"Is There Something Wrong With Me?" "Should I Worry?"

There have been a few times in the last few weeks when I have asked myself if it was normal to be so content, given that I spend the majority of my hours amongst animals and not humans.

“Is something wrong with me?” is usually how it shows up.
Sometimes followed by “Should I worry?”

And you see, this is exactly WHY I am so content spending all this time around animals: they don’t ever freaking wonder if something is wrong with feeling good.

I promise you that when my cat is lounging under a banana tree, her eyes closed, her belly to the sun, and a light kitty smile on her cute face, she is NOT wondering if something is wrong with her.

When my dogs romp around the beach, taking turns jumping on top of each other at the edge of the waves, they are NOT wondering if maybe they should tone it down and not be so darn happy.

This kooky mind stuff is purely human. Some kind of weird thing we do, and frankly, it’s exhausting.

And so, my theory is that by spending a lot of time around these clearly more highly evolved beings, I catch a bit of their effortless wisdom. They are my teachers and their medicine is one I need. Hence, my choice to hang out with them so much.

Seems simple enough when I put it this way.

This also sheds light on part of the reason why losing them devastates us so deeply. SO deeply.

I have grieved the death of some of my animals in a way that has astounded me. For three years after Roxy died, I could not say her name without crying. Three years. Of course, because I have a kooky human mind, I did wonder, “Is something wrong with me?” Followed by “Should I worry?”

And this brings me to Luna.

Ahh... Luna.

Luna is not mine, she never was, and frankly, our relationship was not an easy one.
At this point in the story, I would like you to quickly hop over here and read a bit about Luna so that you get the full experience of what’s coming.

This is part of what I wrote a couple of years ago about this scruffy little being:
"Meditation or not, I let him know that if his dog attacked mine just one more time, I would ________ and then I draw a blank because even though I remember finishing the sentence, I don't remember the exact words I chose. I know there was something about keeping her on a f**** leash."

Over the last two years, I have walked past Luna’s new home many times. When I do, I send her some silent love. And I remember her dad, who had gone back to the States shortly after. They are part of the multi-colored, ever-growing tapestry of my life down here.

Last night, Lila, Marley, and I went to the beach at sunset. I had had a bit of the flu and hadn’t had the energy to make it to the ocean for a few days, so walking down the little rocky path and smelling the salty air felt extra special, healing.

When we reached the sand, I could see someone hunched over Luna’s grave, carefully arranging a crown of fushia colored bougainvillea in front of it.

This got my attention. Who, in the village, was so close to her that more than two years later they would bring her flowers?

I got a little closer, and the man turned around.

Luna’s dad. His face drenched in tears.

His grief hit me like a hot flame. No longer so raw, it seemed to have morphed into something deeper, something that had moved into him and was likely there to stay. Something familiar and yet, I knew, fully his.

He noticed Marley and asked me about her, and about when she had become part of our family. I asked about him, and he told me that he had gifted himself a week down here in the village so he could be close to Luna for a bit. There weren’t many more words to exchange because none of this lives in the realm of words. Kinda like our relationships with our animals.

When we walked away, he continued arranging the flowers, and then from far away, I saw him lying down in the sand next to his Luna.

There is something about having the honor of sharing our lives with animals that allows us to access both a profound level of contentment and a purity of connection that can devastate us when it ends.

Really, I have to believe that neither of these is a sign that “something is wrong with us.”

Quite the contrary.