Suddenly, my dog Mystic loves the back yard. She was always the first one inside, but now she spends hours out back alone, hunting for things and policing the perimeter. And I think I know why everything changed.
As many readers are aware, the first few years I knew Mystic, I was in the midst of (what I now know to be) a three-year long asthma attack, the severity of which varied from day to day. But because I never coughed or wheezed, I went undiagnosed until I landed in an ER in the midst of a crisis. It was so severe some days that I would have to stop to catch my breath after walking from the kitchen to the living room, a distance of about 40 feet. It was miserable. It was scary. There were times it was so bad I thought I was going to die. All I did was work and sleep. And I napped a lot in between.
So that was Mystic's mommy for the first three years she was here. Mystic is a dog that needs a good bit of exercise and so she got walks as best as I could. A few days a week. Most days if I stopped everywhere they wanted to sniff, I could make it around the block. She's got behaviors that do not respond to training, but do respond to exercise. So it was a win-win for us to get her walked.
So the change Mystic made had nothing to do with me being more active now, because that's not even necessarily the case. But it did coincide with that ER visit, followed by a few days in the hospital. My disappearance, coupled with a strange caretaker, was traumatic on all three of the dogs.
So maybe that somehow triggered Mystic's change. But I think it goes even deeper than that. Because while things appeared normal on the surface—I was going for walks, conducting business, doing the grocery shopping, visiting with friends—I was scared, panicked and miserable on the inside. My lungs were the only thing physically broken, but living that way for so long broke my spirit. And once I got out of the hospital, I was able to start feeling whole again.
I believe Mystic was so dialed in to the heavy, thick sludge of my psyche that it changed her. Having brought her out a farm on a few occasions, I know her natural way is to just wander off and explore and stalk things. She was a rural girl. That is her nature. But all of that was suppressed because I was suppressed.
Another interesting observation is around the Kizzie situation. A few weeks ago, he ended up with a disc issue that may (and likely is) an indication of a larger issue with him. He's an old boy. And while the immediate issue of a ruptured disc is healed up, he's been having occasional issues indicative of ongoing spinal cord issues. So, until I came to accept that Kizzie is in decline, I was distraught. And during that same period, Mystic stopped taking part in her nightly fisticuffs with Magick. She resumed once I let go of my grief over this development with Kizzie.
Whatever it is, the bigger picture is that our pets know far more about us than we realize. I believe Mystic's story reinforces that we all transmit data that can be picked up by others without verbal, auditory or visual cues. Humans can do it. Dogs can do it. And probably everything in the universe can do it. In general, I think other animals are far more capable of doing it than humans. Our societal mores and critical natures get in the way of many of our natural instincts.
And whenever a parent claims their young child isn't aware of issues in the home, I cringe. I remember knowing things I didn't hear or see, but sensed, as far back as toddlerhood. Two of those things, in particular, were later confirmed and I still can't shake off the feeling there's something more to one of them. So there probably is. The issues weren't concepts I understood at four, I had no words for them, all I knew was that something was fishy...something was odd, not quite right.
But, back to Mystic. When I was growing up, dogs were just dogs. They were fabulous friends, but in the bulk of global consciousness, dogs were dogs. Separate. Lesser than. In my lifetime, that consciousness has rather rapidly changed. Dogs may as well be people to most of those who have them as pets. Part of it is their distinct personalities, yes. But part of it is in this energetic exchange and intuitive understanding that goes on between us.
We don't get to know and trust other humans as quickly and deeply as we do with a dog. And when it does occur between two humans, whether in friendship or love, we call them a soul mate. We hold the relationship sacred. We meet a handful of humans like that in our lives, but pretty much any old dog is capable of creating that experience, at least for me.
I write this blog, in part, to explore the unknowable and spiritual in life. Myst became a completely different dog when I became different in energetic ways she could only sense, not see. She's not just a dog, and I have seen this capability in all my dogs. Children are not just children. And humans are not just humans. We are all connected to something we don't have the words for or even understand. And everything we do or hold inside us makes an impression on that collective consciousness (or whatever you might call it.) So what will you contribute to that vibe this week?