CATS AND DOGS

By Cal Garrison

My family had a series of housecats while I was growing up. We even had a poodle for a while. I paid attention to these creatures only when my mother reminded me they needed to be fed — outside of that we had no bond. The pets were just there, and mostly in the way as far as I was concerned.

Living in the country for most of my life, larger beasts were always part of the scenery — but they never came into my world and I never entered theirs because we didn't have much in common. I remember one time when my neighbor down the road got too sick to milk her cows everyone in town took turns going to her barn twice a day to do her milking for her. When I offered to pitch in and help, my friend Terri looked at me and said, 'you better leave it to us Cal — you're too much of a nerd, you'll just get in the way'.

The idea that animals might have something important to teach us didn't enter my mind until sixteen years ago, when my youngest daughter brought home a kitten. This kitty became Johanna's security blanket and constant companion. She loved She-Ra so much the cat got dragged everywhere. It would even willingly submit to getting dressed up in baby clothes and wheeled around in a little carriage. Watching the two of them carry on made me think more about the love that forms between people and their pets — but I didn't really get the picture until the summer of 1998.

The night after I completed my first Flower of Life Workshop I had a dream. A little white dog came to me in my sleep and told me that I needed to learn about love. Waking up from this dream I was impressed by the clarity of the vision and the way the dog spoke, but it never occurred to me that this was a sign the universe would follow up on.

Driving into town that afternoon I passed a little hole-in-the-wall pet shop that had escaped my notice on every previous trip to buy groceries. The word, 'Westie' was misspelled in red letters on a piece of cardboard in the window. With white dogs on the brain, the sign reminded me of the dream from the night before. Blown away by the forces of synchronicity and the mysterious appearance of this hitherto, nonexistent pet shop, I had no choice but to park the car and enter the Twilight Zone.

Scampering around in a makeshift pen I found the puppy, who would come to be known as Oliver, looking just like the dog that came to me in my dream. This little ball of white fur was six-months old and apparently no one wanted him. I picked him up and held him close just long enough for common sense to kick in and instruct me to put him down and walk out the door.

'What's up with having a dog all of a sudden?' I asked my self. 'You better think about this'. I went home to hold the import of the dream up against the reality of bringing another life into my world and every day for the following week I'd return to the mysterious pet shop and hold the puppy for a while. By the time August rolled around I knew that I couldn't live without him.

Not having enough money to buy food, let alone a dog, I kept trying to figure out how to afford both. The set of Staffordshire in the box in the attic was the only thing I had of any value. All those fancy dinner plates weren't doing me any good so I took them to my friend Buzz and told him that I needed three-hundred-and-fifty bucks to buy a dog — would he trade the china for that amount? Buzz was no dummy. He knew the dishes were worth ten times the price and handed me the cash right then and there — and that's how Oliver came into my life.

A couple of years later I flew home from The Flower of Life Facilitator Training and arrived back in the Northeast along with a blizzard that dumped three feet of snow on the ground. I remember waking up the next morning talking to the kids about who was going to shovel the driveway when my friend Cindy, the dog nut, showed up at the back door with a big black dog.

Without any of the usual formalities she barged into the house and started right in with, 'Cal, you have to take this dog. Her owner just died and the relatives are going to put the dog to sleep unless I do something about it. I can't let this happen. She's a Bouvier. You don't know how rare this breed is. She's such a good girl, will you take her?'

My kids looked at each other and rolled their eyes. All too familiar with their mother and her love affair with synchronicity they knew what was going to happen next — and it did. I said yes to Cindy and asked her if the dog had a name. That's when Gerri entered my world.

For the next four years I lived with Oliver and Gerri. We walked the path through the woods at least three times a day. I'd have the big, black bear of a dog on the right leash and the little white one chained on the left, until we'd get far enough into the woods to let them run free. On winter mornings they'd wake me up before the sun rose and I'd have to put on this ugly snow suit and boots and gloves and all this gear just to brave the freezing cold. This part of our daily routine only seemed to be about them doing their business. Once we got outside it became more about the three of us enjoying the sacredness of life in the early morning light.

These two creatures sat patiently on either side of my desk while I wrote four books and God knows how many articles. They officiated at every horoscopes session and were just as attentive for the Tarot. When my brain got too fried from having to be the answer woman, or when I'd get too obsessed with my work, they'd nudge me and let me know it was time for a walk. The dogs kept me sane and it's safe to say that they collaborated on every piece of writing — because all of my good ideas came to me when I went out walking with them.

Gerri was nine when she came to me. Bouvier's usually live about twelve years and she reached that age around the time her hips went out. She couldn't walk real well and going up and down the long set of stairs was painful for her. As shaky as she was, Gerri didn't seem to be bothered by her troubles because the only thing that mattered to her was being with me. Whenever I traveled she'd miss me so much she'd get sad and her body wouldn't function. Toward the end, when I told the dog sitter I'd be gone for over a month she told me to get someone else to keep an eye on the dogs — Gerri's stuff was too much for her.

Aware that my trip couldn't be postponed and not knowing how long Gerri would last, I decided it would be less cruel to put her down than it would be to expect her to get through another long stretch without me. After weighing all the different variables I called up the vet and made the appointment to put her to sleep the next day.

February 4th brought a fresh layer of snow and enough warm sunshine to make the snowflakes sparkle in the light the way they do sometimes. Gerri was going to die at eleven and I couldn't handle sitting around thinking about it, so I threw on my snow gear and took her out for one last walk. Romping and rolling around in the freshness of the white stuff, Gerri was like a pup that day. I felt like a murderer. She was so alive, so joyful, so different than the old girl who couldn't make it up the stairs. Did I really have to go through with this? The answer came back yes. I braced my self for the experience, trying not to cry, and we walked as far as we could until it was time.

Gerri got into the car and all the way to the needle with no sign of fear or resistance. She laid down on the floor and I laid down next to her, holding her close and looking into her eyes as the morphine streamed into her body and took her away. It was as if she knew where she was going and why she had to go. All the way to the end that dog gave me her life — after four years together, the extent to which she loved me was great enough to make me feel that I might actually be worthy of it.

Oliver mourned her death longer than I did. The happiest dog on the planet went into a deep depression after his friend died. He slept a lot and didn't eat. We'd walk every day and Oliver would always go straight to the river. It was Gerri's favorite place. He'd leap into the water and swim out to the spot where the two of them used to go to shake off and wait for me to throw sticks into the current. After she died, Ollie would never go for the first stick — he'd wait for it to float downstream and only when the second one got tossed would he jump in and fetch it back.

Back in April this year I got hit with a bout of food poisoning. Two days of that made me oblivious to anything that might be going on with Oliver. When I finally came to, I realized that the dog was sick. Not being one to rush to the vet I didn't do anything about it until a friend made me. I found out the next morning that Oliver had been poisoned by the contaminated dog food that, unbeknownst to me was making headlines that month. The vet said he was in rough shape and gave me a choice — I could put him down or see if any kind of treatment would help. I went for the second option and spent the next five days with Oliver, in a cage at the vet's.

During that time the rest of my life ceased to exist because Oliver became the only thing that mattered. Curled up inside this tiny space the two of us got closer than we'd ever been. The vet worked her magic and I worked mine. After two days Oliver looked like he might survive and it appeared as if my prayers were answered — but on the fifth day something changed.

By that time I had stopped thinking. All day long I was just there with him, full of the realization that none of my prayers and none of the tools I was using to bring him around would override whatever was meant to be. Instead of trying to control the outcome I became more involved watching Oliver breathe and feeling the life inside him. The love in my heart was the only other thing I could feel. Looking into his eyes that evening, I told him that if he was hanging on just for my sake, I would be OK if he needed to let go — he died two hours later.

I've cried over the death of a husband and a father, but I cried more over Oliver than I did over both of them put together. On the night that he passed away it made no sense to try to sleep because I couldn't stop crying. When I finally went to lie down, She-Ra, the cat who over time had become mine, flew lightly up onto my chest and purred into my heart until my eyes closed.

For days I woke up in tears. There was no way to push past the grief and nothing to do but succumb to it. I found out that this awful feeling morphs into love when you allow the emotion to show you where it comes from. In a prayerful moment I heard my self say, 'Ollie, I'm not sure I can do this without you' and something came through, not a voice but something, telling me that he'd taught me as much as he could and it was time for him to move on — and the next thing I heard was, 'You just need to remember to love your self'.

Some people say that dogs are enlightened souls who voluntarily agree to take on a furry form so that they can come to be with us and teach us how to love. Sometimes they come to us in dreams to let us know they're on their way, and sometimes they just show up at the back door. How they teach us varies, I suppose — but if you're paying attention, there's no way to miss the lesson.

Aside from me, the sole survivor in this story is She-Ra. As it turns out, the cat Johanna brought home may be the one who understands life better than anyone. At sixteen, she has retired to the South West and no longer needs to submit to playing dress up. She-Ra spends her days dancing with the leaves that blow around in the yard and communing with the elementals who occupy her territory. To those who are privy to her true identity she is now also known as Kokopelli-Kundalini. Watching her and wondering what makes her tick I have come to the conclusion that she is a shaman or a feline alchemist whose ability to transmute negative energy is beyond compare. Now that the dogs are gone, it is She-Ra who instructs me in the art of being alive. Her methods are different and her ways are mysterious but I do my best to learn from her and follow her example whenever I can.

About Cal Garrison

Cal is a writer with four books to her credit. ‘The Old Girls’ Book of Spells’, ‘The Old Girls’ Book of Dreams’, and her latest book, ‘Witch On the Go’ were published by RedWheel/Weiser Press and are available in bookstores or on Amazon.com. In addition to her own work, she also writes for Slim Spurling. Her first book with Slim, ‘Slim Spurling’s Universe’ is being followed up by their second book together which, with any luck, will be out in 2008—2009.

A professional astrologer with 35 years experience Cal has cast over 6000 charts and is one of the best in her field. She is also an expert on the Tarot. When she’s not running the Spirit of Ma'at office, or working on her books, Cal spends her time doing in depth astrology and tarot readings for people all over the country.