On the first few visits Leaf and I made to the dog park, my heart ached to see him study the faces of each dog who entered the park. Not in the way dogs do when they’re scouting a prospective playmate, but in the desperate way of someone who has lost a best friend. I was reminded of what the animal shelter volunteer had told us. “Harley” had been dropped off at the after-hours reception area with another dog. Had the two dogs been each other’s only friends in the world? Is this the buddy Leaf looked for in every dog he met?
Since we had made progress with Marcia, we decided to try a phone session with another animal communicator named Mary Stoffel. We wanted Mary to talk with Leaf about how he should conduct himself around cats. Mary took a few minutes to tune in telepathically to Leaf. He remained quiet with her too, at first. She communicated with him about the nature of cats. “They’re nothing like dogs.” Mary told Leaf that when he chased the cats, they had to defend themselves by clawing at his ears and face. They could hurt him. He’d have to leave them alone.
After Mary finished communicating with Leaf, we explained to her that in addition to his panic attacks, he became aggressive upon meeting certain types of people, such as the large white male who had walked toward him at Lake Harriet. And yet he seemed to gravitate toward men, especially Latino men.
Based on Leaf’s specific fears and behaviors, Mary speculated that he might be a puppy-mill dog. I had done research on puppy mills for our animal-rescue book. Often, purebred dogs, especially popular breeds such as cocker spaniels, were sold from these horrific places to pet stores, where people bought them. The unsuspecting buyers don’t realize that the pups have been treated inhumanely and might develop severe behavioral and physical problems. Animal shelters are the sad recipients of many puppy-mill / pet-store dogs. People surrender them after they wreak havoc on the buyers’ homes and wallets.
Leaf certainly had some of the characteristics of a puppy-mill dog—more so than we realized at the time. Mary’s theory made sense to us. After the session with her, we were grateful to notice that Leaf’s cat chasing, although not over, decreased considerably.
In those early months Leaf constantly needed to be with one of us. He never wanted to lose sight of a human. He must have held to the idea that if he was always in our company, he would not be left again. He followed me from room to room. If I wasn’t at home, he stayed near Linda.
When he napped, he’d often wake up disoriented. The whites of his eyes reddened, his entire body trembled, and he would hurl his head back. His eyes glazed over as if he had entered another realm. With uncontrollable fear, he’d emit ear-piercing shrieks. Even when we’d rush into the room to reassure him that he wasn’t alone, he didn’t recognize us and couldn’t stop wailing. It took lots of soothing to calm him down.
Our neighbors told me, “We can hear your dog howling all the way over here.” I wondered if they thought we might be mistreating him and explained about his separation anxiety. But they knew how much we loved animals and understood that we were dealing with something over which we had no control.
We were never quite sure how Leaf would react. Once when he started howling out of the blue, I said to him loudly, “Leaf, look around. You’re home. It’s normal.” To my relief, he snapped out of it and wagged his tail. Then to my shock and without hesitation, he rolled over on his back and I gave him the first tummy rub that he allowed me to give. That’s also when I discovered what would become Leaf’s magic word: normal. A guy who had lost everything loved when life was normal.
Night after night Leaf’s wolf howls continued to keep me on edge. At times he would come over to my side of the bed and place his front paws on the mattress. His lustrous dark eyes would look at me with desperation as I peeked at him half-asleep.
“Need to go outside?” I’d ask him softly, so as not to wake Linda. We didn’t have a fenced-in backyard, so I took Leaf for as many as three walks per night, often between midnight and 4 a.m.
Winters are harsh in the Twin Cities. During the first season with Leaf, nature hit us with all its might. Subzero winds fought through my protective clothing. Inches of snow formed over layers of ice on the sidewalks. I had to bundle up in a heavy coat, hat, and gloves several times each night to serve his multiple attempts at elimination. Poor Leaf was constipated a lot, and his response to any pressure to hurry up so we could get back inside ensured that things wouldn’t happen. Elimination, like every other process for this often terrified dog, had to take place on his own schedule. I soon learned the key to success was movement. If we walked at a fast pace, he was more likely to do his business. Then we could escape the windchill and go back inside. Somehow I managed not to fall on the slick sidewalks that entire winter.
Many times I did not return to bed after the first walk around the neighborhood. Instead, I’d go to my room across the hall from our bedroom and sit in my old tan recliner chair. I’d pick up Leaf, put him on my lap, and prop his head on a small blue pillow. Listening to his rapidly beating heart, I’d feel his legs twitch, as they sprawled across my chest and abdomen. “You’re such a sweet pup,” I’d tell him in a low voice.
In these moments Leaf would study my face as I chanted HU, a sacred word that is said to be the sound within all sounds of creation. I learned about HU through Eckankar, a spiritual teaching that has shown me how to recognize the spark of God in each person and animal I meet. Singing HU soothed my dog’s anxious body and mind. His head would lower and rest on my chest. I sensed that at last, he felt safe next to a warm body and a steady human heartbeat. With a loud sigh, he’d soundly drift into a deep sleep. And so would I, for whatever remained of the dwindling nighttime hours.
How could I keep up this sleep-deprived routine? I did not know. How long would I do this? For as long as it took.
CHAPTER FIVE
Never Give Your Wife a Memo
LEAF’S NIGHTLY OUTINGS AND THE HOURS SPENT WITH HIM SLEEPING on my lap brought healing for both of us. He was bonding with me, and I was recovering from the loss of Taylor. By the time Dr. Lucas delivered the news that I had a brain aneurysm, the effects of those special moments had strengthened me emotionally. After my initial meltdown on the floor outside an elevator at my office, I was able to grant myself only a few more minutes of self-pity. I had to return to my office and try to get my act together.
I pushed my hands against the wall and managed to stand up. My mind raced as I thought, Walk slowly. Try to understand what just happened here. Focus. Since my reaction to the doctor’s news had been so emotional, I dreaded the effect it would have on my wife.
While Linda had shown amazing strength through her own challenges with breast cancer five years earlier, she is especially sensitive to any pain of mine and of our children. If I told her my news, I feared she’d fly into a panic. Would there be uncharacteristic over-the-top drama? She might become unreasonable. What if she cried? I never knew how to handle it when she had what to me was an emotional reaction. I would tell her, “Everything will be OK.” But would everything be OK this time?
I decided not to tell her. I’d convince her to visit her parents in Texas and schedule the operation while she was out of town. But if she found out I had surgery while she was gone, she’d go ballistic. Alright, I told myself, she’ll be upset for two or three weeks but then she’ll be OK. Then again, it could be a sore point for many years. Maybe even a lifetime.
Yes, I was having a crisis. But since facts, statistics, and options had always been my first and best resort for handling crises, I decided to make a plan. Any challenge could become manageable with rational, deliberate analysis, I reasoned. What would Spock do? This new way of viewing the news brought relief even though I was angry at my brain. How could it let me down like this? A broken brain? Seriously?
When I googled “brain aneurysm,” hundreds of entries flooded the screen. There were horror stories of botched surgeries, lifelong disabilities, and blood bubbles that caused people intense suffering and pain. The more I read, the more mir
aculous I realized it was that mine had been found before it burst. Dr. Lucas was right. I was one of the fortunate ones.
None of these websites were going to make it easy to tell my wife about any of this. My anxiety started to rise again, so I clicked onto the Angel Animals Network website, where I could look at photos of Leaf playing in the snow during his first winter with us. What was it about this troubled little guy that calmed me?
Suddenly an idea, a brilliant idea, came to me. My job as a computer-software analyst often required me to perform “information management” of collected data. For my wife, I’d design a fact sheet about brain aneurysms and surgery. It would include an easy-to-read overview, definitions, possible options, and most importantly, success stories. I’d leave out the horrors and unsettling statistics. It would be information manipulation management. The fact sheet would ease Linda into my new reality. For the first time since Dr. Lucas’s call, a slight smile flitted across my face. I was taking charge.
I constructed the report with as much care and detachment as one can when talking about brain surgery. I played around with descriptive words to make it sound less serious. In a stroke of genius, I decided to refer to the operation as a “surgical procedure.” I thought the lighter terminology might help Linda ease into the situation. With time, she’d adjust, and then we could have a reasonable discussion about how to proceed.
I also researched the neurosurgeon to whom Dr. Lucas referred me. Dr. Eric S. Nussbaum had impressive credentials. He had authored numerous journal articles and a book on the innovative procedure he developed for clipping brain aneurysms. I called and made the appointment. I appreciated Dr. Lucas’s referral to the best neurosurgeon in the Midwest. Perhaps the best in the country.
By the time I finished the fact sheet, I proudly viewed it as a masterpiece of practical understatement. I planned to present it to Linda that night. I figured she’d read it and not give the news too much more thought.
“You’re telling me you have a brain aneurysm? You’re going to need brain surgery? And you gave me a memo?!” Linda shrieked at me as she glared at the fact sheet on the dining room table.
“I have an unruptured brain aneurysm,” I explained.” The factual information I presented was to reassure you that all could be handled within the realm of reason. And without emotional drama.” I sort of choked on that last statement as I recalled my near breakdown earlier that day.
“This is not a memo situation!”
Without thinking, I said, “When I found out, I wondered if you needed to know, that maybe I would be able to …” I looked at her and realized it would probably be best to stop talking.
Instead, I reached out for Linda’s hand. We walked into the living room and sat on the couch. There, we had an honest conversation about everything that was at stake. I told her what I remembered from the conversation with Dr. Lucas. I said I’d made an appointment with Dr. Nussbaum for an evaluation. We talked about how we would get through this—together.
I held Linda in my arms while tears filled her eyes. The no-drama idea went out the window, as it probably should have from the onset. I realized that when you have bad news, it’s better to hold hands and talk about it rather than present your wife with a well-constructed, typed, and printed document.
While Linda and I discussed what could be a dismal future, Leaf stretched out on the fireplace hearthstone nearby. Mary, the animal communicator we consulted, had told us that Leaf referred to this spot as his “carved-out place.” If he needed privacy to process whatever was happening in his life, his carved-out place became his personal refuge. We always respected his need for space and didn’t touch or try to engage him when he retreated to the hearthstone.
Tonight, he listened to us talking with his head resting on his paws. He seemed to be taking in our emotions and pondering the situation. Even though he couldn’t convey concerns in human language, I sensed he understood that a funnel cloud barreled toward our home.
What could a young pup do to avert disaster for him and the people he had come to depend upon?
CHAPTER SIX
Memory Lane
AFTER SCHEDULING MY APPOINTMENT WITH DR. NUSSBAUM FOR a week after the phone call from Dr. Lucas, my warm feelings about the growing trust of my little ball of black fur mixed with foreboding. I recalled that shortly before Dr. Lucas’s call, without warning or reason, I’d been having the strangest visual episodes. A pounding sensation would start in my forehead between my eyebrows like boulders barreling down from a mountaintop, and disturbing images would push toward the surface of my mind. I felt dumbfounded by this unstoppable visual barrage.
I was driving to the office one day when suddenly snapshots of past events appeared like images on a high-definition screen. I struggled to focus on the traffic around me. Each memory reminded me of a moment when I’d been petty, bitter, or selfish toward my family. Although I hadn’t thought about these incidents in years, they now appeared to be etched on my psyche.
Some of the most disturbing memories were of arresting violent people. Movies and television dramas that depict police in action show them quickly moving from one incident to the next without much reflection. In reality, the aftermath of a horrid crime sticks in a cop’s mind like poison.
I finally made it into the parking garage and slammed my car door with more force than I had intended. The mental snapshots ended as quickly as they had started.
The troubling images continued to invade my mind with varying levels of intensity over the next few weeks. Occasionally I’d have two or three days free of the attacks. But soon the memories would begin again with even more ferocity.
I knew there had to be a reason for this, but what could it be? I had done good things in my life. I’d always worked hard at each job. Why wasn’t I recalling personal accomplishments? After all, I’d been a decent person—a good son, father, friend, employee, brother, and husband. And now a person who was helping a broken dog become whole again.
Having all these unbidden flashes of my previous mistakes caused me to contemplate how I’d arrived at this point in my life. With Leaf soundly snoring on my chest after our nightly walks, I reflected on how single events, even ones that seemed unremarkable at the time, could change the direction of a person’s life.
In Atlanta I’d been assigned to a high-crime section of the city. I answered a domestic-dispute call late one night. By the time I arrived at the apartment’s ground-level entrance, the verbal battle between a man and woman was in full swing. Theirs was a classic domestic fight over money, and the use of drugs and alcohol had made it escalate.
I worked to bring the noise level down a couple of notches and calm the craziness. A young boy of about seven or eight sat on the battling couple’s stained green sofa near a dimly lit lamp. Next to him cuddled a shorthaired mutt. The dog clung to the boy’s side and licked tears off the dazed child’s cheeks. This little dog took it upon himself to protect the boy while chaos swirled around them.
The couple’s emotions eventually cooled off. Like many domestic disputes, my only recourse was to separate these two people for the night. I hoped that they would have a less threatening discussion of their differences the following day.
I took a mental snapshot of the scene of the child and his comforting dog. Observing the love between them in such an extreme circumstance caused me to think about our family’s golden retriever Prana. She often restored my sanity and helped heal me after the intensity of a full watch on inner-city patrol. After one especially rough night-watch in Atlanta, I came home exhausted. Linda and the kids were sleeping, and I didn’t want to wake them. Still in uniform, with my gun belt on, I slowly dropped my weary body onto the carpeted floor. Prana sidled next to me. She pressed herself hard against my side. I looked over to see her gently licking my hand. Without taking her eyes off me, she started caressing my cheek with her soft tongue. I felt all the stress and emotions of that night slowly dissipate. It was as if Prana soaked up all the negativity and took
away my burdens. She gave without asking anything in return.
Police work was convincing me that people were rarely good at finding safety and love with one another. But that night with the little boy and dog, something inside switched. I decided that I wanted to write about how animals brought unconditional love, healing, and security to people when they needed it most.
Now, this wish was being fulfilled in my work with Linda. I remembered that afternoon years ago when she and I talked about the next stage of our lives as we walked Taylor around Lake Harriet.
“Animals really are like angels,” Linda commented. I watched a lone, white seagull fly near the water’s edge.
“We’re not alone in how strongly we feel about our pets,” I said. “Think how empty and quiet our home would be without the gang there.”
“We both love to write and we love animals,” Linda said with a grin. “What if we combined the two things?”
“Are enough people interested in that kind of writing?”
Many people I knew thought of their pets as disposable property. I wondered if there were others who observed and believed in the spiritual nature of animals as sentient beings.
Linda suggested that we help ordinary people express their appreciation for animal heroes in everyday life. Taking a deep breath, Linda looked at me and said, “Since we want to bring out the spiritual element in animals, let’s call our writing ‘Angel Animals.’ ”
A few months later, we were calling ourselves the Angel Animals Network. We started publishing true stories from around the world in our homegrown, subscription-based Angel Animals Newsletter. Within a year we were doing fund-raisers for local animal shelters, were featured on local TV and in newspapers, and were having articles about us picked up by national wire services. We had more than a thousand subscribers to our newsletter, wrote a proposal for our first book, acquired a literary agent, and signed a contract for Angel Animals, the book. One book grew into dozens more.
Dog Named Leaf Page 4
