You think dogs will not be in heaven? I tell you, they will be there long before any of us.
Robert Louis Stevenson
In March 1992, some close family members in California gave my sister and brother-in-law, Christine and Dick, a miniature schnauzer puppy. Dick and Christine named him Hans, and we all fell head-over-heels in love with the cute little guy.
In January 2005, I was spending some time after the Christmas holidays with Christine and Dick at their home in Webster, New York. Hans was now aging, but still not terribly old for a miniature schnauzer.
He'd been having some minor physical problems. Or at least we thought they were minor. So Christine made an appointment with Hans' veterinarian for minor surgery. On a cold grey January morning, she and I took him in for his appointment. He was always nervous when he knew he was going to the vet's office. As soon as we got into the office, he made a beeline for the door. "Let me out of here!" is what I'm sure was going through his little mind.
Ever since he'd been a puppy thirteen years earlier, Hans never liked to be held. He was loving and affectionate, but was definitely not a "lap dog." He was so scared that morning at the vet's office, I just instinctively picked him up while Christine was filling out the paperwork. He snuggled close to me, burrowing into my heavy winter coat. In all his life, he'd never allowed me to hold him.
That was the first and last time it ever happened.
Later that day, while Christine, Dick, and I were having lunch, the phone rang. Christine answered the call, and then started sobbing. It was the vet. Dick and I knew without knowing -- Hans was gone. The surgery was normally minor, but Hans' heart stopped in the middle of it. And they could not revive him.
Later that afternoon, the three of us went to the vet's office to pay our final respects to this beloved little creature who had become as precious to us as our children.
The staff ladies had Hans laid out on a table in one of the back rooms. He looked so peaceful and beautiful. Christine, Dick, and I said our separate goodbyes to Hans.
When my turn came, I bent over his body, laid my hand on his head, and kissed him."Goodbye, Hans," was all I could say. Then, tears streaming down my face, I glanced at him one last time, and walked out.
The ride home was silent. The day was cold and grey, and matched our mood.
That night at dinner, we drank a toast to our beloved Hans.
On the following October 15, Dick died. He'd been ailing for years with a lung disease,and his death was not unexpected. So I made the long sad journey back to New York from my home in Wyoming. I spent nearly three months there with Christine and the rest of our family, doing what I could to help her through her own difficult transition.
Two days before I went back home to Wyoming, I awoke at 4:30 the morning of January 10. As I lay there, deciding whether to get up or go back to sleep, I heard a car door slam at a nearby neighbor's house. Then I heard Hans' loud, familiar bark in the living room directly below my bedroom.
Oh well, I thought, he's just barking because he also heard the car door slam.
Then I did a mental double-take. It was almost exactly a year ago, on January 17, 2005, Hans had died! The memory of that day is permanently etched on my memory.
But I knew his bark, and I felt his energy in the house. What was going on here?
The next morning, I said to Christine, "Something strange happened last night. Hans was here."
I spent quite a bit of time thinking about all that had happened. I believe our animal family live beyond the veil of death, just as we humans do. And I believe those who love us, human or animal, never leave us. They often have a desire, from beyond the grave, to help us and to let us know they are still alive, still loving us.
A week or so after Hans died, I received a message I can only describe as coming from the world of spirit. Here it is:
If there is one major lesson your pets have to teach you, it is this: Live in the moment! And this: Love unconditionally.
Your pets find joy, passion, and pleasure in every moment of their physical lives. Even when they appear to you to be suffering from some physical illness or injury.
Pets -- and all animals, in fact -- have no fear of illness or death. And, more importantly, they have no fear of life. Hence they immerse themselves in all the pleasures of physical existence. And they do it without hesitation and without guilt.
They are fully alive in every moment. Not a bad role model for you to follow!
Animals do not live with the same "agendas" you humans do. They have no desire to control or manipulate their fellow creatures, human or animal. Their intent is to simply live freely and joyously. They see little difference between life and death.
No matter how awful (or peaceful) their transition from life to death appears to you, those transitions are always easy and effortless to them.
And when they arrive "on the other side," they continue their joyful, exuberant, and happy lives, romping and playing with abandon.
They often return to visit you. As do your human loved ones. But most of you are not open, at least not fully open, to that happening for you. When you do not believe, you cannot see. You often say, "When I see it, I'll believe it." But it's always the other way around -- when you believe it, you'll see it.
You never lose those you love. If you remain open to them, "alive" or "dead," you will always be comforted by them. You will feel their presence, their energy.
And you will know you are loved.
Hans really was here. Visiting from heaven, I suppose.
About the Author
John Cali has loved dogs almost all his life. For many years, he's had a parade of canine characters frolicking through his life. A freelance writer since 1986, John lives in a remote area of northwestern Wyoming, just outside Yellowstone National Park, amidst assorted critters, domestic and wild. Visit John at his website http://www.greatwesternpublishing.org
The above article is excerpted from John's recently published book, "Dogs: Heart-Warming, Soul-Stirring Stories of Our Canine Companions." The book is available at http://www.booklocker.com/books/3316.html
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