What do off-track thoroughbreds remember about their racing days? Belle, pictured above, once told me she used to run like mad without understanding why. One or two other OTTBs I’ve known have pictured a person that could have been a groom or jockey. One showed me a huddle of human decision makers.
What they tell me most often is how glad they are to have made it to a life beyond the track, because not all of their stablemates did. Horses are acutely aware of comings, goings and breakdowns.
Even with increased horse safety awareness, too many race horses suffer and die. Twelve horses died at Louisville’s Churchill Downs last year. That’s horrible anywhere, but having lived in Louisville and seen what the Kentucky Derby means to folks, it especially tears at my heart. Could horse racing survive if it put horses ahead of money?
I can’t answer that. But if you want to place a winning bet, make a donation to a horse rescue.
Some people may reject Reiki, a Japanese stress relief modality, as incompatible with the teachings of their faith tradition. Reiki is not a religion in itself; people of any spiritual stripe practice, teach and experience the benefits of Reiki. But how does that all work together?
I can only tell you how it works for me, a Presbyterian seminary graduate who found a path as an animal communicator and practitioner of Kathleen Prasad’s Let Animals Lead® meditation method. This method is a specialized form of animal Reiki.
In short: I say my prayers, show up, listen and get out of the way.
Any healing comes from God, whether that happens through me or in spite of me. My job is to create the conditions for healing by listening and holding a peaceful space for the animals and their people.
The Let Animals Lead® animal Reiki method I practice is meditation-based. It’s hands-off unless the animal wishes contact, and there is no manipulation of energy. I allow it to work however it needs to for the animal’s highest good. God knows that better than I do.
Watch me at work and all you’ll see is a middle-aged woman sitting quietly with a dog or cat, or standing in a barn or pasture. I might have Gregorian chant or other meditation music playing softly on my phone. I’m meditating but not in a trance — gotta move quick if a Percheron is about to step on my foot or goats need to be herded back from the neighbor’s field. (Those are two of many possible interruptions; the idea is to take them in stride and carry on.)
My theological grounding is Protestant Christian, but anything I believe or experience is only a tiny part of God’s big picture. Respecting your beliefs and experience is a core value in my life and practice.
I also know animals are deeply connected to a higher wisdom that sustains all of us. Whether their humans call that higher wisdom God, the universe or nothing in particular, the animals are OK with that. So am I.
My partner and I recently made the gut-wrenching decision to let our 11-year-old dog, Molly, be put to sleep. That was preceded by weeks of: How bad is it? How bad might it get? Are her good days/minutes still outnumbering the bad? What else can we try?
Over and over, I told Molly I loved her and thanked her for the love, care and laughs she’s given us. I talked with her and the cats about what was happening and acknowledged how strange and sad it all was. I assured all of them we would get through it, one day at a time, and that Kathy and I would care for and support them. We shared healing meditations and I prayed for courage.
Every time I started down the path of worry and despair, I reminded myself to return to the present moment, which was where Molly needed me to be. Sometimes I got further down that path than other times. I kept coming back, however imperfectly.
After Molly gently departed on her next adventure, Lucy (the black tortoiseshell cat pictured above) was stoic and attentive. Dusty, her younger calico sister, kind of understood what was going on but still found it confusing. Kathy and I did our best to reassure them and cope with the raw void.
Less than a week after Molly’s passing, I noticed food-driven Lucy wasn’t finishing her kibble. She ended up having five teeth extracted. Lucy has tooth resorption, which basically means her saliva breaks down her teeth, and had had five extractions less than a year before. Tooth resorption is not uncommon in cats, but science hasn’t figured out why it happens or how to fix it.
This time her recovery was full of ups and downs — different medications for pain and nausea, trying all manner of soft foods and feeding methods to get her to eat, and trips back to the vet clinic to be checked and rechecked. We were all still slogging through the fog of loss. I shared meditation with Lucy daily but wondered if I was getting it all wrong.
On a Saturday, after another vet visit and another failed attempt to get her to eat more than a couple of small bites, I was at the end of my tether. I wanted Lucy better. Yesterday.
Lucy was getting veterinary care. Now I had to force myself to do what I’d suggest to any client in this situation: Take a breath and focus on the connection rather than “the problem.”
Only then was I able to communicate with my cat without worry butting in.
What Lucy told me was not that she was tired of going to the vet and being cajoled to eat … though who could blame her? What she told me was that her mouth was still adjusting and her body was healing. She could feel the prayers and healing energy working. What she needed was time. And steadiness. She needed me not only to show up but keep coming back. Because we humans do drift.
I began to breathe a little easier. Her appetite remained sketchy for the rest of the weekend. On Monday afternoon she followed me into the furnace room, which is off limits to the cats, and ducked underneath some shelving.
“Lucy! Outta there!”
All I could see was the faint, dark outline of a cat crouched amid the dust bunnies. Never have I been so glad to see a cat behave like a stinker.
I went back upstairs, grabbed a fork and tapped the side of her stainless steel food bowl. Out of the furnace room and up the basement stairs she ran. And ate a bit more food.
The next morning, Lucy ate her breakfast normally. Well, maybe not quite normally, but close enough that we could see she’d turned a corner.
Lucy continues to improve, and we all continue to heal. It is not a linear process, and of course there’s never a good time for an animal to be ill or pass away. We humans have enormous responsibility for our animal companions, and yet there’s so much we cannot control. I’ve discovered that returning to God, to the breath, and to the presence of the animals can only help. Sometimes it’s the only thing that does.
Even if I have to do it several times a day (or hour), I’ll keep coming back.
All Creatures 