Eighteen years ago, my little maltapoo, Muffy, was a gift for my 5 year old son. I didn’t even want her, being a young mother in an increasingly abusive relationship. But after a few weeks, she wrapped herself around my heart and began what was to be a long and sometimes painful existence for her. She was always protecting me and my son from my ex-husband’s irrational and erratic behavior. Only 12 pounds, with curly white hair, her tenacity and strength was obvious years later to my second husband, who named her the White Hornet. As he put it, “she coulda been a contender” (she had a bad habit of attacking the vacuum cleaner when it came close, opened everyone’s packages at Christmas, had a preference for domestic beer, and performed tricks, but only for me). The only thing she feared, he said, was the broom, a reminder of the past, when it had been poked at her by my ex after she took cover beneath our king size bed. Muffy’s “new Dad”, as I promised her, was beyond patient with her rebellious personality, and she loved him almost as much as she loved me.
At age seventeen, she seemed to calm down. She was no longer a puppy, but a steadfast friend. The thought I might lose her sent me into a tailspin. I could not emotionally handle the void of that loss in my life. Knowing it was inevitable caused more stress, and we began a kind of dance of denial, a tango of avoiding the obvious. As I watched her steady decline, my heart ached and my stomach churned. I asked her to let go. I wanted it to be natural, for her to make the decision. I found myself saying, “Muffy, tonight would be a good night to go. You’ll be ok.” And when I said it, her little face registered fear, and her eyes spoke loudly that she did not want to leave. But her body was delivering another scenario, one of discomfort and 18 years of life.
Days and nights became one. Sleep was no longer an option for either of us. I cried constantly with the thought of having to make the decision to end our loving dance. It was something I had never done before.
After one long evening of Muffy pacing and my nerves frayed, it became clear that Friday was the day I would help her leave. It was the last day Muffy’s vet was available before leaving on vacation, and Muffy liked her. I have had dark times in my life, but this was turning out to be one of the darkest. I left the house to do some thinking. I cried and spoke to Muffy in my mind, telling her that it would be all right, that she could come back to visit me, and we would never really be apart. The angels would come and take her to a beautiful park where my grandmother would meet her. She could run and play and feel like a puppy again. When I returned to the house, Muffy acted as if she were feeling better again. Seeing her appearing more normal, I couldn’t go through with it. It did not feel right, something was missing.
Well, that night she was up again and all the old stages of discomfort returned. I knew this would be our last night together. I held her in my arms, wrapped her in my son’s old blanket, sitting on his bed, saying goodbye for him. I memorized every detail of her as we melded into one, my tears wetting her still beautiful white fur.
In the morning, my husband and I took her on her last “flower walk”, a tour of our gardens, stopping and smelling the roses. Before, she would follow behind me, sniffing, now I carried her and we smelled them together. I thought of the times she raced me to the strawberry patch to eat as many as she could before I could find them, or when she nibbled on the green beans as fast as I could pick them fresh from the garden. Suddenly, she looked up at me, and started kissing my neck, face and ears, as if frantically saying I love you and good-bye. Her energy astounded us, and her love washed over me as it hadn’t done since her days as a puppy.
I called the vet realizing Muffy and I couldn’t go through any more nights or weeks of discomfort. We wrapped her in her favorite blanket, and as we gathered her up, the phone rang. It was Cynthia, a medium I had consulted in the past. I had asked her at one point to talk to Muffy about going, and she had told me Muffy wasn’t ready yet, that she was afraid to leave me. Now, Cynthia had a message for me, and described in detail the very conversation I had in my mind about Muffy, about the angels, about the park, about what Muffy would experience, about my grandmother, what she looked like, and (much to may awe), her name as well. It was the confirmation and validation I had hoped for. Cynthia’s information gave me the ability to breathe and I recognized it as an enormous sign that I had support in the most difficult endeavor of my life. The truth of Cynthia’s words ran through me, giving me the strength to endure. I have always believed in angels, and now that belief was returning to comfort and nurture me through Cynthia’s gift. I thanked her for the message, heaven sent.
As we drove toward the vet hospital, Muffy rested her little head on my chest, her nose pointing toward my face, her eyes fixed on me. She was etching every detail in her soul as she reached out through her eyes and touched my heart, saying, I will never forget your face! My insides melted and became a mound of emotion, still Cynthia’s words found the smallest entrance into that mound and brought comfort. I was eternally grateful for the validation that it would bring me in the days to come.
At the hospital, the vet requested we put Muffy on a cold stainless steel table. I insisted on holding her, all 8 pounds now, of love, joy, support, and companionship, a lifetime bond untouched by time and space. She passed quickly. My white hornet, the contender, my champ that protected me from everything and everybody, found her way into my grandmother’s arms, and continued her protection from an angelic place.
As soon as Muffy left her body, the words from a song I had not heard for years echoed through my head. It seemed bizarre and out of place, but my higher self understood:
When I’m in your arms, nothing seems to matter,
My whole world could shatter,
I don’t care.
Baby, you and me, gotta groovy kind of love.
I knew immediately, my guardian angel was already sending me messages as I smiled through my tears.
The next day, I spoke with Cynthia, and she relayed to me more information about where Muffy is and what she was up to. Trusting in the truth of proof given me the day before, I have continually been shown the light that works through her and delivers every time. Previous to this, I have known many people who have been given astoundingly accurate information by Cynthia (not just about animals), including my own husband who in the past has been reluctant and skeptical about this type of occurrence. I wish for others to know of this enlightening experience. I am truly thankful for this person named Cynthia and the expansive gifts she has to offer normal everyday people like me. Her message has given me the courage to set Muffy free, and allowed me to grieve, and at the same time, celebrate the memory of the white hornet.
Mary Mims is a Portland, Oregon interior designer. She is married and has a 23 year old son and two grown stepdaughters. She has successfully incorporated her spiritual awareness into her everyday life. These insights strengthen daily and have helped her overcome several difficult life situations. She enthusiastically shares this awareness with others.