This topic is a bit raw for me at the moment, as I had to have my beloved dog Kaya euthanized just over a week ago. She was almost 16, had been diagnosed with a mast cell tumor on her hind leg 4 months previous, and even though I knew her time was drawing near, I was still not fully prepared to say goodbye.

Personally, I'm a firm believer in the power of animals who share their lives with us, both as mentors and as individual souls. In the case of Kaya, we crossed paths when I had decided to no longer have a dog in my life. My previous dog's passing was premature and very unexpected (heart attack while she slept) and so I swore off having a dog again. However, missing the actual interaction and calming abilities that dogs tend to have, I opted instead to become a volunteer dog walker for a local humane society. I did this for over a year before meeting Kaya there one late afternoon; a beautiful golden-coloured Australian cattle dog / dingo mix. When I spotted her in her cage and approached, the only thing I can say to come close to describing the encounter was that it was 'surreal'. She came to the front of the cage, our eyes met, and I was suddenly overwhelmed with an enormous sense of recognition...as if this wonderful creature had been in my life in the past. Or rather, in a past lifetime...or lifetimes. She too seemed to recognize me, as her reaction was eager and excited. Then when I started taking her out on walks on those weekends at the shelter, I began to notice that she had a peculiar habit of constantly stopping and looking back at me as if to make sure I wasn't going to disappear. Yet when I observed her with other volunteers, she did no such thing; instead she simply surged ahead, pulling at the end of the leash to explore every bush and shrub.

She was adopted out at least twice - that I know of - and subsequently returned each time within a few days. Kaya had several 'issues' that adopters did not want to deal with, including separation anxiety, food aggression, and dog aggression. And so each time she was returned and I'd see her again, she seemed just that much more sad...as though she was losing hope. She began to no longer greet people at the cage; instead just sitting at the back, looking forlorn. My heart broke for her, and I fervently hoped she would find someone who would give her a proper, loving home.

A few months later I learned that the shelter was overflowing with new dogs, and they had no more room to house them. The director began systematically inspecting the dogs that were up for adoption, unfortunately forced to create a list of potential euthanasia candidates, given the lack of space and number of dogs. One Sunday morning while I was there, the director was making the rounds, clipboard in hand, and I noticed that she had stopped in front of Kaya's cage. She read the card on the cage, noted the info on her clipboard, and continued on. At first I didn't realize what she was doing, but once I was home that afternoon it suddenly struck me...the director was creating another list of dogs to be euthanized, no longer deemed adoptable for one reason or another. In a panic I tried to call the shelter, but at that time of day no one answered phones, or the door...so I called my sister instead, in a panic, and told her that I needed to get out to the shelter the very first thing Monday morning before they opened. I couldn't let them do to Kaya what had already happened to so many other beautiful dogs. I had to do something. So on Monday morning we went to the shelter, and for a few heartpounding, terrifying moments I thought I was too late...when I went running back to the dog room, Kaya was no longer in her cage; it was now occupied by another dog. However, just as I went to exit the room at the other end of the building, something caught my eye...I turned, and there she was, sitting near the exit door in another cage. Needless to say I quickly went through the adoption procedure, and Kaya came home with me to live.

That was 15 years ago. She and I shared a great many happy moments together: wonderful walks through woods; at a lake; romps in a local field; and twice - even though she absolutely loved people - she managed to scare off would-be aggressors that I encountered with a fierce snarl and hackles raised. She was a silly dog; a wonderful mentor to my now younger pup, Izzy; a close friend and companion to my son; and she was the smartest dog I've ever met. So last March, when a lump on her hind leg was diagnosed as an aggressive mast cell tumor, non-operable, I was devastated. Yet Kaya continued to defy the odds; when the tumor first flared up with horrific severity, the vet was convinced she would not leave the hospital that weekend. But she did...not only walking out of there, but also managing to live on for another four joyful months, before pain finally superseded the medication.

The day Kaya was euthanized - Wednesday, July 11th - I felt as though a hole had been ripped into my heart. She was my best friend. My confidente. My soulmate. When time came for the drugs to be administered I adamantly insisted that the vet do everything she could to make it a painless transition, and she did. As I sat there and stroked Kaya's weary head, the vet injected an anesthetic that is normally used in surgery...within seconds Kaya's head drooped down, and she fell into a soft, silent sleep. And when the final drug was given she crossed over as gently as I could possibly have wished for. I was comforted by the fact that she did not suffer....yet losing her physical self from my life was unexplainably difficult. Despite having a young dog at home - full of life, a border collie just never stops - I felt lost. Completely, and utterly lost. My Kaya was gone.

A few nights after her passing, I awoke very early one morning after having a dream. It was more of a vision really, than a dream....there, in the field where I used to take Kaya and Izzy, I saw her. She was standing off in the distance, and someone was holding onto her leash - I don't know who - but she was staring at me, tail wagging furiously and that wonderful, unmistakable grin of hers plastered across her face. It was really just a momentary glimpse, but in that moment I saw that she was happy, she was okay...and she was telling me not to be sad that she was gone.

I have had this happen with other pets I've been close to in the past as well...with one rabbit, Raph (Raphael) who had become paralzyed at the age of two, he came to me in a vision just a few days after his passing as well...in it he was lying down but quickly got to his feet, literally 'dancing' with glee, to let me know that he was free of the confines of his battered little body, and that he was fine. And I think this is how the animals in my life do tend to communicate with me, in order to allow me to accept that their crossing was a good one, and that I should not mourn them. I still do miss their physical presence of course...and with Kaya, that will be a very long time in subsiding...but I do definitely believe that all of our pets, once they leave their physical bodies, are always, ALWAYS with us in spirit, whether we are aware of it or not.