This week I had one of those “double-edged sword” days in my work. When I ask myself why I do what I do, and know I wouldn’t do anything else.

On an almost daily basis I place myself squarely in the face of grief and loss. No, I’m not a minister or health care provider: I’m an intuitive and spiritual consultant, and right now I’m talking about animal communication.

Early in the morning I had a phone call. The woman had barely started to talk, asking those polite things we do, “I emailed, but I decided to call, too,” when I heard it in her voice: death was knocking at her door.

 Turns out, she and her husband lived with an aged Alaskan malamute, and, while the dog had been up and down all year, it seemed like down was permanent. She asked me to talk with her dog and find out: are you ready to go, is it time, do you want help, what can I do for you?

Sometimes these calls fall into the “emergency” category, as this one did. So the appointment isn’t scheduled, it’s on top of me, with no time to prepare and a serious issue to confront. What I learned and conveyed would make a difference to these two soul mates—a woman and a dog who loved each other.

Yes, there are many intuitives who won’t take these calls, whether it’s an ill or dying animal or a lost one. The pressure is intense and can be debilitating without a lot of self-awareness, self-care, and boundaries. It’s taken me a lot of time to learn this, as both a woman in a patriarchal culture and an intuitive in a skeptical one, so I took a deep breath and did what I had to do: I asked some questions to clarify the situation, and said I’d talk with the dog and call the woman back in an hour. And then I had a quick breakfast, to get myself ready for the day, and spent some time quietly chatting with the dog, who I’ll call Clem, while energetically scanning her body to get as much information as possible.

Clem fell into the “I could go or I could stay” category. She was clearly dying: she wasn’t in any pain, but old age was slowly claiming her as her body was shutting down. She felt she could die on her own, but would like some help, and “now today” worked for her. Or she could simply “walk the mystery,” as my beloved dog, Murphy, did, as she explored the dying process with me by her side, if her person didn’t want the pressure of choosing euthanasia.

As someone who loves my animal family, I can honestly say that “now today” is something you never want to hear. I can also say that I’ve honored my family’s wishes, and, with clients, I carefully explain the options. Those who are truly living the human-animal bond seriously consider their animal’s wishes. Because love matters.

Turns out, the woman wasn’t surprised by this. She had watched her dog slowly wind down for some months, and intuitively felt the time was ready. Her dog simply confirmed it, while also giving the woman the final choice: she could help her dog out that day, or she could stick with her until she died on her own or until she started to suffer.

The woman was both saddened and relieved to hear this. Knowing her dog wasn’t suffering gave her some time. I suggested that she not make an immediate decision, but simply spend the day with her dog, even make a ritual of the dying process. Our culture today tends to ignore death, but by recognizing and honoring it, we can bring beauty, comfort, and closure to a relationship, which helps in the moment and later, when only ashes remain.

I checked in with her later that day. By then it was clear to her that her dog was more than ready, there was no more doubt that it was time, and they’d had a beautiful last day together. Because I work with my dad, who’s in the afterlife and cares for the newly transitioned (another story, another time), I could monitor the process and know when Clem died and moved on.

The next day I was deeply touched to receive an email from my client saying that she’d “felt my love” all day. Yes, love matters.

Living the Human-Animal Bond

Sometimes what animals say to us is surprising. I remember when a very ill cat told me he wanted to die: he really didn’t, as I could tell from his nuanced conversation (yes, you can pick up nuances telepathically), he really wanted to know what was wrong with him, what his person was doing about it, and what it would mean. Would he recover and be fine, or drag on and be miserable? Sadly, his person ignored the answers I offered, and, while the cat recovered, his journey to wellness would have been easier on both of them if his person had simply backed me up by explaining things. I learned from that to be careful who I worked with—because the human-animal bond as I live it, at home and at work, means that we listen to our animals, respond to them as intelligent equals, and bumble our way through life, together.

While Clem’s case ended in death, it also perfectly illustrated our lives with animals.

The human-animal bond is important to me: creating families with animals has been a major feature of my life for the last eighteen years. While I had “pets” throughout childhood, and in particular a beloved English Cocker spaniel for ten years, it wasn’t until 1998 that I consciously created a family with dogs, and, eventually, a cat (better known as our resident alien). As my relationship with my two Cavalier King Charles spaniels and the cat deepened, I “learned up” with my animal family. By that I mean I recognized that our life together was one of equals, regardless of species, that it didn’t matter that they were animals and I’m human, because the soul bond between us is there.

These days, many of us are proud to claim our animals as family members, whether we live alone with them, as I do, or other humans are involved. Living our lives with animals as family (what I call “multi-species families”) enriches us beyond anything most of us ever imagined, and, of course, adds strange complications and annoyances. I drive the car and buy the food, and my animals, well, they learn to live in a world geared towards humans, which isn’t easy for them, even for dogs like mine, which are bred to do exactly that. My life isn’t college costs or “sex and drugs” talk: it’s poop bags and leash training and finding a way to communicate when English isn’t their first language.

In this brave world of the human-animal bond, we and our animal families have learned up from ancient necessity that brought wolves to our nomadic camps to heart and soul growth in our modern comfy neighborhoods. It makes for strange and fascinating lives—and the heartache of loss as terrible as it is when we lose humans, even worse if family and friends don’t understand and support us.

But on that day, when a woman and a dog said goodbye to each other, that was a day to celebrate. Because someone loved her dog and lost her. Because she and her dog did everything right. Because I could provide some small comfort in the process.

We always hate to see them go—grief hurts. We can also always celebrate the bond—because grief means we loved and were loved.

And love matters.

Yes, it hurts sometimes, but that’s why I do what I do. Because once in a while I can be there at a crucial moment in the life of a multi-species family. Because I can help. Because I can bear witness to what really matters in our busy, mixed-up, noisy world.

Love.

© 2016 Robyn M Fritz

Animals and the Afterlife

Part 1 of 10: Honoring Murphy on her birthday

On October 9, 1998, I met my soul mate. Again. At the time I knew nothing about reincarnation, past lives, or even intuition. All I knew was that I’d driven three hours to meet the eleven-week-old Cavalier King Charles spaniel puppy I’d committed to buying the week before by phone. The puppy was bouncing up and down trying to see past her mother and grandmother. As our eyes met, I was stunned to hear her voice in my head clearly say, “Oh, it’s you” and to hear something inside me say it right back.

It took me three years to understand that this dog, who called herself Murphy Brown, was the reincarnation of a human woman who was my childhood friend (yes, human) and later my beloved English cocker spaniel Maggie. On December 25, 2001, that same soul again reincarnated as my Cavalier boy, Alki—yes, the same soul in two bodies in the same household at the same time. And on July 28, 2015, that same soul reincarnated again as another Cavalier boy—and joined me eleven weeks later as my puppy, Oliver Alki.

I know, you’re thinking, what? So, let’s back up.

Before Murphy came, I’d spent many years handicapped and ill, years in which I lost everything—my self-confidence, career, financial security—everything but my family and my quirky sense of humor. Whenever I thought about giving up, I recommitted to creating a life of meaning and purpose, as long as it was fun. In 1998 I decided that fun meant buying a $175,000 dog (okay, a condo so I could buy a dog, but still). All I wanted was a dog. Just. A. Dog. Some might say the universe had other ideas. The dog certainly did.

People debate reincarnation, multiple simultaneous lives, whether humans can be reborn as animals (or vice versa)—even whether animals can reincarnate. Others like me live with the truth: souls can do whatever they want, regardless of human dogma. Souls choose the form they need to do the job they chose before they incarnated, and if everything works out, they succeed. As we all know, though, once bodies, free will, and real life interact, it’s a free-for-all, anything-can-happen world.

Souls also move together in soul groups. These groups of souls experience multiple lifetimes and between-life times, together, however it works out, by choice or by accident. As part of a soul group, my family has been reincarnating together for centuries, freely bouncing between human, animal, and, yes, alien lives. I’ve been human many times, and also dogs, cats, even whales (I still have the hips to prove those), and my current animal family has usually been right there with me. One time, in ancient Egypt, my cat was a woman, and the dogs and I were her cats.

Is this just my weird family, or everyone’s? That depends on soul purpose—and luck.

Reincarnating together happens routinely, even when we don’t know it. From what I’ve seen in my intuitive practice, more often than not our animal companions are reincarnating with us in different animal bodies throughout our lives. Luckily for us it doesn’t seem to hinder (or annoy) them that we are seldom smart (or aware) enough to notice. I’ll illustrate with my own family, which will give you plenty of ideas about yours.

My Dogs’ Lives

The Coming of Murphy

Despite my fondness for dogs, I never thought of them as more than pets until I bought a dog who wouldn’t settle for that. It just took me a while to figure it out. Murphy quickly developed health problems that would derail my finances, my ego, and ultimately my view of life itself. As we worked through her chronic and debilitating illnesses, I noticed they looked alarmingly like mine. Puzzled and furious, I decided that neither of us would have a life of pain and disability, and went looking for answers. A few other things happened along the way.

Murphy wasted no time dismantling everything I thought I knew about the world (which turned out to be a good thing). She was six months old when I noticed that her nuanced responses to people, animals, and the world around her were far beyond what we consider to be animal intelligence. The rest of it is the earthquake’s fault. On February 28, 2001, Murphy was curling up for a nap when she leaped up barking and snarling and dragged us out of our condo—about two minutes before Seattle was rocked by a 6.8 earthquake.

That was a defining moment: I knew my entire world would change unless I ignored what had just happened—and all the other things I’d watched that dog do since we’d become a family. But what was the fun in that? Trained as an investigative reporter, and a cynical skeptic by nature, I knew what I’d just seen: there was clearly more going on in Murphy’s head than I’d ever imagined, and I couldn’t wait to learn more.

Boy, did I! To get us both healthy I studied human and veterinary medicine, both allopathic and alternative care, including nutrition, herbs, homeopathy, chiropractic, and supplements. I explored ethology, behavior, ecology, anthropology, physics, philosophy, ancient and alternative spirituality, animal communication, TTouch, acutonics, and energy healing. I experimented and knocked on doors I didn’t know existed before Murphy came and opened them for both of us. Desperate, curious, determined, I was open to possibilities, even ones that seemed dorky (and are).

I was a rational, anal-retentive, coolly intellectual atheist who’d abandoned religion in my thirties because it just didn’t make sense. I preferred key lime pie to meditation, liked yoga in principle, and avoided anything that smacked of New Age peculiarities. Sensibilities, religion, politics—I figured anything “given” was both open to challenge and needed it, and the eternal rebel in me was happy to oblige.

Although I had never felt comfortable in the world as other people described it, I didn’t understand why until Murphy rattled enough of the cages we lock ourselves into. The human-centric worldview exploded as I discovered a world I never knew existed, from a living, aware universe to reincarnation, spirit guides, and practical mysticism.

Of course there was something else involved, that thing that ties us all together, no matter our experiences: the willingness to love. The woman who in 1998 cheerfully greeted the exuberant puppy who became Murphy also harbored a closed, skeptical heart, wounded by childhood betrayal, grief, and loss, and shriveled by illness and despair. I was willing to love, or I never would have bought Murphy: I just no longer knew how.

We figured it out together. Although it took five years for us to heal, years of heartache and humor, we were perfectly content together, a family: that one of us was human and the other a dog never mattered. I couldn’t imagine one thing that would make our lives better, which means I honestly did not see Alki coming.

© 2016 Robyn M Fritz

Alki Fritz, Dec. 25, 2001 – Nov. 17, 2014.

His true soul name was Heartsong, but he thought it too froo-froo for his daily name, especially when his favorite puppy thing was to tuck his head, somersault on top of gull poop, and wiggle it in. So I chose a daily name, and it didn’t stick, but he insisted I choose for him.

Hmm, okay, what was the thing I most loved? Of course, Alki Beach, our neighborhood in Seattle. That’s how my sweet boy became Alki. It was the first of many things I learned about love from the king of doggie soccer and chin rubs who loved his family, kids, everyone (except bad guys with guns on TV).

I share this because part of my chosen work as an intuitive is to give witness to love in all its forms, from birth to the dying process and beyond. I tried all year to save my boy, and in the end all I could do was hold him in my arms as his beautiful heart failed. Our thanks to all who offered us comfort, support, much-needed help, and friendship during this dark, painful year—you confirmed, again, that love is in the details. Right now, as you read this, please stop to celebrate those you have loved and lost, and hug those still here.

Our time together is short, but love is eternal. My little Heartsong could tell you that. As Alki rests now in my dad’s arms at his Way Station for Dead Things on the Other Side, I smile as he is once again strong, healthy, and running free. Grief runs deep, as it should: it means you loved and were loved, no matter what. Peace. With thanks, Robyn and Grace the Cat.

© 2015 Robyn M Fritz

In loving memory: Alki Fritz, Dec. 25, 2001 – Nov. 17, 2014

Do you ever wonder why you bother? Not just to get up, but to stay up when you know that mostly what you’ll get is hurt?

I’ve wondered that lately. Not because I doubt my work, although it’s hard sometimes. Not because I doubt myself, because we all do a little and most of us manage to get over ourselves while getting in a few laughs at our insecurities.

No, the bigger question is why we bother to love, because love hurts. Sure, we bother because we all matter, regardless of what we do to earn a living or to learn or have fun, it all has one purpose: we are all called to love, no matter what. Even when it hurts. And it hurts at our house right now.

I appreciate the patience of all my subscribers who have stuck with me in a hard, painful year as we dealt with a horrific attack that left me and my dog Alki both injured. I had to re-direct my business to mostly writing, because going out with Fallon wasn’t possible when I couldn’t use my hands. I suffered from PTSD, from the horror and from my inability to save either of us that night. Healing is slow and painful, but I’ve loved the writing and the support I’ve had from so many people has kept us going. I love what I do.

Some of you also know that during the incident that injured us Alki’s heart “went bad.” By March he was on heart meds, by June he was on all he could take, and for the last month I worked to prepare him, and myself, and Grace the Cat for his death. My sunny little boy who loved everyone he ever met, including his precocious sister, Grace the Cat, was always the sweet epitome of his breed. On Monday, November 17, I held my sweet boy in my arms as his beautiful loving heart failed.

I met Alki long before he was born. In those days 13 years ago I was just understanding how energy worked, and I literally experienced pregnancy with his mom. Three weeks after he was born I learned why when I tucked him under my chin and a bolt of knowing hit me like lightning: he was my son, another reincarnation of my beloved English cocker Maggie and Cavalier Murphy, the puppy whose true soul name was Heartsong (too fussy for everyday, so after several tries we landed on Alki).

For almost 13 years he was glued to my side, the velcro Cavalier (the boys are like that). And now he’s gone.

Make no mistake, I am angry and bitter that he had his life cut short by violence. I’m human after all. I also know enough to let that go, because you can’t change what happens to you and your loved ones, you can only choose how you’ll respond. My response is to remind myself that we come into the world to learn to love, and in the end it is only love that matters. Above all, I am grateful that such an extraordinary soul chose to live his life with me.

Alki taught me a lot about love. He was incredibly patient with my inability to love him at first, even knowing who he was. He was rambunctious, demanding, and getting Murphy’s attention (yes I was jealous). He was all happy dog, and I finally realized I wasn’t just being a jerk, I wasn’t seeing the love he kept freely offering me. When I did I was rightly ashamed of myself, and made sure that he knew every single day how much I loved him, how much he mattered. Even now, as he rests at my dad’s Way Station for Dead Things on the Other Side, as he gleefully races through the mountain meadow, healthy and vibrant like he hasn’t been all year.

I used to think Alki wasn’t all there mentally. Certainly he didn’t possess the innate intelligence that Murphy had, but then he didn’t need it. Alki has always been pure chaotic experience, a live in the moment, roll-in-gull-poop boy, the secret energy master who surprised me one day with his raw power, well beyond any energy system we humans know. The dragons were here in his last weeks, because he is their ambassador, a job he and I inherited together at Murphy’s death. And his previous incarnations, Maggie the English cocker and Murphy the Cavalier were here, too, supporting all of us.

I’m sharing this rambling note with you so you know that darkness comes to all of us, no matter how much we love, because in choosing to incarnate here we choose to experience organic life, and that means it will eventually end. But darkness doesn’t have to destroy us: we can choose how we meet it. Have you ever felt grief, worry, doubt, confusion, despair? Of course you have, because you are here. You are not alone. We all have something we have to deal with, like it or not, because we all bothered to love. It matters.

On Monday, November 10 on my radio show at News for the Soul. com I suddenly found myself talking about Alki and death and how we get through it, because I know he was dying. You can find it in the archives. The point is that love matters and it hurts, and that’s a good thing. Grief is good: it reminds us that we were lucky enough to love and be loved.

Part of me has been grieving the loss of Alki all year, because he couldn’t run or play, and I knew his heart was failing. If you are grieving, my heart goes out to you. Remember the good times, hang on to them. I have told Alki that he is always welcome to come back, although I’m quite certain he will choose a household with a lot of land to run on, because that’s the one thing he missed with me, and the one thing he turned down to be with me. Love is a miracle, isn’t it?

And Thanksgiving is the time we celebrate it. It’s my favorite holiday, and this year, like all others, I will stop and remember those I’ve loved and lost, those I’m lucky to still have with me, and the world for making a place for all of us in it. I will give thanks for my clients, who are brave enough to share their journey with me and Fallon, our classes, and their beautiful hearts brimming with love. And I will be grateful that in this difficult year I embraced the darkness and claimed, now and always, love.

I was privileged that my little Heartsong chose me as his partner in his journey. I hope that all of you are lucky enough to love and be loved like that, knowing that embracing love also means embracing the darkness.

Love matters. You matter. Never forget it. Never stop saying it. You don’t know how long you’ll have with those you love, only that it will never be long enough.

Peace.

© 2014 Robyn M Fritz

This is my Grace the Cat, not the missing cat.

Animal communicators can help you find your lost animals, but you have to do your share as well. Don’t hesitate! Get your support team up and running. Here’s how.

The minute you know your cat is missing, start looking, indoors or out, depending upon what you know about the circumstances involved. Explore the nooks and crannies, get the kids and the neighbors to help, even rent a trap if possible, especially if night is quickly approaching (night time holds all sorts of terrors and legitimate threats to lost cats, including predators). You can find details on how to search for missing pets at the excellent website Missing Pet Partnership.

Working with an animal communicator can also help. A successful case closed today proves my point.

One of my intuitive jobs is animal communication. I was contacted Friday night, Halloween, about a cat that had gone missing in L.A. that afternoon. I left a return phone message late at night, and talked with the owner on Saturday morning. I got the information I needed to connect with the cat, and set the owner the task of hunting for her, from getting a cat trap to putting up posters and rounding up the neighborhood. We communicated several times on Saturday. The best information I could give her was that the cat was trapped in the dark, could not get out, and was close by. The entire neighborhood helped, but no cat.

Early Sunday morning I emailed the owner: I kept getting an image of a car in a dark garage, and was pretty sure, again, that the cat was trapped in a neighbor’s garage.

Intent on helping, I called a Seattle friend, Karen Cleveland, who is herself a professional animal communicator. I gave her the basic information, and she went off to contact the cat. When she called me back, she had the same information I did, as well as a direction, southwest or southeast, of the house. We were both convinced a garage was involved.

As we were talking, the cat’s owner called. I put Karen on hold to get the owner’s update.

The cat was found! How? The owner had followed my advice earlier and contacted all the neighbors again about their cars and garages, and one neighbor emailed that she’d found evidence of a cat in her car inside the garage. I had insisted she go back to the garage and look herself, because cats hide, and would respond better if she were calling. Sure enough, she went back, peeked through the garage windows, and there was her cat!

Why did this work? Two reasons. First, with animal communication, we were able to narrow the search and to give the owner support to keep looking and not give up. Second, and even more important, the owner was not willing to give up the search, and kept at it, posting signs, combing the neighborhood, enlisting help, and getting courage by being supported by me (and, by extension, Karen).

Turns out the owner was talking to the homeowner involved on Saturday; the garage door was open and she was calling her cat, but did not see her. Was the cat in the car at that point? We’ll never know all the answers, but we do know this: because the owner refused to quit, she found her cat.

The moral of the story? Don’t give up if your cat is lost … or your dog or any other animal. Animal communicators can help, but you need to do the legwork. These cases don’t always end happily, but when they do, it’s because everybody pulled together.

I’m pretty thrilled this worked out, and that Karen and I were getting the same information, with slight variations that helped us fill in the details. By that time the cat had been found, but her input was vital. I’ll be looking forward to working with her in the future—teamwork!

Have you ever used an animal communicator to find a lost animal? Tell us the story here in the comments.

© 2014 Robyn M Fritz

This spring I was privileged to attend the death of a dear friend’s beloved cat, Sachi, who had terminal cancer and had reached the end of what she could tolerate. My friend, Reiki master and massage therapist Mary Van de Ven, had done everything possible to help Sachi, but the cancer was relentless.

Sachi was a stray kitten who showed up at my friend’s Hawaiian home on Thanksgiving Day in 2002, a few months after Mary’s previous cat died, and moved with her to Seattle in 2006. Mary and I met in Rose De Dan’s Reiki class series in the spring of 2007 (Wild Reiki and Shamanic Healing), so we’ve been close friends a long time. Mary knows my work very well, and was comforted at the thought of me attending the euthanasia and being Sachi’s advocate, to tell her what was happening, and to help her communicate with Mary at the end.

My Animal Communication Work

For those of you who are wondering, my animal communication work focuses on the human-animal bond. While I help locate lost animals and examine medical issues (but only if the information I provide is taken to a veterinarian), my focus is deepening our connection with our animal families, including family harmony and the tough issues involved in re-homing animals and dying. (For more on how to handle end-of-life issues with your animals, see my article, “How the Human-Animal Bond Meets, and Survives, Death.) That means my work is as practical as it is mystical: my goal is that multi-species animals prosper together, so that each soul has its best chance of achieving soul growth in its body’s lifetime. I work with individual clients and I teach animal communication as a bonding process for families.

Vet Clinics and Euthanized Animals

The euthanasia was going to take place at the vet’s office, a place where Mary and her animals felt comfortable and were warmly treated. I said goodbye to my beloved Murphy at the vet’s office, and I know how generous and kind they are to families and animals who face death together. But there can sometimes be problems.

Because I can and do talk with anything (chairs, cars, mountains), I usually walk around heavily shielded, or I’d never get anything done. So I had been surprised some weeks before when I had Alki at his vet and my sweet boy completely freaked out: he wanted nothing to do with his vet when he had always loved him and willingly cuddled. Instead, Alki sat rigidly beside me, eyes wide in horror, or raced around the room, crying. We finally moved to a different exam room, and Alki calmed down.

At first I thought it was that Alki and I had both seen a lot of our respective doctors since we were attacked by the neighbor’s dog in January, but it was more than that. When a friend and I checked in, we discovered that a dog that had recently been euthanized at the clinic was screaming at Alki: “Run for it, they kill you here!”

So I could hardly blame Alki for feeling terrified. When my friend and I checked with the dog, we discovered that his people had been with him when he died, and they were crying. That assured me that the euthanasia was necessary to prevent suffering from a condition that could not be resolved. Once I explained it to the dog, he promptly moved on to his afterlife, greeted by my dad, Ray, who runs a Way Station for Dead Things on the Other Side. (For a more detailed account, see my article, “What To Do When Your Vet Is Haunted.”)

I also mentioned it to my vet, suggesting that they institute a procedure to explain to the animals what was happening, and so prevent the trauma we had accidentally witnessed.

Because I walk around heavily shielded, and I’m focused on my kids or on clients’ kids at the vet, I hadn’t thought much about the stuck dead at veterinary clinics (which is not an excuse, only an explanation). The dead get stuck and don’t move on to their afterlives for a number of reasons, but in the case of euthanized animals, it’s usually because they are confused about what’s happening and weren’t told it was coming, or they didn’t want to die and wouldn’t accept it.

The problem is, this is happening at every vet clinic that euthanizes animals or deals with their dead bodies. So the night before I was to be at the vet clinic with Mary and Sachi, I sat down to look at the clinic with my dad, Ray. We saw a steady stream of cats, dogs, gerbils (lots of gerbils) … meaning the clinic had been in business a long time, and a lot of deceased animals were stuck. Now, this isn’t anyone’s fault: it’s not like people intend for the animals to be confused and get stuck. Instead, they just don’t always stop to think that, like us, animals have souls and can think for themselves, and we don’t always think through what that means, and act on what we learn. It’s even harder when we’re traumatized ourselves as we face the loss of a beloved animal.

Sachi … and Harold

The upshot of this session with my dad was that I agreed to get to the clinic early and unobtrusively help the stuck dead move on to my dad, and then he would stand by for Sachi. Yes, of course, we could have done it that night, but I was going to be in the space, and I wanted to honor the animals by actually being present with them as they moved on.

Oh, the best laid plans. The next morning it was pouring down rain and I got lost. As I was driving, my dad suddenly popped in.

“I’ve asked my friend, Harold, to take all the other animals, so all I will do is take care of Sachi,” he explained.

I was surprised, but I wasn’t going to tell my dad how to do his job. He had figured it all out, so I simply agreed. Then Harold started talking to me, and would not shut up. Interestingly, I could clearly see him as he talked, which doesn’t always happen (I will know who I am talking with, but they aren’t usually as vividly present as Harold was).

Harold was still talking when I went into the clinic. He made it clear that he was somehow connected to the clinic, and that he wanted that acknowledged, so after I greeted Mary and her sister and Sachi, I asked the vet technician working with them if someone in the clinic was connected to a deceased man named Harold. She didn’t know of anyone, and left the room, saying, “Oh, I wish one of my dead would ask for me.”

I figured that was the end of that, and focused on Mary and Sachi. I was honored to help them say goodbye to each other, and to transmit loving messages from Sachi to Mary as we waited for the vet. This is always sacred time, and it is such a blessing to share it with families.

Then the vet came in, and I immediately realized that my dad had set me up. The vet was the clinic owner, and he was the spitting image of Harold, who was once again eagerly chatting away, and refusing to be ignored.

“Are you Harold’s son or nephew?” I asked the vet.

He smiled shyly and said the vet tech had told him what I had said. Harold was his dad, and, as Harold had insisted, he had always been interested in animals but had never worked at the clinic and was not a vet. I explained to the vet that Harold ran a way station like my father did, and that he was volunteering to be present at the death of every animal coming into the clinic, to ensure that they got safely to a way station. I also suggested that he establish a practice that each vet explain to every animal what was going to happen and why, and if the families weren’t open to that, they could do it silently in their heads, because the animals would hear, and Harold would be there.

He was thrilled that his deceased father was eager to assist him, and readily agreed. Yes! One vet clinic out of how many? But one that was going to see to it that deceased animals had an escort to their afterlives. That sneaky Harold, and my far-seeing dad, who, unlike many way station managers, can see energy lines between the living and the dead. Meaning that when he looked at the clinic with me the night before, my dad saw the connection between Harold and the clinic, and set about connecting father and son in service to the animals. Awesome, isn’t it?

And, yes, Sachi had a beautiful sendoff, and died peacefully in Mary’s arms. Sachi quickly and safely transitioned; my dad smiled at us as he held her in his arms. Later, I told Mary that she was streaking around the Way Station, enjoying the mountain scenery and the other animals who visited there or worked with my dad.

We celebrated Sachi’s life at a local restaurant with Mary’s sisters and a picture of Sachi on the table with us.

How to Deal with a Sick and Dying Animal

The point of the story? Remember to tell your animal companions what is going on, whether they are sick or dying. Sometimes animals who are very sick or in a lot of pain panic, or get worn out by the pain, and tell me they want to die: this is your clue as their companion that they need comfort and support, and possibly additional medical attention. Too often people, especially energy healers and intuitives, think of their animals as teachers and healers, or sponges to their human’s worries and ills, so dismiss anything else by insisting their animals ‘are mirroring their feelings.’ This is a disservice to the animals and to you: they have real fears and concerns, real joys they want and need to share with you. Be open to them and listen; your caring response and support could be all they need to hang in there and recover and thrive again, much quicker than they can do when their concerns are being ignored. Think about it: when you’re sick or hurt and don’t know what’s wrong, or the extent of the damage, you relax and recover faster when your care team keeps you informed and attends to your concerns. Your animals deserve that level of support from you, and you deserve it as well. Your entire family will feel better.

My friend, Mary, was totally tuned in to Sachi, and they were able to share her final weeks together peacefully, and to say goodbye tearfully but confidentally, knowing that Sachi was aware that everything that could be done for her was done, and that she both understood and greeted her death as bravely and joyfully as any human who is well prepared. Sachi was ready, and so was Mary—as ready as any loving pair who have to separate. It isn’t easy, but it’s possible.

Questions about animal communication or my upcoming animal communication class? Please contact me.

© 2014 Robyn M Fritz

Nearly every week for the last two years I’ve received emails thanking me for the article I wrote about taking my beloved Murphy to the veterinary surgeon to discuss treating the cancer that would inevitably kill her. Most of these emails are private; many are also here on the blog site. Today I am remembering Murphy, who died on March 8, 2012, and the story that has helped so many families deal with their own tragedies. Check it out: The Real Life Crappy Choice Diary, Entry 13.

Now, what are we going to do about cancer in our animal family members? Start by refusing to adopt any animal that has been spayed and neutered against your wishes (and those wishes should be to take your females through at least two heat cycles so that they are sexually mature, and there is almost NO reason to neuter a male dog). The science is there, people. The common sense should have been there long ago. Nature gave us hormones to help our bodies grow and develop; depriving our animal companions of those hormones for political reasons, and not a serious medical emergency, is barbaric.

Right now we’re listening to political ranting and bad science. We know better. Stop the madness: refuse to adopt spayed or neutered animals in the animal welfare system.

Refusing to continue to harm our animal family members by refusing to adopt these mutilated animals will shut down the current shelter and rescue system within a year. Why? Because they won’t have any money and will have to listen to the truth, not the pandering. Help rebuild our families’ health.  Take charge. 

NOW!

© 2014 Robyn M Fritz

Even though I talk with the dead, both people and animals, I never once thought about my vet being haunted. I guess because I’m usually there on personal business, meaning one of my animals is ill, and practicality rules: I’m interested in dealing with the illness, not in looking for dead things.

So I was surprised one day a month ago when I was at the vet with my Cavalier King Charles spaniel, Alki. My poor boy and I are both recovering from a vicious dog mauling early in the year. In the aftermath he suddenly developed severe heart disease, lost a lot of weight from stress, suffered extreme pain from being beat up, and his gastrointestinal illness, IBD, is quite severe after being under control for nearly a year.

So we’ve been at the vet a lot in 2014. Still, Alki loves his vet, and doesn’t mind being at the clinic, so I was surprised when we were waiting in the exam room and Alki was acting both distraught and scared. He was whining, pawing at me, and pacing. When the vet came in the room Alki would have nothing to do with him. He sat rigidly beside me, shivering, eyes wide in fright as he stared at his vet and refused to move. No matter what the vet or I tried, Alki refused to have anything to do with him. The vet finally moved us to another room and Alki calmed down, although his heart rate was through the roof and it was several hours before he was completely himself again.

What was wrong with him? I thought back—the only other time Alki was afraid of the vet was the first time we were back in the clinic after my beloved Cavalier, Murphy, died there. That time, too, Alki was nervous and shivering, clearly worried about dying. I talked him through it, which reminded me, yet again, that we need to talk to our animals about what is going on. They do understand us even if we don’t understand them. Alki knew very well that Murphy had died just down the hallway, and I had to reassure him that he was not dying, too.

But a month ago Alki’s fright was a mystery, one I pursued with him that evening in a conversation. It turns out that a big black dog had died in that exam room within the last few weeks and had been roaming the clinic halls as a ghost, and that room in particular, since it had been euthanized. So this ghost dog had literally been standing there yelling at Alki to “Run for it, they kill you here!” After hearing that I could hardly blame Alki for being frightened, and I felt bad for the dog who had died.

Bad enough to do something about it.

How We Helped a Dead Dog Move On

My friend and I sat down together to talk with the dead dog. I asked it, “Were your people with you when you died?” When the dog said yes, I asked it if they were crying. He said yes. I then told the dog that I was sorry they had not explained to him what was happening, but I was sure they were crying because they loved him very much, there was nothing they could do to save his life, and they euthanized him so that he would not suffer any more. I’ve been through enough situations like that with clients to know that it was true, although I didn’t know the exact circumstances.

The dog understood then what had happened to him, and was comforted by the simple knowledge that he was loved and not randomly murdered; instead, he was dying and his family loved him too much to let him to suffer anymore. My friend and I then helped the dog to move on to be with my dad at his Way Station for Dead Things on the Other Side—yes, one of the places the dead go to rest up before moving on to review their lives and choose their next adventure.

The next day when our vet and I discussed Alki’s condition, I told him about the dead dog. He was silent for a moment, then said, “Well, I’ll do know Alki clearly wasn’t himself.” I told him about telling animals what is happening as they prepare for euthanasia, and that he could silently tell the dog in his head and not verbalize it out loud if he didn’t think the family was open to it.

Some people are still not on board with animal communication, including the concept that animals can and do understand us and do have feelings and concerns of their own. Others are, like many Japanese, completely silent on death, and do not even tell human patients that they are dying, a mindset that I simply do not understand, but there it is.

How To Act When Your Vet Is Haunted

So the ghost dog has safely transitioned and I learned a big lesson, which is that someone like me who works as an intuitive is sometimes on the job whether they know it or not. That does not mean we are supposed to be wide open to anything all day long, but when you see a reaction like Alki’s you need to pay attention to what is happening in case there is something that you need to do, or at least can do.

Here’s the thing. Every veterinary clinic is potentially haunted because animals die there, just like people die in hospitals and care facilities, which are also frequently haunted. (Believe me, even self-professed skeptics who work in those places will tell you that they are very aware of ghosts, and will avoid being alone in certain places, even though they don’t like to admit it.)

So what do you do when your vet is haunted?

• Make sure you are well grounded at all times, especially when you first go into your vet’s clinic.
• Explain to your animals that you are going to the clinic with them and why.
• Assure your animals that they will be fine.
• If you are going in for euthanasia, then by all means explain it to your animal, and take someone like me along with you if possible, or at least arrange a consultation so that you and your animal are completely clear about what will occur. For more on what to do in the dying process, consult my article, How the Human-Animal Bond Meets, and Survives, Death.
• Make sure that your vet and vet technicians working with your animals understand and respect the ‘spiritual’ or ‘intuitive’ relationship you have with them by participating in a discussion with you and the animal about what is occurring, why, what will happen, and what it means. Many vets are open to animal communication, and certainly respect the human-animal bond, so if this sounds strange to your vet I suggest you find another one.
• Because you are occupying that veterinary clinic space, you are free to ask the space to be clear and healthy for you and your pets, and use whatever clearing remedy you need, particularly a pinch of sea salt in the room with you, or crystals, or whatever works.
• Suggest to your vet that the clinic hire someone like me who clears traumatized spaces to routinely clear the space and help ghosts move on.
• Make sure to ground and clear yourself after a visit to a place where animals and people die, so you don’t carry that stuck, heavy energy home with you (this is a routine daily care practice for everyone, but here we’re talking specific places).

Of course you can’t force a vet to clear their clinics, but you can clear the space around you, and maintain an open line of communication with your animals. You may not hear them, but they do hear you, so make sure you tell them what’s going on; animals, like people, can easily get confused about a situation, particularly an emotionally intense one like death, and need reassurance and an opportunity to ask questions. I’ve seen enough confused and frightened animals, alive and dead, that are suffering emotionally simply because they don’t understand what is going on. Please don’t do this to your animals, or yourself.

If you don’t do these things, odds are someone like me will meet your deceased animal in a very sad way. At least you hope they will, so they can help your beloveds completely, and safely, transition.

Unfortunately space clearing is not as routine in our society as it could be, so it’s up to you to make sure that when your vet is haunted you aren’t haunted, too.

Have you ever noticed that your vet is haunted? What would you do to make your vet’s clinic a healthier, happier experience for you and your animal family?

© 2014 Robyn M Fritz