Please, please, please, God have her come for me, I prayed as I looked out through the chain-link fence. Today is the day, I know it. Oh please, I need her to come for me.
The sun shone warmly on this mild spring day and I slipped from my fervent prayers into my memories, reliving the experiences of my life that had led to this momentous day. The beat of my heart lulling me, connecting me to the beating of another heart . . .
In the beginning, before I remembered who I was, my world was simple, serene, and quiet. As a fetal puppy suspended in my little fluid-filled sack I existed in a state somewhere between the spiritual realm I had come from and the earthbound being I was destined to become.
It was like being in a dream. My spiritual self still dominated, while my consciousness felt fuzzy and unreal. I could sense it, but it seemed far off in the distance. There were others here with me and we could feel the connection flow between us. Each of my siblings, floating in their own little sac, drifted peacefully in the same dreamlike state. Then one day I felt pressure, a squeezing sensation, and one of the others disappeared! In my in-between state I felt peace with this event, knowing on a higher level that this was meant to be.
A while later, another squeeze and another sibling gone. Then I felt pressure all around me as a powerful squeeze sent me in my little sac plunging through space, and then out I plopped! I was quickly removed from the insulated capsule that had held me safely until that moment. In a flash, my spiritual connection traded places with my new consciousness as the synapses of my little brain kicked into gear and began to process the flood of information and sensations.
I felt wrapped on all sides by a new kind of energy so different from the wonderful wet warmth I had come from. This substance was lighter, cooler, and I felt totally exposed until I felt my mother’s warm wet tongue. I tried to cling to the connection, only to find myself whisked away by something very different from my mom and siblings. I was tussled in something soft, and briskly rolled around, and then another quick trip through the air to be placed safely against my mother’s warm body.
I felt no fear from these experiences, only confusion as I had no way of comprehending all of these sudden changes and their meanings. I instinctively squirmed my way closer to my mother. Driven by something beyond reasoning I searched and found a teat and began to suckle. Oh, sweet bliss! The connection overwhelmed me as I kneaded my tiny paws and pulled mouthfuls of sweet milk. I felt an all-encompassing sense of unconditional love pass back and forth between me and my mother. I wanted nothing more than to remain safely connected to my mother, feeling the great waves of love wash through me.
During those first sightless days there was so much to absorb and get used to. For one, the extreme weight of my body was a shock. Okay, to you I may have weighed just a few ounces, but having been suspended in fluid, the difference that gravity makes “on land” is quite disorienting when you first experience it. I squirmed around on my belly with my legs sliding around, unable
to stand or walk as I jockeyed with my siblings for food, warmth, and security.
But what I spent most of my thought energy on were the smells. My love affair with the sense of smell began almost immediately. As a dog there is no sense more informing or intoxicating. We can smell everything around us, picking up on minute details about our environment and the other animals in it. Our noses pick up the smell of an individual and tell us not only who they are but also their sex, the condition of their health and emotional state, where they have been recently, and how long ago they had been there. The first time my mother left I could smell upon her return that she had been outside. Although I had no reference for “outside” then, my mind was busy cataloging the new scent and would be able to apply this knowledge when I would take my first foray to that place. I could also smell the scent of another room in the house and the meal she had eaten there. I could smell the scent signature of the other animals (dog and human) that she had come in contact with. Lastly I smelled her anxiety and then relief as she returned, checked us over to assure herself that we were okay, and then settled down with us once again.
A little over a week after I was born I opened my eyes for the first time. I could see shapes, shades of color, darkness, and light but it was all very muddy. With each passing hour my vision became clearer and clearer. The new sights were overwhelming. The world was so BIG and humans were HUGE! I hid against my mom.
Like all young animals, my curiosity soon won out over my fear and I began to explore my now familiar world with my new sense of sight. I noticed my mom and siblings were brown and white. Although I could not see all of me, what I could see was only white. I later learned that I was in fact all white, which I would come to understand accounted for my lifelong inability to hear.
The weeks passed and I experienced more firsts along with my brothers and sisters. We stand. We fall over. We grab each other’s ears and tails with our little teeth. We get better with the whole coordination thing and are harder to contain to the whelp- ing area. The woman who cleaned our papers each day began to give us a pan of mushy food. It wasn’t as nice as nursing, but we liked it and really made a mess of ourselves trying to eat as much as we could before it was all gone. Our mother seemed to like it too—she gave us all a very thorough cleaning after mealtimes. I loved my brothers, my sisters, my mom—this was my family and I was so happy in my simple puppy life.
During this time I became more aware of something differ- ent about me. I could see the other puppies’ mouths moving and it looked odd. Why did they do that? The people picked me up sometimes and as they held me up to their faces they moved their mouths a lot. That was so weird. Something was going on, but I couldn’t fathom what it meant.
I spent a lot of time with one of my brothers—he was my favorite and more sensitive to everything, like me. He always seemed to know when someone was going to pop up unexpectedly, and I took my cues from him. If he turned his head to look in another direction, I did too. And there was always someone where he looked that wasn’t there before. How did he know they were there?
The people who came to see us motioned with their hands to get our attention. I could sense a vibration that accompanied this and we all rushed toward the people. But then I wasn’t sure, and sat down, watching carefully from a short distance to see what would happen. My brothers and sisters seemed happy as they were cuddled and played with. They wagged their tails furiously, kissing all the faces they could get to. I moved closer, watching all the mouth motion that I had come to expect, still feeling unsure.
I must admit that I did not love people yet—my affections and sense of security were with my canine family. My desire to join in warred with my innate insecurity. As the result of my reticent behavior I would bear witness to the removal from the family of each of my siblings before I would be chosen. My mother became really anxious and distressed after the first of us was taken and not returned. For the first time I felt her growl when a strange person was brought in, and thereafter she would be taken outside before any more of us were removed.
Being a social species like humans, dogs form strong emotional bonds to each other. Looking back on it, we were too young when we were adopted out, only about six weeks old. It was very hard on my mother as well as us. Fortunately, she got to keep one of us as her people decided that my favorite brother would not be given away.
Finally a couple with a child came, and when they picked me up I knew I would never see my mother again. I looked back for her, but of course she was not there—she had been taken outside. As my distress began to mount I heard a voice inside my head say, “This is the way it is meant to be.” It calmed me even as my little heart broke for the separation.
I will never forget my mother. Her name was Rosy and she was a very good mom.
“Overwhelming” does not begin to describe that first day without my family. My first car ride, something I would later come to enjoy, I found a bit nauseating. The visual blur of the world going by while I remained unmoving was really disorienting and incomprehensible to my young brain. I was so distracted by the “moving while not moving” phenomenon that I could hardly track the new smells. There were the various scents of the car itself along with the scents of many unfamiliar people, both those in the car and those who had been there recently. The strongest scent, and one I did pay closer attention to, was the sweet/salty smell of the little boy who held me tightly as the car sped along. His name was Barry, and he would become an important part of that time in my life.
Fortunately, that first ride was a short one, and before long we arrived at what was to be the first of my adopted homes. It was chaotic; people seemed to be everywhere. I had never seen more than a few people at one time before. I was carried out to the back yard where I promptly relieved myself. I was grateful to be back on the ground as I would not have been able to hold it much longer. I was picked up again and brought inside and placed on the kitchen floor. From this vantage point I was looking at a lot of shoes and legs. I quickly scooted under the table, where I felt safer, being able to watch all the motion without being in the middle of it. I missed my brother—watching his cues had allowed me to keep better track of the shifting realities around me. I had never needed his help more than in this strange new place with so much more motion than I was used to. I realized with some trepidation that I was on my own and would need to learn to navigate the world without his help.
Suddenly, I found myself face to face with the smallest human I had yet encountered, though from my six-week-old vantage point she was still huge. She was making all kinds of motions with her face and hands, her mouth doing lots of that funny stuff that I had become used to. She reached out to pat me and then someone else scooped me up and put me in her arms. She was all smiles, and although I was still feeling disoriented, her smile made me happy and I started kissing her face madly. I had begun my calling as one of the world’s best kissers.
Later, I came to understand I was a birthday present for the little girl, which explained all the company. That evening, everyone except my new family left. It was just the four of us: Mom, Dad, Sarah, and me. They gave me a box with a blanket, a bowl of water, put some newspaper on the floor, and put a gate up to keep me in the kitchen. Then they left for some other part of the house. All was quiet. I nestled into my blanket and, in spite of missing my mom, quickly fell asleep, one of the advantages of being young and, of course, utterly exhausted.
Although feeling the emotions of others is not uncommon for dogs, I have a particular talent for it, as well as the emotional climate and vibrational energy of the place I am in. I believe it has been gifted to me as compensation for my deafness. I am particularly good at tuning in to animals and humans who have become familiar to me. I have learned to be good at tuning them out as well, especially humans, who can be really exhausting, both with the intensity of their feelings, along with their perpetually shifting emotions.
Over the next few months I grew quickly, as all puppies do, and it wasn’t long before I was too big for Sarah to hold. Although never destined to be a tall dog, I was true to my breeding, a little muscular powerhouse, and the conflict between who I was and who my family wanted me to be began.
I had grown to love people, children especially, and would wiggle with excitement whenever anyone came out into the yard where I spent most of my time. I guess I was living the life that so many dogs do. My human family was busy with human things and putting the dog “out” for the day made sense to them. They figured I could run around the small fenced yard getting fresh air and sunshine. What they didn’t understand is standing in a yard all by yourself can get very boring, and a young, energetic, bored dog will invariably become a problem.
I was ecstatic whenever I had the opportunity to interact with people. I would jump and wiggle and kiss like a maniac. Usually people would respond with their own erratic and quick movements, ratcheting me up even further until Dad or Mom would grab my collar and wrestle me into some semblance of control. Sometimes I would be removed to the yard or locked in the kitchen. I didn’t realize how much trouble my enthusiastic greetings were causing—after all, I could not hear the tone of voice that might have warned me. All I saw were the motions that I believed were people participating in the “fun” of greeting me.
Children were the most fun since I could easily reach their mouths to kiss them. They would run around and we could play chase. I love chase, it’s my favorite game—especially if I am the one being chased! Sometimes someone would fall down and then I would be all over them, kissing them until they were soggy. I loved the vibrations coming out of them as they laughed and giggled as I kissed and kissed. It was wonderful!
My favorite person was Barry, the boy who held me on the car ride to my new home. He was Sarah’s cousin and lived close by. He came to see me a lot and would often take me for walks. They usually entailed him holding on while I towed him around. He didn’t mind. He seemed to realize on some level that it was hard to get my attention unless I was looking at him. My family, on the other hand, took a while to understand that I was “different.” They were not mean or cruel to me—they simply did not understand me and I did not understand them.
There were many occasions where I would keep myself busy by contentedly chewing something to pieces. I love to chew, especially things with stuffing in them, so whenever I found anything chew-worthy I would get comfy and settle myself down with the treasured item between my paws. In my quiet world I would become consumed with the small openings I was making in the fabric, and then I would reach in and gently pull out some of the stuffing, spitting it out to the side, before making the next hole and extracting more stuffing, until there was nothing left but a limp piece of cloth. Often, while I was blissfully at work on one of my “chew projects,” the item would suddenly be ripped away from my mouth and Mom or Dad would be in my face, angrily shaking the object, sometimes grabbing my collar and shaking me as well. Sometimes they would smack me—not really hard, but it still was scary, and I would usually end up banished to the yard. In my mind these attacks would just come out of nowhere. I didn’t understand their behavior. One minute everything was calm and peaceful, the next arms were flailing, feet stomping and faces angry. It was very unsettling.
When I was outside I kept myself entertained by digging. I love to dig! I am a terrier, after all. It’s not just the digging part but the smelling part as well. Putting your nose down into the cool earth and breathing in all the different scents is as engrossing to a dog as a good book is to a human. I could smell all different kinds of animals who like to live in the ground. Each and every one smells so different, moles and earthworms, grubs and chipmunks—I loved it! It didn’t take long before our small yard was as treacherous as a prairie dog colony.
I was about six months old when my family finally understood why I was so different. Somehow they made the connection that I could not hear. They felt that all my behaviors that they found so difficult were somehow the result of my deafness and I guess in their minds not fixable. The emotions swirling around on my final morning there made me anxious, and I knew that something really bad was about to happen.
A Thousand Lifetimes will resonate with everything you knew, and hoped, was true. Here is the very real story of one woman’s life with rescue animals, and in particular, Celeste — a beloved Canine who found a home in the author’s heart and never left. Celeste was plagued with a number of mysterious health problems. But despite being deaf, and being a dog, Celeste was able to communicate everything she was experiencing, thinking, and feeling though Carol, a professional Animal Communicator with the ability to converse with animals telepathically. Together, Celeste and Maria, her human companion, narrate their heroic journey together as spirits intertwined in this lifetime. For those who don’t believe in telepathic communication with animals, don’t worry. A Thousand Lifetimes will burrow right into your soul and find where your truth is buried.