Here is the story of my childhood dog, Sunny, a chapter from the book "Tails From Beyond" - a story of afterlife contacts of our pets by Dr. Ann Redding. This is part of why Dusty was so very special. I also take comfort in knowing that somehow, somewhere, I will see him again.
SUNNY
"The bonds of love between ourselves and our pets live on as we journey to the other side. Love bonds, no matter with whom, always continue."—James Van Praagh
When my parents finally yielded to my persistent begging for a dog, I was 10 years old. They had deemed me old enough and sufficiently responsible to take care of a pet.
My dream was to own a purebred Corgi. Since that was beyond our financial means, we decided to check out the pound. As destiny would have it, there was a Corgi-mix up for adoption. He was the cutest thing I had ever seen. The young dog had been found wandering on the side of a road. Needless to say, we adopted him. I named him “Sunny” because of his happy disposition.
At last I had my dog. I remember sitting in the hallway petting him and thinking, “This relationship and bond of love is forever!”
That was 40 years ago. And although I have had other dogs since then, Sunny was the most significant dog of my life. That’s primarily because we went through so much together: my childhood, the early and tragic death of my father, my marriage, the birth of my daughter and, sadly, my divorce.
During my difficult marriage and divorce, I thought it would be best for Sunny to go and live with my mother. It just so happened at that time my mother needed comfort and companionship, adjusting to my father’s death. When things finally settled down—and I had a job and could support my daughter—I sent for Sunny.
I’ll never forget that crucial discussion with my mother over the move. At first, my mother said, “I really would hate for you to move Sunny. He’s older now . . .it’s going to be hard for him to adjust to a new home.” Then when I persisted in taking him to live with me, my mother finally confessed, “I need him.”
Well, that ended the conversation. Sunny continued living with my mother in the home where we both grew up.
Time glided on, and Sunny reached 16. He seemed to be in good health, but was slowing down. Then one day, I received an upsetting phone call from my mother: Sunny had stopped eating and drinking. All he wanted to do was lay in his favorite spot, even though he could still walk. My mom took him to the vet, who assured her Sunny was not suffering—but that he was ready to go. It was just a matter of time.
When I went to visit him, despite his weakened state, his eyes still lit up and that long tail of his slowly thumped on the ground. Though somewhat feebly, he growled and grumbled, as he always did to greet me. I stayed with him all that day and through the night, with him sleeping in the crook of my arm. It was like the old days, when I was growing up. The next morning, after a tearful hug, I left to return home. It was the last time I would ever see my lifelong friend alive.
After-Life Contact
The next night after leaving Sunny, a rather persistent knock at my front door awakened me. It was around 2:15 am. “Who could be knocking on my door at this hour?” I wondered. For some reason, I had a sense that an old man was outside demanding to be let in. Without hesitation, I ran to open the door. No one was there. “What on earth is going on?” I thought.
Then the unmistakable sense of someone inside my house overpowered me. “Wait a minute . . . the old man is inside my house!”
Quite agitated, I looked everywhere, going through all the closets, checking behind the shower curtain, and even looking up at the ceilings! No one was there. Finally I went back to bed, but found it difficult to sleep. I could still sense a presence in my house.
At 5 am, my phone rang. It was my mother, in tears. She told me that a few hours earlier, Sunny had died peacefully in his sleep. I quickly realized the presence I had been feeling previously was none other than Sunny. Apparently, “Old Man” Sunny had visited me one last time before crossing the Rainbow Bridge. It was this precious understanding that helped me cope with losing my first dog.
But that was not the end of his visits. Years later, I finally felt ready to get another dog, even though Sunny still lingered in my mind. Eventually I found my new pup, a Sheltie whom I named "Dusty". I brought him home, wondering if I would love him as much as Sunny. About one month later, Sunny came and visited me in a powerful dream.
In my dream, I went back home to visit my mother. Now in real life, she is still here with us, but in the dream she appeared much younger. My mother was wearing her hair long again, swept up in a bun—just like she did when I was growing up. Glowing with happiness, my mother told me she had a big surprise for me. Entering my bedroom, I noticed it was decorated like it was during my childhood.
Now for the big finale! Running down the hallway—barking, grumbling and talking as he always did—came my beloved Sunny. “Sunny!” I yelled, as he leaped into my arms. I could feel his weight when he jumped and smell him again. The best thing of all was touching him again, feeling his rough fur. My joy was so profound, I moaned loudly and woke myself up.
The dream with Sunny was so real . . . he had to have been there with me. Afterward, I recall feeling sad because now that I was awake, Sunny was gone. But I was reassured he had contacted me when I looked down. There, nestled in the crook of my arm (the very spot where Sunny used to sleep) lay my new puppy. Leave it to my dog on “the other side” to erase any doubts about my new dog on this side.
Through the subsequent years, there have been plenty of times when Dusty would do something exactly like Sunny. I usually smiled whenever that happened, knowing Sunny was checking in to say “hello.”
I'll close with this song that dear friend Glenda used to dedicate to her beloved dog Bailey when he passed recently. The words are perfect. As with Sunny and Dusty, I've Loved You For A Thousand Years, I'll Love You For A Thousand More.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OHkvan-NFnMUntil we meet again, rest well, my love.
