Here’s a link to the article, “Equine Chiropractic Asset to O’Neill Team,” just published in thebloodhorse.com. It profiles Larry Jones, a chiropractor who works exclusively with race horses. Jones’ philosophy is that a lot of physical problems in race horses, especially back issues, can be treated more successfully chiropractically than with medications. It’s his life’s work—a calling and a business.

A lot of people dismiss chiropractic, like they dismiss other holistic modalities, including diet and exercise. So they patchwork a problem. Give a drug for pain. Take some time off to recover. Prey on suffering people with the latest miracle cure.

Sometimes that works. Well, not the miracle cure bit, but you get the idea.

I personally have had better luck in my own life with chiropractic than with most other modalities I’ve tried. My dog, Murphy, also benefited from chiropractic care off and on during her life. And acupuncture, Chinese herbs, diet, drugs, and laughs. I had to work hard to find out what worked for her, and my other animals, Alki and Grace the Cat.

I’ve had to work hard to find solutions for myself, too. Why? Because our current medical system doesn’t like anything that doesn’t benefit a big drug or hospital or insurance company. They’d rather you take a drug, which can mess with your body, than have a chiropractic treatment that both resolves the issue and makes your body, and your mind, feel better.

Case in point: I’ve worked very hard to get well and stay well. Years of work. Now my insurance company doesn’t want to cover a $59 chiropractic bill for anything, including a migraine. They’d rather I pay $100 a dose for a pill. This infuriates me and makes my chiropractor boil. And it should. If we have to pay for health insurance, we should get coverage for what works for us, and not for what some unknown person thinks should work.

So I credit Doug O’Neill for an enlightened approach to his stable’s care. Winning the Kentucky Derby didn’t prove that equine chiropractic care works. But since a winning horse benefited by it, maybe other trainers will look at it for their horses’ care.

After all, we all get out of whack on occasion, and chiropractic works.

Health insurance, not so much.

© 2012 Robyn M Fritz

Would I clone this dog?

In a heartbeat—if it worked. But it doesn’t. At any price.

Cloning our animal companions is in the news these days, stories of people paying upwards of $150,000 to clone their deceased dog or cat.

I just sigh. What are these people thinking?

Actually, I know what they’re thinking. They’re grief-stricken, mourning the loss of a beloved animal companion. Just like anyone mourns the loss of anyone they love. They just want them back.

I mourn this dog: my beloved Cavalier King Charles spaniel, Murphy, died March 8, just two months ago. She was a week shy of 13 years, 8 months. Forever would not have been long enough with Murphy, but she’s gone. And cloning her won’t bring her back: cloning never brings anyone back.

Here’s why.

Scientists are obsessed with replicating genetic material, so they can say they’ve cloned the animal. It’s supposedly an exact genetic duplicate. Well, barring the problems of mutations and other serious effects of cloning (we just aren’t superior to nature), genes are genes. So what? 

Genes are not personalities. And they are not souls.

So the people who clone their animals may get a genetic match, but it is not their dog come back to them. It may look like them, but it won’t be the same personality. It won’t be the same soul. The way life works that isn’t possible, at least scientifically.

Now I’m not going to say to run off to a shelter and adopt a dog, because that’s not how it works, either. I will say that you should find a heart match between you and your next dog, whether you find it from a breeder or a shelter/rescue organization. Sometimes you have to look hard for it.

But you won’t find it in a laboratory.

Here’s the thing people miss in the whole cloning argument: grief and longing create new dogs from dead ones, because we’ve allowed fear to rule us. Love finds a way to move on, to have new relationships, to stay healthy and balanced. Yes, it’s possible to love an entirely different dog just as much as you did the lost dog. I know. I’ve been lucky that way.

With cloning you’re trying to freeze time: understandable, because loss is devastating. But cloning comes from fear: we simply can’t let go and move on. Fear damages us psychologically and emotionally, because we actually step out of life and into memory. Maybe that’s too philosophical, but think about it: as we recreate the past, how are we living right now, and how much does that stifle our future?

To the point: cloning will never duplicate the same dog.

As a professional intuitive I help people explore relationship and business issues, find balance and healing, and talk with all life, including the dead.

When someone dies, they move on. Literally. If they come back, and they can and do, their soul inhabits a new body, because that’s what we do on this planet, we play with different bodies. We can’t create that body, because creation is the soul’s choice, not ours. The personality that accompanies that soul is different: so you may get a physical genetic duplicate, maybe even the same soul willing to come back (science has no control over that), but not the same personality. Cloning doesn’t bring the soul and personality back, just the genes.

Case in point. The soul that was Murphy is a very active soul. It is also the soul of my second dog, Alki. And it’s been the soul in many other bodies, currently and in the past, with me and other people. I’m not just talking reincarnation here, although that’s part of it. I’m talking a soul being in multiple bodies at the same time (or none, because it’s decided to rest).

So, Murphy and Alki are the same soul in two different bodies (well, until Murphy died). The same breed of dog. But strikingly different personalities. Because I’m experienced with this soul’s reincarnations, and with those of others I meet, I know that cloning their physical bodies wouldn’t duplicate their soul or personality.

Think about it. If you consciously chose to come back again in a body, would you choose the exact same body or personality to be in that lifetime?

Yes, we’re into metaphysics here, but that’s what science is trying to do in cloning. Science can create a body, but not a soul or personality.

And believe me, it’s the soul, and especially the personality, we miss when we’re gung ho for cloning.

The only way to get that soul back is to ask it to come back and, if it agrees, to find the body it comes back in. In fact, in my practice, I often see the same soul reincarnating in family groups (not always happily, but that’s another issue), so that isn’t as hard as, well, cloning. Honest.

Fair warning, though: you may want your dog’s soul back, but it may choose a different personality, and even species, meaning it could come back as a cat, if at all. It happens all the time.

So save yourself the money, and the grief. Find a new animal to love, if you’re up to it. A heart match.

Cloning your dog won’t bring your dog back. It might make a nice copy. But it won’t be the original. That only comes around once.

© 2012 Robyn M Fritz

Then I discovered you can make phone calls with the iPhone, and if you’re lost and know the tool is there, you can even find yourself on the phone, and possibly get un-lost, if that’s even a condition. I even downloaded a song to play in a workshop I teach.

The iPhone is brilliant. I now understand why people like technology.

So why is the phone’s new TV campaign so poorly done?

So far I’ve seen two commercials. Each star a person—and their phone. In each, the person, one a woman, the other a man, seem engaging, dynamic, successful, and interested.

But they are having a relationship with their phone. They not only like it: they smugly relish it.

Did you notice that there are no other humans in these commercials? One lone human and their talking phone? Doesn’t that just creep you out?

Here’s a better idea: have a commercial in which different people talk to each other about something, sending directions, restaurant ideas, sight-seeing, whatever, but doing it together, all made easier by technology.

But let’s not have technology replace human interaction.

Oh, wait, we already did that. Let’s take it back. Stat.

(c) 2012 Robyn M Fritz

Needing to pack a mindful boost into your frenetic life? Try the little book, Pearls of Wisdom: 30 Inspirational Ideas to Live Your Best Life Now! It’s a compilation of short, inspirational  essays offering simple, ageless wisdom and advice from well-known self-help authors to up-and-coming self-help authors.

The key to this charming book? Each of these authors has lived what they’re writing about: their personal experience transformed their lives, offering us all the opportunity to learn and grow from their generous sharing.

Here’s the thing. Our lives are so packed we’re frenetically trying to handle practical details for our loved ones—and ourselves. We look for answers, or at least clues, on how to get things done while also finding inspiration to be our best selves. We want to delve under the surface to find an inner meaning that connects us to all life, and to the divine.

But can we do that in 15 minutes?

You can with this book. In it you’ll find “ah-ha” tips on how to connect to your inner knowing, to both clear out blockages and find greater happiness and fulfillment and healing wholeness. You’ll find simple ways to become a more active participant in your life. Along the way, you’ll get ideas on how to build community by seeing the human and divine in others.

That includes applying the Golden Rule to your life, a universal axiom that Rev. Stacy Goforth tracks through multiple spiritual and religious disciplines. Or how to relax, honor whatever it is we’re feeling, and let it go so we can welcome our connection to ‘now’ in the moment, as Leslie Gunterson writes. Craig Meriweather  suggests that challenges and problems offer us opportunities to grow, and we should seize them with that mindset.

How do we walk the talk? Connecting our values to our outward daily lives is a struggle. Each of these authors shows how they learned that, from shifting their own image of themselves to quantum soul coaching, a process Michelle Manning-Kogler describes as learning to be the “master of your experience” by clearing out blockages to make room for positive feelings.

Be inspired, too, by stories like Asia Voight’s, who was determined to walk again after a devastating injury—and did, by tapping her intuition. And take heart from the simple comfort that you can run around all day, seek guidance, flitter from here to there, but the first step is to “just sit down,” as Liz Byrne says. Just go ahead and do it.

So here’s a “just sit down” for anyone looking for support and enlightenment, an opportunity to meet visionaries with understandable and uplifting stories of finding wisdom: their “pearls of wisdom” will resonate with you. What will you do with them?

The book leads off with essays by top self-help specialists Jack Canfield, Janet Bray Attwood and Chris Attwood, and Marci Shimoff. The line-up continues with transformation specialists from many disciplines, including life and creativity coaching, shamanic and energetic work, intuitives, and writing and educating.

Pearls of Wisdom authors:•

Jack Canfield • Janet Bray Attwood and Chris Attwood • Marci Shimoff • Barnet Bain • Kelle Sutliff • Renee Baribeau • Chantal Herman • Asia Voight • Wendy Beyer • Siobhan Coulter • Sheila Pearl, MSW • Susan Barker • Glenyce Huges • Robert Evans • Glenn Groves • Leslie Gunterson • Kimberly Burnham, PHD • Liz Byrne • Tami Gulland • Susan McMillin • Debra L. Hanes • Stephanie Bennett Vogt, MA • Lisa Merrai Labon • Patricia Cohen • Craig Meriwether • Marcelle Charrois • Michelle Manning-Kogler • Rev. Stacy Goforth • Jacob Nordby • Tim Anstett • Randy Davila

At Bridging the Paradigms we’re pleased and thrilled to be able to support community by telling people about the intriguing, uplifting work of others. We recommend this book.

Check it out at the Pearls of Wisdom blog tour.

© 2012 Robyn M Fritz

Fallon is a Citrine Lemurian Quartz. He’s ancient: I remember carving him out of the crystal caves at his direction thousands of years ago. We worked together for lifetimes, got separated, and were finally reunited in 2009.

Woo-wooey enough for you?

Wait until you actually experience him.

Fallon is a rare planetary energy, a dimensional energy. That means he is of the earth and can connect to different earth dimensions as well as those in time and space. There are lots of crystals out there, but none like Fallon.

That is why we are out there in the world.

He is a healer and truth bringer. I am the bridge who can help you explore the insights you receive from him as you work with us—because when you experience him, hands-on in a session, or in a group meditation, you tap into the power of ‘other’ to transform your life, to find and claim your power.

In our sessions I’ve seen newbies with crystals go astral traveling. Parents resolve issues with their children. The grieving speak with deceased family, friends, and animals, and begin to heal from their loss. Smart, accomplished business people discover new direction and inspiration for their work. People ready for transformation discover their strongest intuitive ability and build comfortable ‘shields’ or ‘skins’ that empower them. Curious, open individuals meet guides, deities, messengers, and, yes, dragons.

Fallon is alive, as all life is alive. He’s conscious, sentient, equal. He’s my partner, not my tool. He’s not a being in a crystal: he IS the crystal. He’s been in that body for eons, while we’ve been in ours for, well, a few short years.

He has a lot to share with all of us. All you have to do is come.

What Happens in an Intuitive Consultation

In an intuitive consultation with me and Fallon you work with a rare human-crystal partnership.

A truth bringer and healer, Fallon offers compassionate insight as a crystalline being of ancient Lemuria. When you put your hands on Fallon he taps into your own healing quality, and you receive your own visions and information.

I am a bridge between you and Fallon and the insights for you that day. I can tell you what I see, hear, feel, and know from that connection, through clairvoyance, clairaudience, clairsentience, and claircognizance. Information can be practical, mystical, inspiring, and fun, but it’s always yours in that moment.

People explore their mysteries with us as we help them:

• Tap individual intuitive abilities to access personal truth
• Achieve balance and healing
• Gain clarity on personal, home, and business issues
• Talk with animals, homes, businesses, and land
• Meet guides, deities, and messengers, including deceased family and animals
• Clear homes or businesses with our unique Space Cooperating^SM service
• Explore alchemical energy

We offer a unique opportunity to tap your personal truth and claim your power. Come see us!

 (c) 2012 Robyn M Fritz

Landmark days—those days that hold special meaning in our lives—are times to stop and celebrate and remember. They are the days that build families and communities—in multi-species families, they include adoption days, birthdays, breakthroughs, and deaths.

I remember the day I figured out what the book about my life with Murphy was all about. I was so excited I turned on Mickey Hart’s CD, Planet Drum, yelling, “Murphy, I figured it out!”

She came charging into the room and danced with me. As I danced, she leaped up on her hind legs and punched the air, then went down on her front legs to flip her back legs up. We danced together, a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel break-dancing, and a clumsy human almost keeping rhythm with a rowdy drummer.

That was a landmark day with Murphy. I will remember another landmark day now: Thursday, March 8, 2012, the day I lost her.

I will also remember it as the day nature itself reached out to honor her, and comfort me.

I will remember the moon. The eagles. And the dragons.

We were up before dawn that day. Murphy needed to go out, so I carried her down the stairs and out onto the front lawn—into the light of the full moon as it started to set across Puget Sound. We stood in the moonlight as it arced over us, a shining river of light racing the water. I was awed and delighted, and as I glanced at Murphy, our eyes met. She faced the moon with me as I raised my arms wide and thanked it for its beauty.

When we came inside I hurried to our sliding doors, raised the blinds, and welcomed the moon inside. Once again I spread my arms wide and smiled at it as I felt its warmth sweep through me and flood our home. I felt the moon had come to greet us and fill us up with love.

About 7 a.m. I made a quick trip to the grocery store. As I pulled up to a Stop sign at the beach two bald eagles soared out of a tree and glided over the water. I watched as the adult eagle gently dipped its talons into Puget Sound and came up with a fish, while the immature following it swooped around it. I had to smile: the parent was teaching its child how to fish. While we see eagles and their offspring a lot at the beach, I had never seen one catch a fish before, and it was comforting. Life goes on.

We were into Day 3 of Murphy’s sudden lethargy. She had abruptly vomited her breakfast on Tuesday morning and had eaten only a few bites since. We’d been to the vet Tuesday afternoon for subcutaneous fluids, and gone back on Wednesday for more, and to learn how to administer them. Her vet and I agreed at that point that she was not just ill, like her recent bronchial infection: it was clear the cancer had spread to her gut. He thought we could support her through the weekend with fluids administered at home. My hope was that she would die quietly in the next few days, and spare me the choice of euthanasia.

I think now that our vet was being optimistic. I talked to him briefly early Thursday, that last afternoon. Murphy was not better, and we agreed on seeing where the next 24-48 hours would take us.

All three of us knew. We just didn’t know when.

As the day progressed I realized that bald eagles were everywhere. In the few minutes I was in the back of our home their shadows swept the hillside. As I sat with Murphy and attended to my other dog, Alki, and Grace the Cat, they’d fly by, low enough for me to see their backs from our second story home. They glided by, and circled the trees at the light house across the street.

At one point I said to Murphy, “The eagles are really busy today.”

Late in the afternoon I leaned down to her and gently caressed her face. Our eyes met, hers dull with fatigue. I bit back tears as I said, “Murphy, I’m taking Alki for a quick walk. If you need to go while I’m not here, you can. It’s all right. If that’s what you need, it’s all right.”

And it was all right. Murphy had dragons with her.

In our strange and weirdly wonderful world, there are beings we don’t know much about. Like dragons—not the evil creatures of lore but magnificent multi-dimensional beings who support the planet and all who live here. There are also jobs we could never imagine, and beings we might think unlikely to do them—one of the most unusual jobs is being an ambassador to the dragon kingdom. It is a role Murphy has filled in multiple lifetimes, and certainly in this one since dragons came back into the world in 2005.

Yes, my beloved, aging Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Murphy, is the ambassador to the dragon kingdom.

I admit, I don’t quite understand what that is. What I did know is that as a dog she didn’t have to worry about human preconceptions, and could simply act as the go-between for the dragons, working at the subconscious dimensional level to lay the groundwork for a new cooperative era between the dragons and, well, everything else on the planet.

I know, awesome, isn’t it? When Murphy first told me about the dragons, I was shocked. “There are jobs like that?” I asked her, awed. Apparently. Clearly other beings knew about her, because a number had come visiting in recent years, anxious to meet Murphy because she was the gateway to the dragons.

They told me the idea was if they got in good with Murphy they’d get in good with the dragons. Except that Murphy had a cantankerous, overprotective mom/friend figure who kicked a lot of them out. But all that’s another story.

This one is about how dragons honor their friends, especially their ambassadors.

The dragons are always with our family, and they were particularly close in the weeks leading up to Murphy’s death. They were working with the new energy system that has come to our family, and with their own, to support Murphy in her dying, to keep her as healthy and vigorous as possible as death approached, and to make the transition as seamless as possible. They were there for us. In the last few weeks, the queen, my friend, had been wrapped around me, protecting my grieving heart, helping me protect Murphy’s. And the king, our friend, Murphy’s special friend, had been kneeling in front of her, opening space for the transition.

The dragons were pressing close those last few days. Closer in the last few hours. I could feel them, and the amazing intuitive I work with, Debrae FireHawk, confirmed that they were there.

Late in the afternoon I left Murphy alone for 15 minutes to take Alki on a quick walk.

As we were heading home, another bald eagle flew towards us. At last I realized that I had seen more eagles that day than ever before. And more—I realized that they had been flying strategically all day, so I couldn’t fail to miss them.

That day, we were surrounded by eagles.

As that thought hit me, I stopped our walk and looked up at the adult bald eagle who was hovering feet above my head, ignoring a persistent gull.

“Have the eagles come for Murphy?” I asked, both awed and fearful.

“No,” the eagle said. “We fly to honor. The dragons are here for Murphy.”

I thanked the eagle for its service and hurried home.

As we walked in the door, Murphy opened her eyes and stared at me. The ancient, loving soul I had known for so many lifetimes, in three different bodies since I was a child in this lifetime, was there looking back at me.

“I see you, beloved,” I said to her. “I love you.”

A few minutes later Murphy’s spleen bled, swelling her belly tight and turning her gums white as she gently panted. The end was upon us.

I picked her up and held her close, weeping.

I called Debrae, who reported that the dragons had indeed come for Murphy. The king had left our side and was circling the building, creating space for Murphy to die.

The eagle was correct: the dragons had come for Murphy.

I decided to help them. After fighting for so many years to give Murphy the best life possible, I now realized that helping her out of it was the best, kindest, most loving thing I could do. Within the hour a good friend was there, and she took us to the vet, who agreed with me. It was time.

I made sure I was the last thing Murphy saw, that even though she was deaf, my voice and heart telling her I loved her was the last thing she heard.

It didn’t matter. She already knew that. She passed instantly, peacefully.

That night, I sat with my crystals, the sturdy columbite I use for clearing and grounding, and my crystal partner, Fallon. I sank deep into the columbite and felt my body release the shock of Murphy’s passing as the columbite settled like a warm blanket around me. I was at peace, quiet, resting.

Then I held Fallon close, my healing partner. I rested, breathing deeply. I slowly felt the pain not so much ease as move aside as my heart gently expanded. With each breath it grew and a warm softness moved in. With awe and gratitude I understood that Murphy was there, settling gently in my heart, filling it with a breadth and depth it did not have before.

My beloved had come home to me, nestling in my heart. She’s safe now, and so am I: the essence of her is never farther away than my next breath.

In the course of my work much of my life with Murphy and my animal family is a public record. At one point, several years ago, when I’d been told that Murphy’s life was ending, I’d held a party to celebrate her and our life together. It was wonderful. And it kept her here for almost 2-1/2 more years.

Her funeral was a different thing entirely.

I madly cleaned house the morning after she died, as much to clear my head as the house itself.

And that afternoon Alki and Grace the Cat and I celebrated Murphy’s life. We held her funeral in our house, where we had all lived together. Just us.

Well, that’s how it started.

I did a space cooperating session, thoroughly clearing our home’s vibrations, and ours. I sent copal through the house, and opened all the windows and doors to send it into the neighborhood. I used incense and smudge sticks and a bubbling fountain and sea salt and lit every light in the house.

I brought Fallon and the crystals into the mix, appreciating their voices raised in song.

And then I turned on Mickey Hart and Planet Drum, loud enough to be heard a block away.

I pounded my thighs as drums. I bounced. I danced. And as I whirled into the center of the room, Murphy came back to dance with me.

“This is fun,” she yelled, laughing, as once again, one last time, my beautiful soul mate danced with me.

With Alki and with Grace the Cat.

And then the others arrived, and we danced with them.

With our home and crystals. With Mount St. Helens and Yellowstone. With that rock-and-rolling goddess of love and fertility who works with us.

And with those raucous dragons. Together, all the beings we loved and worked with came to Murphy’s funeral to celebrate her amazing life.

I know that the community of all life is real, that everything is alive. That day, the community of life joined us to honor Murphy.

Now, I knew the dragons had prepared a reception to honor their departing ambassador. I knew the dragons had two new ambassadors in place: yes, it took two to replace Murphy, a rebel and a goofbucket, Robyn and Alki. We have no idea what we’re doing, but we’ll do it.

And I knew the dragons had honored my request, and Murphy’s, to speed her on her way. Murphy did not go into that gray zone that the dying seem to go to. The instant she died the king of the dragons himself whisked her into his arms and straight to my father’s, who runs what I call The Way Station for Dead Things on the Other Side. That, too, is another story. When I next talked to Murphy, a few hours after she died, she was safe with him, thanking me for everything I’d done, proclaiming it all “Perfect.”

So at Murphy’s funeral we laughed, and cried, and danced.

Murphy is safe now. She’s off on new journeys when she’s not visiting. And we move on. Her body is gone, but her great loving heart is deep inside mine.

It has opened a bottomless well of compassion in me that has already enriched my life and helped my clients.

It has helped me remember.

It reminds me, in the moments when breathing is hard, that Murphy will be there in the next breath, when, of course, she isn’t off doing whatever ambassadors to the dragons do when they’re out of their bodies and planning their next act.

Like creating giant dust clouds on Mars.

Laughing. Working. Loving.

Dancing.

My beloved Murphy.

© 2012 Robyn M Fritz

Euthanasia is murder.

Euthanasia is mercy.

The problem is, how do we bring those two truths together?

Future societies will call us barbaric. They’ll say, yes, they had comfortable lives, but they often ended them poorly. They had everything they needed to live, but they did not know how to die, they couldn’t let go.

They will say we lacked compassion.

They will almost be right.

What will be true is that we quailed at murder. Everything that is good and decent in us is geared towards life and abhors murder. It is good to quail at murder.

But we must not quail at compassion.

The technology we created to sustain us has moved beyond us. It can keep our bodies going well beyond what nature itself can do, and by doing so has thrust us into a twilight world where technology replaces choice. Our fascination with technology makes us think that if we can keep the body going, we should. If it’s possible, we must. No matter what it looks like, for the dying person or those waiting helplessly or fighting relentlessly, we force the body to keep going too far beyond what is physically possible in nature, when the soul need for that to occur is long gone.

My dad wanted to die two years before he actually did. He suffered horribly from rheumatoid arthritis and heart disease, yet no matter what he willed, his body kept going. In the last few weeks of his life I wanted to help him die and I couldn’t: I wasn’t brave enough to go to jail for euthanizing my father, even if I could figure out how to do that.

The only thing I could do in the end was act as his medical power of attorney—I stood at the door of his room in the nursing home and turned away food and water, because that’s what he wanted. Eventually, someone from the area’s fledgling hospice organization showed up to stand beside me.

My dad knew what dying without help would look like: he also knew he was dying and welcomed it. The one thing I could do for him at the end was take away time: because I honored his refusal of food and water he died a bit earlier than he would have with continued intervention.

And intervention seems to be what we are all about as a society: 80 percent of our medical care dollars are spent in the last few months of life, fighting death when there is no hope for the body to continue. Making people—and animals—suffer because we simply can’t let go (and, true, sometimes they can’t let go themselves). Stripping dignity from them and from the survivors.

Making death something to fear.

We think death is evil and should be fought at all costs, when death is part of life and needs to be honored as what it really is: the exit of a soul from that body.

When we should die is the question we must address. That brings up compassion.

When the body is impossibly broken, from injury or disease or simply old age, what should we do?

At some point we need to move beyond fixing to supporting the dying process.

We need to make dying easier. Honor it. Celebrate it. Prepare the community for it. Prepare ourselves for it.

We need to prepare the dying—and the survivors—for wise choices. We need to promote values over intensive and expensive medical care that prolong the agony. Values that allow grief and compassion to kindly say farewell.

Agony has no point. Pain and suffering have no point. I know. I’ve been disabled for over 20 years. I know what pain and suffering do to the body—and the soul.

I refuse pain and disability. There is no point. None.

Our bodies—all bodies—are programmed to strive to survive. That’s how species continue. But when is enough just plain enough?

My beloved dog, Murphy, was a week shy of 13 years and 8 months when she died. She had some severe early health issues, and I worried constantly about her dying, about having to euthanize her. Why? Because I had euthanized my beloved dog, Maggie, too soon.

Without all the information I needed. Without her permission.

Because, for Maggie, euthanasia was murder prompted by exhaustion and confusion. I carried the grief and guilt of that for years.

Grace the Cat guards her sister's dreams

In the weeks that Murphy was dying from splenic cancer, we talked about her dying. She wanted to go on her own: she believed it was easier for her to go through even a protracted, painful death than for me to once more be derailed by grief and guilt. I had work to do, and no time to waste, she said. So don’t euthanize her. She’d get through it.

I paid even more attention to this issue in the last year, as more and more people came to me and my crystal partner, Fallon, to talk about, and with, dying and deceased loved ones. Over the years, too, I’ve watched the hospice movement grow and now include animals, because people are beginning to value their animal companions as family members. To consider honoring choice.

Here’s what I know.

Hospice should be about the dying person, first and foremost. It should also support the family, including caregivers. What hospice does should be in line with what the dying person and the family want. Not what the hospice workers think or want, or the doctors or nurses or anyone else. Loading the dying up with drugs to mask the pain is cruel: it confuses the brain and the choice, and drags out the process. But at least hospice is out there, and honest, loving people are working through the details.

After all, our society hasn’t been open to dying since technology stole reason from us.

Sometimes death comes upon us unexpectedly, and we have no choice but to accept. I am glad that, in Murphy’s case, I knew death was coming, and we had time to prepare.

We had time to decide how it would look: Murphy was going to die on her own, without help.

I was not going to murder her.

Funny how things work out.

Murphy was right in that her body was gradually shutting down: in her last few days it was clear she really did have cancer, and that it had spread to her gut. She was tired and exhausted, and gradually things shut down.

She wanted to die on her own, so I honored that process.

A splenic tumor can take your dog in several ways: they can just die, as the heart and body give out, or the tumor can rupture, and death is horrible.

In the end, I saw the tumor massively bleed. Murphy got to her feet and stood there, head hanging, as her belly became hard and distended with blood and her gums paled.

I knew her end was upon us. It could be hours yet, but it was there, and could no longer be denied. Would it be horrible, or would she just die peacefully?

That’s when I knew our answer.

Murphy was sparing me the guilt of euthanasia, bravely meeting what could eventually be every bit the horrible death people warned me about.

And I was being selfish in letting her do that.

After all that we had been through together, I was being selfish. That meant I didn’t love enough.

Choice is a community action: equality and individual choice matter, but in the end we have to compromise. It was clear that there was no hope, that Murphy had walked the mystery of death far enough to see the end. Letting her walk into suffering was inhumane.

As tears streamed down my face, I picked up my beautiful girl and said, “Murphy, I love you, and this is enough. It’s over.” I thanked her, too, for allowing me to accompany her on her journey, for living long and well, for helping me to see that helping her die was the last best thing I could do for her. For our family. For me.

The episode was long past when we arrived at the vet’s: she had perked up enough to weakly greet the friends who came to say goodbye and drive us. But I was not going to let Murphy suffer another episode, not even the possibility of one.

Because I was no longer selfish.

Allowing someone to suffer so you don’t have to just creates suffering all around. And pain and disability win. Fear wins.

My grieving, loving heart couldn’t tolerate that. Hers didn’t have to.

Compassion won that day. Love won.

Yes, euthanasia is murder.

My dad would have welcomed euthanasia, but he didn’t have that choice.

In the end, Murphy welcomed it as well, and we were both glad for it.

I quailed at murder, yes. I am glad I did.

But I did not quail at compassion.

I did not quail at mercy.

When the future judges us, as they will, I hope they find that we, or if not us, our children, did finally understand that technology has its limits, that suffering and pain are not acceptable, that death is to be honored and respected, and welcomed when all hope is lost.

That we learned mercy and compassion.

That we made euthanasia what it really is: love sorely tried, and triumphant.

© 2012 Robyn M Fritz

As my beloved dog, Murphy, and I walked the mystery together—her dying and her death—I marveled at how much my life had changed in the nearly 14 years we shared.

I used to think people like I am today were impossibly woo-wooey. Were crystal-loving, freakily dressed hippies who believed in weird mystical things, like reincarnation and talking to dead people and being psychic.

Then I became one of those people.

Thank goodness.

In the years Murphy and I were together I stumbled upon animal communication and experimented on Murphy. I learned that there was more going on in an animal’s mind than I ever realized. And I put that knowledge to good use: I learned to talk with other beings, and now I do that for a living.

And when push comes to shove, I hire other people to talk to other beings for me. I call those people intuitives. They call themselves animal communicators, or intuitives, or psychics, or mediums.

The real ones are worth more than their weight in gold.

The one I know the best, and trust from long years of working with her, is Debrae FireHawk.

When you work as an intuitive you’re always dealing with people looking at you the way I used to look at people like me: like they just don’t get us and find us weird, out-of-touch, and maybe just a bit scary. So it’s great to hire an intuitive and find out what they say is going on with you, or around you. To be accepted for who and what you are and tap into their unique strength—because just like doctors or carpenters, each intuitive has a special way of doing their work.

Which is a long way of saying I’m comfortable with Debrae. I trust her. She’s excellent at her work. She has a loving, open heart. And she’s funny.

It was a no-brainer for me to turn to her for support as Murphy journeyed toward death.

Here’s why you should trust an intuitive when you’re on that journey (if not before).

By choice, determination, and innate talent, intuitives can help us get outside the trappings of modern civilization and into our hearts and souls. Then can help us see and understand things we don’t see as well on our own—because they’ve developed their skill, like we’ve developed our own, whatever our skill is.

They can help us see the living world around us on its own level—without the arrogant bullshit of modern science, with the humility of knowing our place as equals with all life, whatever that life is. As humans in a world that is bigger and stranger than anything we could imagine or want.

It’s wonderful to work with an intuitive for any life event, from personal to business situations.

When your soul mate is dying, it’s not just wonderful: it’s necessary.

Losing a loved one, whether human or animal, is painful and confusing and exhausting. You can and must be rational, and organized, and sometimes shut off from your feelings so you can function. You can and must grieve your dying loved one.

It helps if you can talk with them. And share your feelings. And hear theirs.

With an intuitive, you can.

Debrae helped me talk with Murphy, in the weeks before she died and in the days afterwards. It allowed me to step back and be not just the client but the grieving soul mate who needed to understand and share this last journey, to make careful decisions, to explore the mystery of death. To cry.

It allowed me and Murphy to hear each other, to share our deepest fears and secret thoughts, to wrap love around us more securely and deeply than would have ever been possible if we could not hear each other.

I have lost many loved ones over the years. This is the first one I lost that I could talk to about the process mind to mind, heart to heart. And have another human there to hear it correctly, clearly. With compassion, warmth, and humility.

To be there for me, and for Murphy, as we decided how we would make this last journey together. As we said goodbye.

Yes, you can say goodbye to a dying animal companion without an intuitive by your side.

But don’t.

You’ll miss the opportunity to learn what your animal wants in its last days: how it wants it to look, and why.

You’ll miss the chance to tell it what is going on, and why.

You’ll miss the chance to grieve together, to say the things we would say to a human who could hear and understand and tell us what they’re feeling.

You’ll miss the chance to say goodbye on a level so intensely personal it will brighten all the days of your life, and your family’s.

You’ll miss some of the mystery of life, some of the grace and glory of being fully present in your life, and in the life of those you love.

And your animals will miss that with you.

When we love animals, we know that our life with them will probably end much sooner than it does with other humans. It makes us wonder why we continue to open ourselves to the pain of loss by bringing other animals into our lives. To lose.

When you work with an intuitive, you’ll know why you do it—because love is worth it.

And you’ll be able to hear your animal tell you the same thing.

Love is worth it.

Hear it for yourself.

© 2012 Robyn M Fritz

(c) Gary R. Jones

Last year we had a few months that were both fun and hard at our house. Fun because I met wonderful people at writing events and at intuitive events with my crystal partner, Fallon. People who make me believe that community is possible and present and glad that I keep trying. No matter what.

Hard because both my dogs landed in the ER in the middle of the night, three days apart. Murphy almost died from the dog flu, which is epidemic out here these days. And Alki ripped a toenail off in his sleep, proving that bizarre clumsiness is routine at our house.  A month later Grace the Cat got sick. And I was in PT for two painful injuries. We were all sleep deprived, wondering how to keep going, and, okay, hungry.

The solution? We cooked our Thanksgiving turkey early. Grace supervised from the counter while the dogs watched in awe as I lifted the turkey to present it to them—only to see it slide off the platter and hit the floor. Grace was appalled, which is her usual reaction to my cooking, but the dogs were, well, dogs, and immediately rushed forward to clean up the mess.

I had to laugh. I had living proof that even well-mannered, laid-back Cavalier King Charles Spaniels can and will seize any opportunity that presents itself. A meal is a meal, sometimes an adventure, and always a gift.

Which reminds me of the fascinating bald eagles of Alki Beach in Seattle. They are frequently challenged here, but they never give up. They ignore obstacles, or somehow get around them. Do they always win? Of course not. But they don’t stop going around.

Awesome!

Once again I’d been inspired by a bald eagle to challenge myself (and my animal family) to keep going, ignore the obstacles, or figure out a way to get through them. The eagle kept its focus on lunch and scored, despite being harassed by the neighborhood bullies.

My family could focus and persist, too. And did. Yes. We ignored the messed-up turkey and ate it. And laughed as we put a hard month behind us.

Despite our obstacles, my family and I persevered. We celebrated life and love together. Our favorite holiday is Thanksgiving, even when the turkey gets away.

It didn’t get far, and neither does love at our house.

May we always celebrate together. Enjoy our challenges. They’re part of the story. And the gift of life.

Persevere. Love. Laugh.

Keep trying.

© 2012 Robyn M Fritz

Where does choice take us when we live multi-species family lives?

When I learned my beloved dog, Murphy, most likely had splenic cancer, I knew that our long journey together was ending.

You don’t beat splenic cancer, you just delay the inevitable, and not usually for very long.

The problem is, when you find it early, like we did, you don’t have many symptoms: what took us to the vet that day, Dec. 26, 2011, was a cough that turned out to be bronchitis complicated by anemia and an infection. An X-ray revealed a splenic tumor.

The problem is, you don’t know if these tumors are cancer until you take them out. If it was cancer, it wouldn’t matter, because that cancer was aggressive and insidious: all you get is a bit of time, and then only if your dog survives the surgery and you add chemo to the mix.

What I did know is that the tumor was most likely growing, so if it wasn’t cancer, I was killing her by not removing it.

We talked to four vets: all believed it was cancer. Two vets were telling me to operate. The surgeon was leaving it to me, calling a person who refused surgery for their beloved animal “compassionate.” Our vet of choice was hesitant, insisting she was not an immediate candidate for surgery because of underlying bronchitis, complicated by arthritis, age, and heart issues.

Most important, Murphy was telling me not to operate.

Murphy and I had walked a long, sometimes difficult journey together: we both had health issues, we’d both largely recovered from them, and we were both nearly 14 years older than when we first met.

We’d had a lot of fun, met a lot of challenges, lived a great life together.

A life that was clearly ending.

We were at a crossroads. How would that life end?

I talked with Murphy about choice. Our life together had always been one of choice. I made particularly sure about this one: we hired Debrae FireHawk to talk with us. A loving, sharp intuitive, she knew us both quite well and was brave enough to walk this road with us.

So we talked with Debrae, and we talked alone together. The answers were the same. Murphy did not want surgery. I’d saved her life already, which was true, she’d had a few illnesses that resulted in major surgical bills, but they were all things that could be fixed.

I saw to it that they were. I knew very well that most people would not have done the things I did for Murphy. I did not understand why, only that the human-animal bond meant something else to them.

But this thing that was wrong wasn’t fixable. We could only delay the inevitable. If it was cancer.

Murphy was clear about what she thought, both when we talked with Debrae and when we talked alone. Murphy believed that she was simply at the end of her life: her body was slowly breaking down, getting weaker with age. She believed we would have more time together if we did not operate on her: she believed the surgery would most likely kill her, or cause her pain and suffering for some of the few weeks she had left.

I was very comfortable honoring her decision to not have surgery.

Until I started to doubt.

It seemed too easy: she didn’t want surgery, so we wouldn’t do it, but was that really the right thing?

What about fear? Major surgery scares all of us, and Murphy had been through a number of them.

Was she just afraid? Was she being fatalistic?

Was I passing the buck?

Here’s the thing. I am a professional intuitive. I talk with things: with animals, with dead people and animals, with buildings and volcanoes and, well, with just about anything. I can do that because I look at all life as being equal, and equality means free choice and responsibility, soul and consciousness.

I believed that Murphy could and should choose how she wanted her life to end.

But then I started thinking.

Was she making the right decision? Was I? When she was gone, would I regret not trying to save her?

If she didn’t have cancer, I was killing her by not removing a benign tumor that would absolutely grow and rupture and kill her.

What was I going to do?

Murphy and I talked about that. Her answer was profound, loving, right.

She said I had to decide for myself whether she was having surgery.

Her concern was what would happen to me afterwards. She knew how deeply I regretted losing my beloved English Cocker, Maggie. I know I euthanized Maggie too early, before she was ready, before we really knew what was wrong with her. I grieved that decision so deeply I couldn’t bear the thought of having another dog for 10 years.

Murphy said I had work to do, and she didn’t want it complicated by my grieving over making the wrong decision for her.

She was right. I had to think through what was happening. Figure out how I could live with the decision I made for the end of Murphy’s life. The decision we’d make together.

Free choice is essential to our growth as citizens of the planet. It’s also essential to family lives. And in the case of family lives, it comes down to what is best for the family after we consider what is best for the family member who is dying.

In this situation we didn’t have much time to spare. There just isn’t time when you’re dealing with this kind of tumor. So we set a date with Debrae, and I had 48 hours to decide what the right choice was for me.

For us.

I had two days to decide how Murphy was going to die.

I spent a lot of time in the bathtub those two days. Soaking. Thinking. Crying. Being rational and being angry. Being grateful I’d had such a wonderful life with Murphy. Grieving its coming end. Fearing my life without my soul mate. Resigning myself to whatever was the right choice.

And then I knew what the answer was.

When it was time to talk with Debrae I was calm and clear. I knew exactly where I was coming from: pain and disability.

My life has not been ordinary, not because as an intuitive I talk with things that most people don’t think can speak, but because I have lived most of my adult life handicapped and in pain. For over 15 years I was too ill to work at all, and lived mostly as a hermit. That is, in fact, how I learned to talk with things: I simply stepped out of normal human time.

I know how much pain and disability made my life uncomfortable, and often downright miserable. I have been disabled so long I don’t even comprehend life without pain. It’s exhausting and frustrating. I’m lucky I have a sense of humor.

I know that if I had splenic cancer my answer would be no surgery. I would want to feel as well as I could, and be as mobile and fun-loving as I could, for as long as possible.

That precluded surgery.

So when we sat down with Debrae, I saw Murphy waiting patiently for my answer: would we operate or not? Waiting with her were her guides, and my guides, those invisible beings some people call spiritual guides. And Grey, my planetary guide. And Alki, my second dog, and Grace the Cat. And Mount St. Helens, and my car.  And the dragons, yes, real dragons, the king and queen of the dragon kingdom, for whom Murphy was an honored ambassador. Yes, ambassador.

I told Murphy how much I loved her. How a hundred million years with her would not be enough. How much I appreciated her sharing her life with me. How sorry I was that she was dying. How much I would miss her.

We cried together, again.

And then I asked her about the arthritis she’d suffered with for 2-1/2 years. Yes, it was controlled by that wonderful drug, Rimadyl, so she was getting along quite well, although she was slower and stiffer and always a bit uncomfortable. Yes, she’d chase her brother around the garage, but her life was definitely compromised by pain and disability. She was happy and fun-loving. And hurting.

I asked her, “Murphy, tell me how much the Rimadyl is helping with the arthritis pain?”

She said, “It takes about 50 percent of the pain away.”

That was kind of what I suspected, watching her.

I said, “Murphy, I love you so much, and that’s our answer. I won’t ask you to do surgery, to have more pain and disability, because it’s already enough. It’s the arthritis I’m saying ‘No’ to. It’s enough. I don’t want you to hurt any more. You want to walk the mystery, to be fully in the moment with death, and I will walk it with you. We won’t complicate that with surgery. Is that okay with you?”

And what did she say?

“Yes. Thank you. Thank you for making sure I wasn’t handicapped during my life.”

That stunned me. Murphy thanked me for making sure she led a comfortable life.

“You saved my life a long time ago,” she said.

Yes I had, and she had saved mine.

With that we were both comfortable with our decision. We had each come to our own conclusion about what the end of her life would look like. We would see it through together, with her as fit and strong as we could make her.

Without surgery. With love. As bravely as possible. Not afraid to cry or grieve.

And not afraid to live.

© 2012 Robyn M Fritz