn’t adore Morgan. She’s a true dog person and instigated Morgan coming into our lives. She just copes in another way.
My emotions flood out of me. I look at Morgan’s photos and remember all the moments we shared. I think of him in my life and feel his absence. The house is empty without him. I need silence. No music. No TV. No noise. I am feeling completely overwhelmed.
8:30 p.m. Two remaining candles, love and peace, are burning brightly. Beside them is a tube in a sleeve of pretty bluebells within a forest of trees. In the tube are the ashes of Morgan’s body. ‘His skeletal remains,’ the cremator has informed us. The rose quartz tumble stones now surround the tube and this peaceful scene brings me comfort. I replay yesterday over and over in my mind and recall the magical moments.
The loss of an animal is a very real and relevant cause for grief. I am sharing my day-to-day grieving process in the wake of Morgan’s death to help you understand that you are not alone and there are others who share your depth of sadness.
Jo took about 15 minutes to drop the veterinary team off. Within that time some magical and unexpected things happened.
When I was alone with his body I asked Morgan, ‘Where are you?’
I heard his voice come back to me, ‘Still journeying.’
At least, I thought, he is on his way.
Before Jo had brought the vet to our home I’d said to Morgan, ‘When you’ve gone, please give me a sign that you’re OK. Let me know you’re all right.’
I had presumed this would take a number of days – time for him to journey and then get used to his new existence without a body. However, before Jo returned, and without even asking for contact, I was shown an image in my mind’s eye. I could see Morgan full of joy and barking – barking with happiness – and young again. I could see him vibrant and full of strength, no longer skin and bones and struggling to walk. Either side of him I could see lots of animals – too many to count. I had a feeling of him being flanked by two of my canine pals who were also in spirit. I wondered who all the other animals were and how Morgan could know so many.
I loved the image, but it took me by surprise. It was so quick. Many people say the soul takes hours to leave the body. Still, I knew Morgan had been ready and it had taken only the slightest injection for him to rocket out of his body and upwards to the light. His shift in energy had been very strong and intentional. So I wanted to believe in the picture, but I found it hard, not only because of the speed of its delivery but because right beside me was Morgan’s body.
‘Trust it,’ I heard loud and clear from Morgan – a gentle instruction. It came from the air around me, not the body lying on the grass.
I want to trust it, I thought. I really do, but what if I’m just making it up to give myself some comfort? How do I know it’s real?
‘Trust it,’ I heard Morgan tell me again.
‘You couldn’t trust it,’ Jo pointed out to me later.
She was right. I needed confirmation that Morgan’s soul had left before we took his body to the crematorium. So I used a technique I teach my students when they are learning how to move their consciousness inside an animal to sense what they are feeling. I moved my consciousness inside Morgan’s head.
It’s hard to put feelings in to words sometimes, but what I felt in the dead body of my best canine friend was nothing. Just nothingness. He wasn’t there. To be sure, I moved down to his heart, which I found to be completely still, and then into his general chest area. Everything was still. His body was vacant. Empty. The spirit had literally departed and only the casing and mechanics were left.
I imagine some people will think this morbid or outlandish, but I needed to be sure Morgan’s soul had left before we took his body to be cremated. I really needed this extra confirmation.
Then the next miracle happened. In my mind’s eye I could see a black dog far off in the distance. There were no other details – I couldn’t tell what breed or what sex, I just knew it was a black dog. I wondered whether this could be the dog Morgan had told me about before he transitioned. One day I had been thinking about Morgan’s absence and I heard him tell me, ‘We are sending someone to you.’
I had come to realize by then that Morgan did not work alone. He supported me and in turn was supported by a team of beings. Some I felt were animals and some either people or angelic-type beings. Now I knew they were sending someone to me.
Out on the lawn I put my arms around Morgan. I kiss his ruff and gently sob into his soft white hair. At some point during this he says, ‘That’s not me. I’ve gone.’ Even straight after his own transition he is reassuring me.
Two hours pass very quickly. Jo and I spend it outside with Morgan’s body, sometimes stroking him and talking about him, but mostly sitting in silence, swinging from feeling shocked and hollow to feeling peace in our hearts and glad that we have honoured Morgan’s wishes.
Then we have to get ready to go to the crematorium. We decide to take Morgan in his soft oval bed. We line it with a cream blanket. Jo prepares some flowers to go with his body. I gather the letters we wrote thanking him for being in our lives, two pink roses and two rose quartz crystals. This is agony, but we are calm and united.
Jo picks up Morgan’s body and his head flops down. I hold it and balance it in her arms and she carries Morgan out to the back of our car and places him gently in his bed. He is draped in his small red fleece with black and white paw prints. It covers his body but reveals his head and the ruff of his neck. He looks peaceful, as though he’s simply asleep.
Over the course of the drive his facial expression changes. In the back garden he looked old, frail and no longer present. Now his whole presence has turned very soft, even cosy, and there is a large smile on his face. He looks as though he is having a wonderfully happy dream. The change is quite remarkable. The sight of his newly relaxed and cheerful expression in turn soothes our anxiety and we know, deep down, all is well.
We arrive at the crematorium 15 minutes early. The owner, Kevin, comes out to meet us. He tells us the Farewell Room isn’t quite ready. We are in no rush. Morgan looks so content in his bed and we don’t want to move him. We certainly don’t want to take the next steps, although we know they are necessary.
When the Farewell Room becomes available, Jo lifts Morgan up from his bed and carries him inside. Kevin takes his bed and I bring our letters and the flowers and crystals. Morgan is still smiling.
As Kevin talks about the crematorium ethics and approach, Morgan lies in his bed on a table behind me and I stroke his paw and tell myself, This is not him, this is not him, he’s gone, it’s only his body.
I remain focused on the image of Morgan barking and surrounded by friends. I keep my heart tight shut. I go through the motions. I talk about the paperwork. What will be going with Morgan’s body and what won’t. We are taking his bed and bedding home to donate to the animal home that saved his life and allowed us to adopt him. I am keeping his collar, even though he hasn’t worn it for some months. Going with him will be the flowers, the crystals and letters.
Kevin explains how it all works. We can choose the modern cremator or the old-fashioned one. We choose the old-fashioned one. He has already booked it out for us, so his instincts are in tune. We can attend Morgan and see his body put onto the steel tray then disappear inside the cremator kiln, or we can say goodbye to him in the Farewell Room and trust Kevin to take his body and treat him with respect. We choose this option. Neither of us wants the image of Morgan being lifted onto the cold tray or taken into the fire of the cremator. We want to remember him lying peacefully in his bed, snug and tucked up in his red fleece with that wonderful heartwarming smile on his face.
We are left alone to say our goodbyes. I say goodbye to Morgan, kiss him, tell him I love him and step back. Jo says her own goodbye and we leave the room. She has to visit the bathroom and leaves me waiting for her in the hall.
I am suddenly struck by the finality of this moment and slip back inside the room, where I kiss Morgan’s head and soft brown left ear, grasping extra moments, feeling that I am being ripped apart. I have to force myself to leave, knowing I will never see or feel his beautiful, reassuring, happy, independent body ever again. This is the very final moment with Morgan as a physical being.
I go outside and wait for Jo in the car.
We have asked for an immediate return of Morgan’s ashes. Kevin has said we can wait in Dignity’s garden or go for a walk along a nearby canal. Close to the canal there is a pub where we can park up. Jo and I have discussed going for a long walk, but now we both want a drink and head to the pub instead.
It feels wrong being in a pub without Morgan. It’s alien. A pub is a lonely place without a dog. Especially a dog who loves the crisps he’ll get to share. I glance down and Morgan is no longer there waiting. He should be there. He loves pubs and always has. I’m sure before he came to us he lived with people who took him to the pub, as he’s always been totally relaxed in them.
‘I don’t know how long I can live without a dog in my life,’ I say to Jo.
She is taken by surprise. I’ve already explained that I want to spend the next year focusing on my workshops and teaching abroad, that we can both be freer without a dog for a while and that it will give us time to grieve and come to terms with our loss before welcoming a new, bright doggie being into our lives.
We sit outside with our drinks and the obligatory packet of crisps, but no Morgan. This feels awful. Dogs leave so many lasting memories in all the places we go.
All is Well
Back home I sit still. Remembering. I feel like a pendulum swinging between agony and peace. I feel deep grief that causes uncontrollable gut-wrenching cries of pain. I also know that all is well. Morgan needed to leave his body and the timing was perfect for him. We honoured his wish.