Understanding Consciousness in Pets and Our Profound Connection

Understanding Consciousness in Pets and Our Deep Interconnection

The bond between humans and their pets is not merely about companionship or affection; rather, it reaches profound depths that touch on shared consciousness and a connection beyond words. When we open ourselves to this interspecies relationship, we encounter an intricate dance of awareness, intuition, and love that reflects the profound ways we are all interconnected. But what does it truly mean to say that a pet has consciousness? And why do they often offer a kind of comfort and understanding that many of us find unmatched, even among our human relationships?

Through this exploration of pet consciousness, I invite you to consider the sensory richness of their lives, their instinctual wisdom, and even the tantalizing metaphysical ideas, like the morphogenetic field, that hint at the subtle but powerful energy threads tying us together. Your relationship with your pet is not incidental; it is a soulful connection bound by silent communication and shared awareness.

Imagine experiencing the world as vividly and immediately as your pet does. Dogs, for example, detect scents with astonishing precision, thanks to having up to 300 million olfactory receptors as opposed to the 5 million found in a human nose. This sensory ability enables them to interpret their surroundings not in two dimensions, like humans often do, but rather in a rich, multi-layered spectrum of aromas that carry history, emotion, and meaning.

Cats, too, experience an unparalleled form of awareness through their extraordinary hearing. They can detect frequencies up to 64,000 Hz, far beyond the limitations of human auditory range. Through these heightened senses, pets absorb their environments with a level of mindfulness we humans often strive to achieve through meditation or spiritual practice.

Their sensory world creates what can only be described as an unspoken, yet highly attuned awareness of their environment. When we slow down to appreciate this, we are reminded to savor the moment, to hear and feel life as vibrantly as possible. By simply observing the way our pets perceive their surroundings, we are offered lessons in patience, presence, and awe.

Consciousness isn’t limited to what pets perceive in the present moment; it also derives from instinct and memory, which work hand-in-hand to shape their behavior. A dog circling before settling down mirrors its wolf ancestors creating safe, warm resting spots. A cat tucking itself into small, hidden spaces echoes its wild instincts to avoid predators.

Yet, these behaviors are not robotic; memory infuses them with layers of emotion and recognition that add depth to their actions. Your dog may abandon a walk route it once loved because of an unpleasant encounter there months ago, or your cat may come running at the familiar crinkle of a treat bag. This blending of instinct and memory demonstrates a form of awareness that, while different from ours, is no less meaningful or profound.

Moving beyond the tangible, metaphysical theories give us a poetic lens to understand pet consciousness and its connection to humanity. Rupert Sheldrake’s concept of the morphogenetic field suggests that all living beings are tapped into a shared field of information. Is this what enables a dog to sense its owner’s return from miles away, or a cat to offer comfort as though it intuitively feels its human’s sadness?

Though still debated, such theories encourage us to entertain the notion that consciousness may not be confined to individual minds but may extend outward, creating a universal web of mutual awareness. It suggests that the connection you feel with your pet, which so often feels like “more than words,” could be a literal overlap of energy or awareness in this invisible but potent field.

Humans and pets share a language far older and more intuitive than spoken words. A wagging tail, a soft nuzzle, or a rhythmic purr communicates volumes, inviting a connection based not on verbal exchange but on a profound emotional understanding. Dogs, for example, tune into changes in your tone and body language, responding with empathy even before you realize how you feel. Likewise, a cat sitting beside you through quiet moments offers a presence that words could never replace.

Over time, this relationship becomes a two-way street. Just as pets learn your routines and moods, you come to understand their subtle cues, creating a beautiful tapestry of interspecies communication. These moments remind us that the most profound truths are often wordless.

The beauty of sharing life with a pet lies in how they mirror back to us the best parts of ourselves. Pets do not judge. They don’t care what you wear, whether your goals are met, or how messy life feels on a given day. They offer simple, honest presence. This lack of judgment can create a safe space for vulnerability, allowing us to pause our inner critic and reflect with grace.

What’s striking is the subtle reciprocity of this experience. While we often think of ourselves as the caretakers, meeting their needs, pets shape us in profound and humbling ways. They teach us patience as we train them, discipline as we maintain their routines, and consistency as we nurture the trust they place in us.

Modern life is filled with hustle, noise, and ceaseless demands for our attention. Amid this chaos, pets offer something rare and powerful: sanctuary. A purring cat or a loyal dog reminds us to slow down, step away from our distractions, and ground ourselves in the present.

The silent companionship of a pet is not only soothing but profoundly restorative. It rekindles our connection to the natural rhythms of life, urging us toward mindfulness as they live fully in the here and now. Their lack of verbal clutter isn’t a limitation; it’s an invitation to rediscover simplicity and authenticity.

The consciousness of pets is uniquely their own and yet intertwined with ours in ways that continue to reveal themselves. Their sensory world, instincts, memories, and the potential metaphysical connections that bind us reflect the infinite depth of awareness across species. But even beyond their being, pets teach us to slow down, to feel deeply, and above all, to live consciously.

By sharing life with pets, we honor more than just their existence; we honor our shared place in the great web of life. We honor the quiet connections that remind us of love, trust, and the beauty of simply being.

Take a moment today to sit beside your pet—not as owner and animal but as equals in consciousness. Appreciate their peaceful presence, the lessons they teach, and the comfort they offer. Through them, we are reminded of life’s most uncomplicated truths.

The Unspoken Bond Between Humans and Animals

There is an enduring yet elusive connection between humans and animals, one that spans centuries and intertwines our existence with theirs in ways we often fail to comprehend. This bond is not rooted in language, intellect, or purpose but in something far more profound and ineffable. Animals remind us of the parts of ourselves that remain untouched by the tangled web of human thought. They represent a freedom that we can observe, admire, and sometimes even feel if we allow ourselves to truly resonate with their essence.

Animals embody something humans often long for yet struggle to fully attain. Their lives, unburdened by intricate thoughts of ambition, regret, or identity, radiate an authenticity that we, as humans, frequently lose in the chaos of our internal dialogues. A bird soaring across a clear sky or a deer leaping gracefully through a forest invokes a collective awe, not because they possess a skill we lack, but because their movements are driven purely by instinct, unmarred by the distractions of human neuroses.

Our animal companions, especially, reveal this profound freedom. They have no concern for past mistakes or future ambitions. A dog’s wagging tail reflects the joy of the immediate moment. A cat basking in sunlight reveals a comfort in existence itself. These creatures embody a state of being that we, tangled in thought, planning, and worry, struggle to touch.

Take Sassy, for example. Sassy is our nearly 14-year-old cat, who we welcomed into our family after my 93-year-old Aunt Susie, her previous owner, transitioned to a memory care facility. We quickly learned that Sassy, having spent her entire life indoors, had become slow, seemingly uninterested in play, and somewhat disengaged.

For months, my wife and I honored her routine until one day, I decided to slowly introduce her to the great outdoors. I began taking her on supervised walks in our yard, a space bordered by a serene creek. At first, Sassy moved hesitantly, placing each paw deliberately, as though testing whether the ground beneath her paws was truly solid.

But then something magical happened. Each step into our naturally landscaped yard seemed to awaken something new within her. She began to explore with an enthusiasm I hadn’t seen in her since she arrived. She marveled at the sounds of rustling leaves, traced shadows across fallen branches, and moved with a curiosity that spoke of newfound joy. For the first time, she seemed alive in a way that brought me profound happiness. Her excitement breathed fresh life into her spirit, and I, in turn, felt rejuvenated sharing those moments of discovery alongside her.

I can still feel the way my heart rose watching my athletic dog Iris, a white German Shepherd, run unrestrained through a wooded expanse. There was an indescribable quality in her stride, a motion that seemed to echo the very rhythm of life itself. The sound of paws against the earth, the rustle of leaves underfoot, and the tangible joy in her being reminded me of something ancient and unbidden.

For a brief moment, her freedom felt like my own. The dog, unaware of leash laws or societal constructs, seemed to inhabit a space where existence simply “was.” Watching from a distance, I did not feel like a master or even an observer. I was a participant in that shared, unthinking moment. It was as though her liberation from thought grazed my own weary mind, lifting the heavy curtain to offer a glimpse of unshackled existence.

The tendency to train, drill, and refine animals toward a human ideal often strips away the very essence that makes their presence so healing. Discipline and domestication may be necessary at times, but overtraining can sever the natural rhythm that connects them to the earth and to their innate character.

A pet that remains in tune with aspects of its untrained self can offer a bridge for humans to reconnect to a more primal essence of being. Whether it’s the carefree way a dog splashes in a puddle on a rainy day or the gentle inquisitiveness of a cat watching raindrops on a windowpane, these moments bring an invitation for us to step out of our overanalyzing minds and enter a simpler awareness.

The gift of animals appearing in natural settings lies in their ability to act as mirrors to a state we might have forgotten. By not hunting or terrorizing them in other ways, thus respecting and nurturing their natural states, we give ourselves permission to rediscover our own.

Empathy is what allows humans to bridge the invisible gap between their thought-heavy existence and the instinctual life of animals. This resonance does not demand words or explanations; it is a quiet understanding. When humans meet animals in the space where no thoughts are required, something extraordinary happens.

Consider the moments when a dog locks eyes with you, or a cat curls up beside you without reason or motive other than to share presence. These moments feel holy because they are. They remind us that life is not solely about achievement or problem-solving but about existing, breathing, and being with.

Animals give, and humans receive, a unique and unrepeatable frequency of connection that is only possible through this mutual empathy. It’s not human ingenuity or their mastery over beasts that creates this bond; it is the stepping away from intellect and entering into the silent space where being simply is.

The bond between humans and animals transcends circumstance, species, and intellect. It originates from a profoundly shared life essence that recognizes itself in one another. This shared essence unites the athlete in flight with a bounding deer, the philosopher amused by a curious dog, and the overthinking human stilled by the purring of a relaxed cat.

To nurture this bond requires not mastery over animals but a willingness to step into their unburdened world. By doing so, humans unlock something within themselves that words cannot define. It is a resonance with a forgotten part of being that is as vast and freeing as the run of a dog through an open field or an elderly cat rediscovering adventure beside her human.

Perhaps this is why we call them companions. Animals remind us of who we were before life became complicated and who we can be if we allow ourselves to harmonize with their unshackled simplicity.

May we learn not only to live alongside animals but to see, feel, and resonate with their essence. By doing so, we may find within ourselves the pieces long forgotten and the freedom hidden in plain sight.

The Iris Story

 

I’ve always had a profound affinity for dogs. Growing up, they were woven into the rhythm of family life, with our parents ensuring these loyal companions were always well-cared for. Yet, as I transitioned into adulthood, life’s demands and distractions prevented me from bringing a dog into my own home. That all changed in 2001, when a remarkable being named Iris entered my life and forever altered its course.

Iris wasn’t just any dog. She was an ethereal presence, a luminous white German Shepherd who emerged, almost mythologically, from the Clackamas Wilderness. Discovered by my sister and her husband Larry (deceased), she and her mother had been wandering the rugged terrain, survivors in every sense of the word. While her mother eluded capture, Iris chose a different path. At ten months old, she approached the humans who found her with a blend of curiosity and trust, as if guided by some higher wisdom that knew her destiny was entwined with ours.

When my sister brought Iris to visit us, I was hesitant. My wife Sharon and I both had full-time careers that left little room for the responsibilities a dog demands. But Iris had other plans. From the very first visit, she moved through our home not as a guest but as though she had finally arrived where she was meant to be. Her calm, knowing demeanor tugged fiercely at my heart. She belonged with us—I felt it deeply. That night, when she left with my sister, I couldn’t get her out of my mind. The sense of connection was immediate and profound.

Naming her “Iris” felt like destiny, both for her striking beauty and for a shared love that Sharon and I had for the flower of the same name. The name carried weight, symbolic of hope and renewal, emotions that would come to define our relationship with her.

From the moment she joined our family, Iris proved she was no ordinary companion. A superb athlete, she moved with unparalleled grace, her agility a testament to her time surviving in the wild. On one memorable day, she leapt nearly seven feet into a tree to chase a squirrel, her survival instincts honed to perfection during her formative time in the wilderness. But her physical prowess was equaled only by her gentle, sensitive spirit. Whether bounding ahead on a trail or curling up by our feet at home, she existed as both the protector and the nurturer.

Our adventures together remain some of the most cherished memories of my life. Iris accompanied me on many of my local runs through the countryside, taking delight in running with me, and then sprinting far ahead, to await her slow friend to catch up with her.  Iris was an adventurer at heart, joining my wife and I on hikes through the Oregon Coast, Mt. Hood National forest, the Columbia River Gorge, Eastern Oregon deserts, and even the towering California Redwoods. There was a quiet magic in the way she led our hikes, scouting ahead and returning to ensure our safety. Her innate protectiveness revealed itself most poignantly during these wilderness journeys. She seemed to understand the balance between nature’s beauty and its dangers, once even preventing Sharon from unknowingly heading into a precarious area. Iris was far more than a companion; she was a guardian, steadfast and intuitive.

Her loyalty wasn’t limited to outdoor excursions. At home, she nestled into our lives, providing comfort and joy. She had an impeccable ability to understand human emotions, responding with an almost miraculous sensitivity. She slept serenely beside our bed, always present and always offering the kind of companionship that only a dog like Iris could. She welcomed strangers, befriended other animals, and cared for our grandsons as though they were her pack. She was everything one could hope for in a friend, a family member, and a cherished soul.

Iris also had a mysterious, almost otherworldly quality to her. This was never clearer than the day she saved my life, during an incident at home when fallen trees threatened to collapse our roof, Iris and I walked into the compromised home while arborists worked on manlifts, attempting to lift two cottonwood trees off of the roof of our home.

One of the men working overhead accidentally dropped a six-foot section of the thirty-inch diameter tree trunk. As I walked in front of Iris, she barked frantically, signaling me to step away from my position back to hers just moments before that massive section of a tree came crashing down where I had been standing. Her timing, her instinct, was nothing short of miraculous. It was as if she embodied some divine connection, always watching over us with a vigilance that went far beyond mere loyalty.

Note:  In forty-two years, the arborist had never lost a load before.  I would have been crushed.

When we lost her in December of 2007, my grief was overwhelming. She passed unexpectedly next to our bed in the early morning hours, with Sharon and me by her side. The piercing cry that marked her departure is forever etched in my soul, a sound that encapsulated the profundity of goodbye. I held her as she took her final breath, heartbroken, and yet grateful that we were there for her in her last moments, just as she had been for us countless times before.

Her departure left a void that was both immense and unbearable, and I carried with me a crushing guilt. I blamed my struggles with addiction, my human frailty, for her passing. It took time, healing, and reflection to see the truth—that Iris, in her infinite love and grace, had given us gifts that far outweighed the sorrow of her loss.

Even in her absence, she continued to touch our lives. Exactly one year to the moment of her death, Rocky, my father’s dog and Iris’s dear friend, howled mournfully in the night. It was Rocky’s first and only time he had ever howled while my father slept. It was a poignant reminder that love, and connection extend far beyond physical presence.

Iris was not just a dog; she was an angel in every sense of the word. She brought order to chaos, light to our darkest moments, and an unshakable reminder of what unconditional love truly means. Losing her was one of the deepest heartaches I’ve known, but her spirit lingers in the fabric of my being and the lives of all who knew her.

She was, and will always be, more than just a companion. She was family, protector, savior, and joy wrapped into one incredible being. To this day, I miss her deeply, but I carry her spirit with me, knowing that she was a manifestation of the best of what life and love have to offer.

The Ginger Story This blog is written in honor of our beloved Ginger, who died on June 6, 2016.  I am going to write this one from Ginger’s perspective.  Ginger’s relationship with us coincided with the most difficult period in my life, and her story is still not yet quite fully fleshed out.

As a dog, it was a very difficult mission for me to communicate with my human companions.  This is a most difficult story for me to tell now, as I lost my life experience in the human year 2016, so I must channel this story through my beloved human companion, to have it written. I never learned how to talk human very well, let alone put my thoughts to paper. But my Holy Canine Spirit listens well to me, and she says that she can translate my story from me through Bruce. So please forgive me if what I have to say appears to be a little simple, or, at times, confused.  I live in a different world than you do, yet our worlds overlap in love, mutual support, and companionship, when they are not in collision due to mutual misunderstanding or grief.

I was born into this wonderful world through my mother in the year that you call 2007. I started my life in a pile of other warm, furry family members. We just did not have a lot of energy to do much, other than hang around the warm, milky way of momma’s belly. Things weren’t too clear for me what I was supposed to be doing, so I just did what comes naturally, and followed the lead of the other little warm ones that were my family. When my eyes finally opened up, it was like I finally got to see what I looked like, because there were eight other little guys and girls who looked like each other so I must be one of them, too!

From time to time another big creature would come by and watch us while we tugged at mama. She was a strange looking critter, bigger than mama, always standing on her hind legs, and she only had hair on her head, unlike our mama. I did not know what to think about her, and my brothers and sisters just kind of accepted that she somehow belonged in our lives, but we weren’t sure why she was. Many darks and lights went by, and my brothers and sisters really were getting bigger. We would nibble on each other when we weren’t tugging on mama’s milk makers, or we would wrestle with each other, and eventually all fall asleep together in a big pile.

I was created and prepared to bring comfort, love and protection for the human creators that build great structures and invent magical things. Yet, with all of their creativity, they cannot consistently create self-worth for themselves, or lasting, loving relationships with all of the other members of their species.  My favorite invention is their metal legs, which whisks them away at great speeds along hard paths. I especially like to ride in them, and stick my head out of the window to feel the rush of the air through my hair and over my face.

I first met my human friends when I was a youngster. My first human was a young woman much like mama’s helper who did not know how to care for me very well. My human did not feed me through her belly, and made me eat some solid, foul tasting stuff out of can. I got sick pretty often, and I was often not able to hold my food down very long without giving it back to her. She fed me the same food that she fed her cat, a funny looking creature about my size initially, though I quickly became much larger. I did not hate the food, but it sure did not taste like anything that special. And it did not taste good when it came back up into my mouth again, which was happening more and more frequently.

My human took me to a place where other animals go for short periods of time so that other humans can look at us closer. He stuck something into my backside that stung, and removed a dark colored fluid from me. I could tell that he was concerned about something, but I did not understand what my human and this man were talking about.

I was to return to this place two more times over the next three hundred nights and days. The last visit the vet told my human that I might need to go to sleep to make me feel better. He said that if I slept the rest of my life, my human might be happier. My human was not happy to hear that man in the white coats’ story, and left his clinic with me. I was happy to be awake still, ’cause I did not like the idea of sleeping the rest of my life. I loved to run with my friend, and to ride in her box with spinning feet.

My human said something about my having poor kidney health, and that she could not afford to provide care for me, so she took me to a place where other homeless animals lived.   I was very sad to lose my human, and now I was in a place surrounded by other sad friends who had also lost their human.  This place was called West Columbia Gorge Humane Society, and it was what they called a “no-kill shelter”.  Well, that was certainly reassuring, let me bark at you!  I was still an active young girl, and I wanted to live!

I was there for two months, and finally a nice couple came up from Oregon to have a look at me.  They put me on a leash, and took me out for a run!  I was so happy!  I had not been running since my first human abandoned me, and I knew then that I might be heading to a home with some new great friends. They were both great runners, even though they only ran on two feet.  How do they not fall over, anyway?

Yet when I arrived at my new home, I was greeted by yet another furry little creature like my previous human companion had.  Her name was Patches, and she seemed to rule the house.  She would follow her human parents everywhere they went, and they called her their “puppy-cat”.   I knew that it would take a some time to find where I fit in here.  She was always sweet to me, but she was a little hard to get to know, because she talked a different language than all of us.  I think that I could talk human a little better than she could, but since this family was new to me, I did not have a lot of confidence.

I felt that my new home was haunted by the ghost of a departed loved one. There were many smells that told me that I was not the first of my kind to bless this household. Yet there was a vibration still present that told me that I had much work to do to help my new friends find their way in our new shared world. The room where they slept at night still had the scent of a death of a beloved friend, and partner of theirs.  I was to learn that her name was Iris.

I could feel the sorrow that still plagued my man friend. I sensed that he felt responsible for his friend’s untimely death, and I knew that I had much work to do to help him with his healing.  I could smell the place next to my human’s bed where their friend had slept, and I overhead them say that this was the exact place that their first friend had died.  My only desire was to be the best friend that I could be, and perhaps become an angel, just like their first friend had become.

My new humans seemed to have some problems with me.  My only intention was to be their friend, and to protect them, yet it seemed like I was doing something wrong, and I could not quite figure out what I needed to do.  My new dad had his own father, a man named Beryl, who just loved and adored me, so I knew that the problem may not be my own, but what was I to do?  But I loved it when Beryl would complement me, and tell me what a wonderful dog that I was.  Beryl had a wonderful companion named Rocky, who became my best friend ever.  I saw Rocky, and Beryl, almost every day of my life, and they became my family, too.  That Siberian Husky was one of the smartest, most  exuberant creatures that I ever met!

I knew someday my new dad, Bruce, would love me too, but he seemed distracted.  My master had grief issues, and they only worsened upon the death of his mother six months after I entered their lives.  I heard that they had to disconnect her from some sort of life support, and the entire family hurt mightily because of that.  But as a result of the mother’s death, we saw Beryl and Rocky every day.  Beryl would drive his metal legs down to our house for his evening meal, and he would always have Rocky with him. This went on for three years, until Beryl lost his driving abilities due to the progression of something my companions called dementia.

I later learned that my dad, Bruce, was also having problems with his work.  He worked at the City of Portland, making sure that the water got pumped to all of the homes.  Yet he also was under grueling stress from a place that he worked, which he called a “hostile work environment”.  He was also taking some kind of medication to help overcome a problem that had arisen in the year prior to Iris’s death.  He called these little strips Suboxone, which eliminated his dependency upon something he called Oxycontin. I overheard him say that his life became hijacked by the Oxycontin, after he became addicted to them to treat the pain for a painful spiral fracture of his tibia, an injury incurred through his training for competitive running and which took several months to heal. 

The month that I can into his life, he made a decision to get help, and the doctor prescribed him this new medication.  He was to take these strips for over one year, while he visited a wonderful doctor named Reznick, who brought him great healing messages.  But whatever was going on, we just could not quite get our hearts connected initially, so that I could soar like an angel with him, just like his previous friend, Iris.

My forever brother wanted to run with me the first year we were together. He could run with the wind, and boy did I like to try to run with him. He was not like the other humans, who seemed much larger, and slower, than he was.  I heard him say that he was one of the fastest older long distance runners around, but, hey, I only liked to run shorter distances, because that is where the fun is!  My ancestors would run for forty miles in a day, over vast, dangerous terrain, just to seek food and shelter, but, hey, I already had both, so who needs to be a hero?  My human dad, though, would run vast distances daily before I met him, sometimes putting nearly thirty miles in a day!  What’s up with that?  No wonder he broke so many of his leg bones while training over the years, he is just too heavy of runner to be running on only two feet!  Thankfully, he had slowed WAY DOWN by the time I hooked up with him!  Yet, his nickname on his magic viewing screen is run4play, which I don’t think he ever did, since he was a puppy.  It is important to have a goal though!

Initially, I ran with him with ease.  But as time went on, for some reason, I felt like I was overheating, and I could not keep up with him on his runs.  He understood, and stopped taking me on those hard runs with him.  But my human companions always took me on daily walks, which were always wonderful!  And, every afternoon, I would get a second walk, once Rocky joined with us in the evening, so life was good!

I became a collector of balls!  It did not matter what size the ball was, if it was on the ground, it was fair game for me.  I was able to get my teeth into hundreds of balls over the years, including at least eight basketballs, and four tetherballs.  Dad would attach a tether ball to a string on a pole, and swing the ball around, and I just went crazy waiting for that ball!  I would jump my highest, and sometimes sink my teeth into the ball, and feel the rush of air as it escaped.  Mom and dad would utter something, sounding like a groan, but I knew that they shared my joy.

My parents made sure to keep me supplied with tennis balls too.  Dad would throw the tennis balls with some sort of plastic slingshot, and I would chase them.  I would not bring them back, because that was just too much energy.  So dad would make sure to have several in his possession, and throw them to me all around the park.  He would sometimes gather them back up, and just toss them all again!  He was quite the ball guy, too!

I took innumerable walks and hikes with my human companions over the years.  I loved the wilderness walks, especially the ones that had a creek nearby!  I would overheat, and then walk through the creek, and water cool my overheated body!  I could always walk so much further when we had the friendly water spirits nearby, otherwise, I would have to stop repeatedly, and await some cooling water from my companions.  I drank more water than my humans, yet they never minded.  Some of my most challenging hikes were from Larch Mountain down to Multnomah Falls Lodge, and Ramona Falls.

My companion had to spend more and more time taking care of his disabled father, and because of the continuing problems with his employment, he took an early retirement in 2013, to be able to take better care of Beryl.  We went up to Beryl’s house every morning, while Bruce prepared his breakfast, and made sure that he was organized for the day until the dinner hour.  Bruce would drive his metal legs up every evening, and bring Beryl and Rocky down to our house for dinner.  I had two homes now, and a great family!

Retirement from work made Dad a new person.  Dad had healed of his grief, and was bonding with me on a complete, loving level, and I felt, as he felt, that we were now companions of the Spirit of Love.  One day we were all sitting around on our deck, and i heard Dad say to Mom, that having us together in love and companionship made him feel whole, and he had never been happier in his life. 

Yeah for our team!

One time we went camping at Cultus Lake, in the year 2015.  We went hiking around the beautiful high mountain lake one day, and I was confronted by a young human with a mechanical contraption that looked very threatening to me.  Dad called it a mountain bike, but I had never seen one before, and I needed to protect my family.  I nipped the women in her thigh, to make sure that she stayed away from us.  Everybody was quite concerned about the nip, and I noted that dad gave a check to her to cover her $310 emergency room visit to examine my warning to her.  Dad and mom felt like we were no longer welcome at the campground, so we quickly left.  We then moved to a wonderful new location, camping on a beautiful lake called Crane Prairie Reservoir.

Over the next year, my stamina dramatically diminished, and I continued to be sick occasionally.  I visited the vet several times, and had some tests performed.  It was then found that I really did have kidney disease, and that was the reason that I overheated so often.  Barbara Cain, the beautiful veterinarian, started giving me injections of water under my skin, to help me keep water in my body, since the kidneys were not doing their job very well.  My owners never mentioned putting me to sleep, as they were dedicated to my life, and wanted me to live the best life that I could, even though I had such problems.  So every couple of months, I developed a camel hump of water, and I maintained my health as best as possible, though I seemed to feel worse and worse every day.

My time was almost gone, the Great Canine Spirit informed me. We saw how my human suffered so with the care of his own father, and his troubled mind struggled with how to best protect me from the ravages of my own kidney failure. I loved my human so much, and my heart ached for him, and his suffering. So I woke my brother up, and brought him to our living room couch in the middle of the night. He would call this time 2:45am, or in the morning. It was a very dark night, early in June.

We both sat on the couch facing each other silently. My brother reached his hand out to the side of my head to caress me, and I held my heart paw out to him, for it was time to carry the message from the Great Canine. A light appeared all around us, as it always does when I exchange love, yet this time, my brother appeared to see it, and be amazed by it. He looked around, and at me, in wonder and curiosity. I could see that he could see that a death was near. I could also see that he was confused. I could feel that his chronic distress was causing him to confuse my impending death with his own. I kept my heart, and my message, open, and he then heard my truth, that he no longer needed to give me those horrible water injections to keep me alive, those huge camel humps that the beautiful doctor friend had been giving me for the last several months.

My humans then took me on an amazing trip to the state that they call Utah.  We traveled to places called Zion and Bryce, and we took some amazing walks, and had some great views.  My daddy had to lift me into the car now, as I was too weak to jump into the back seat on my own most times.  I could get out on my own, though, so we made it work. I did not have much time left.  My daddy would take me to the river, and let me wade in it along the shore. I still loved the water, it kept me feeling cooler and loved.  Daddy would carry my favorite balls, and sticks, but I just could not chase them anymore.  But I could lay down and chew on them a little, and that seemed to please mom and dad.

My day for forever sleep was here.  I walked down to lay beside the creek in back of our home.  Dad thought that I had chosen to die there, and after staying with me for a few hours, he went up to bed.  He left the patio door open, just in case I might come into the house.  It got to be in the middle of the night, and I heard Iris calling to me from inside of the house.  I struggled to my feet, I WAS SO WEAK.  I staggered towards the deck, then rested.  I staggered up to the step, and somehow made it up to the threshold of the door.  I had to rest some more.  Finally, I just knew that I had to made it to where I slept, where Iris had her final sleep, so that I could have my own.  I barely made it into the bedroom, and then fell upon my bed.

I heard Iris call to me, and say it was OK to let go, that she would guide me the rest of the way.  I did not want to leave my friends, my saviors, yet Iris told me that I had earned my wings, and to let go of my pain and sickness, and fly with her to my next experience. I hope that I can greet my beloved humans when it is time for them to leave their own pain filled bodies.  Until then, I will run with Iris in the great meadows of our new home, with boundless other friends, where we no longer have pain, no longer are sick, or no longer have limited energy. I am finally free.

Note:  Rocky, Ginger’s best friend, and my father’s dog, died ten days later on our living room couch.

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