‘I am brave. There is nothing to fear.’
MORGAN
2 June 2011
Hallelujah! Morgan is now back on form. His walks mainly involve tootling around his garden, but sometimes he wants to go to his special woods or up and down the street. Occasionally Jo and I drive him to his favourite common and take a little picnic to a quiet spot. We know he likes being there, because joy bursts from his body and his eyes sparkle.
He says, ‘I feel peaceful.’
Texas is very undemanding while Morgan needs a lot of one-to-one help. Special Texas-time is at night, when he receives lots of strokes and love and in return purrs up by my face and helps me drift off to sleep. I know he understands and is offering support.
‘Do I Look Bovvered?’
There are hiccups. I put down Morgan’s dinner and check he is able to hold himself and eat unassisted. Then I go to run some water into a saucepan. A minute or so later I check back and find him lying on his right side against the skirting board with his head stuck sideways in his food bowl. He is struggling to get purchase on the carpet by pushing his head down into the bowl, but he is getting nowhere very fast.
For a few seconds I feel devastated for him as I rush over to help him back to his feet. Yet it isn’t heartbreaking for long, because as soon as Morgan is upright he sits down, puts his face back into his bowl and resumes eating with so much gusto it’s as though nothing has happened.
‘Look at the truth,’ he tells me, while continuing to chomp.
‘The truth is you’re not bothered by what just happened, are you?’ I say, sitting on the floor.
‘Do I look bothered?’ he says, and I immediately think of the comedian Catherine Tate and her schoolkid character Lauren. ‘Bovvered? Do I look bovvered? Am I bovvered?’ While Morgan finishes his chicken I sit behind him laughing.
3 June: ‘Who is Suffering?’
Just when things have levelled out, along comes another challenging day. The first wart bleed is mid-afternoon. Our dark red carpet has a small pool of the dark glossy liquid.
The second bleed is soon after. I’m sweeping out the boot of my car in preparation for putting in workshop crates. I’ve left the front door open but the gate shut so Morgan can wander out safely for fresh air and a change of scene. Halfway through cleaning out the boot, I look over the gate to check on him and see spots of blood leading into the house. He is nowhere to be seen.
Following the trail into the hall, I discover red pawprints in arty design against the starkness of the black and white tessellated tiles. Morgan is lying down in the hall on the fawn carpet off-cuts, blood oozing down his side and causing a dark red stain at his elbow, which in turn is dripping and turning his white paw red.
Trying to stop the bleed, I find my palms turning solid red, along with the fawn carpet. Imagine my surprise when I look up from my bloodied hands and see Morgan smiling at me.
‘It was an accident,’ he says, with a glint in his eyes. Then he says again, ‘Look at the truth.’
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. I can see with clarity that Morgan isn’t distressed in the slightest.
‘I know, sweetheart,’ I reply, acknowledging the real truth in front of me.
So, does the heartache come when we don’t look at the clear picture? Is the truth that this animal finds their physical limitations and weakness frustrating but is still enjoying their life? Are we the ones making a song and dance over the situation? Maybe we’re drawing attention to ourselves without conscious awareness. The ‘poor me’ scenario: ‘Look what I’m going through!’
It is useful to keep asking ourselves questions. Am I holding them here when they’d rather transition and leave their body? Are they taking pleasure in moments throughout the day? Do they still have a sense of humour and a glint in their eyes? Are they showing signs that they want to keep on living?
If possible, ask them. How do you feel emotionally? Physically? Do you need some intervention – help from a vet, a chiropractor, an acupuncturist, a homoeopath or some other practitioner?
Another truth to bear in mind: there will be good days and bad days.
6 June: All is Well
Monday morning at the welcome later time of 6:30 a.m., Morgan lets me know it’s time to be carried downstairs for the usual morning routine. After relieving himself in the garden, he gobbles down his breakfast and licks the bowl clean. He has sparkly, sharp eyes and I feel his happiness. The rest of the day is peaceful. All is well.
16 June: Two Days Apart
Morgan has had two terrible days. The first was on Sunday when I was away all day teaching a Sacred Cow animal communication workshop in collaboration with a herd of 30 cows and Tom, an intuitive farmer on a biodynamic farm in West Sussex. Morgan was totally restless and wouldn’t settle.
The following day I was resting at home with him and he was peaceful, then there was a moment when I thought he would slip away. His third eyelid was elevated, making his eyes look as though they were rolling into the back of his head, and his energy was very, very flat. I texted Jo to get home quick. Luckily she was close by and five minutes later she walked through the door to find me sitting on the living-room floor next to Morgan with tears gently rolling down my face and my hand on his chest.
Morgan, of course, recovered. It isn’t his time just yet.
What I have come to understand about that moment is that his soul was having time out of his physical form. For a short while he was learning to be without a body – to be pure spirit. I believe when the soul has time to do this, when there isn’t a sudden death of form, the soul travels between body and pure spirit to experience what it will be like when it has left the body behind. It’s preparation for complete separation from physical form.
On Tuesday, I was out all day at a zoo after an invitation to help a keeper with a wolf. Morgan’s wart was bleeding repeatedly and this was troubling for Jo. When I got home Morgan was drained of energy but otherwise all right, while Jo was quite unhappy.
It was the culmination of a difficult few days, because Jo and I disagreed on how Morgan was doing. Jo is often away with work and when she’s at home she sees him struggling and finding life hard. I am home most of the time and I see a dog who is trying to hang on to life for as long as possible. I witness the rollercoaster of bad days and good days.
Many people feel that if an animal is struggling they are hanging on because their guardian is keeping them here. This is true in some circumstances. It’s beneficial to let our animals know they have our consent to leave, to reassure them that we will be OK and they don’t need to worry about us any more. It’s also kind to acknowledge they must do what they need to do.
Why do people believe an animal is only staying for the guardian? Why can’t animals be staying for their own accord? Why do we presume everything revolves around us? Can’t the animals make a decision? Can’t they make the most important decision of their life – when they want to die? Do humans have to control everything?
Above all else we need to remember that individual animals and guardians create individual situations. We can listen to other people’s point of view, but we don’t necessarily have to agree. We should listen to the inner wisdom of our soul and not to others’ random opinions. Death can be as individual as life.
24 June: ‘I am Brave. There is Nothing to Fear’
Morgan starts to make his way towards the hall. His front legs give in. I immediately help him up. His front legs give in again. I sense a feeling of panic coming from him, as if he’s trying to get away from something. He has fallen on his side and his panic is rising. I intuitively know he needs to be outside. I scoop him up and squeeze through the one open door to place him on the first bit of grass. He is immediately peaceful. I sit down with him and he starts to drift into a deep sleep. We stay like that for 30 minutes. I talk silently in my mind to him, telling him it’s OK for him to ascend and that he doesn’t need to stay here for anyone. I also tell him that I know I’ll be OK when he’s gone. I truly feel this now. Months earlier, even last year, it felt as though I would never reach this point, but I am so grateful I have, because with this knowing comes a wonderful sense of peace. Maybe it will only be temporary, but for now it was very comforting.
I tell Morgan I want him to choose what is best for him and what he needs.
Keeping his eyes closed, he tells me, ‘I am brave. There is nothing to fear.’
‘Are you going now?’ I ask him, with wet cheeks.
‘Not now. Recharging.’
This is all I need to know. I relax with him while he sleeps, just enjoying the moment – such an exquisite moment. He snoozes in the sunshine and Texas snoozes in his long-grass den behind us. We are all content.
26 June: Contemplating Life
The first day of a heatwave and the temperature is about 30 degrees. Morgan wants to spend time alone. I feel animals often want to review their life and before they transition they can often be observed in deep thought or a trance-like state, as though they are elsewhere at that moment. It seems to me that Morgan is also contemplating his life and thinking about his future.
27 June: Disagreeing over Quality of Life and Timing of Death
Yet again Jo and I have been at loggerheads about Morgan’s quality of life and the timing of his death. She feels we should have got a vet to put him to sleep two weeks ago. She struggles to get past the external, outward appearance. I wish she’d trust me when I say Morgan tells me he doesn’t want to go yet.
The Beginning of July
Jo and I have just found common ground. She is spending longer at home and realizes that on the rollercoaster of good and bad days Morgan is a dog keen to live – and eat chicken – for as long as he can. She’s also starting to receive communication from him and when we ask him a question about his care she’ll receive the same answer as me.
My gentle friend is clear he wants to hang on to life. He values life. He desires it. He told me late one night after I’d carried him upstairs and put him into his bed, ‘Better to have some life than none at all.’
Mid-July: No More Medicine
Morgan wants us to stop giving him homoeopathic medicine. He wants it all to stop. No more invention. No more acupuncture. No more external support. I am aware that animals ask for medical and healing intervention to cease when they are close to transitioning. I feel he has started separating from his body and is beginning to let go. There are moments when he doesn’t feel present and I’m aware he’s spending time out of his body as pure energy.
22 July: Freedom
I have a workshop to teach in Snowdonia, but I don’t want to leave home. I want to stay with Morgan because I feel there is not much time left. Jo reassures me he will still be here when I get back. I know this in my heart, but I have a deeper feeling that when I get back he will be ready to go. One part of me feels this trip to Wales is dreadful timing and the other surrenders and has faith in the universe guiding events for a reason.
On the way to Snowdonia I am curious to know why now? I get out my pack of Steven Farmer’s Power Animal divination cards. There are 44 in the pack, but I feel drawn to one in particular. When I turn it over I read ‘Freedom’ and it has the image of a white horse. I immediately think of Morgan’s freedom – freedom from his body to continue his soul’s journey. My Welsh venue is called ‘White Horses’. Rather than random chaos, it feels as though everything is as it’s meant to be.
The next part of the book focuses on knowing when it’s time. In the first chapter, Benson, a fell pony, answers his guardian’s question: ‘Did I choose the right time for him to leave us?’