My first family dog, Penny. Growing up, everyone would describe me as a stereotypical dog lover. In fact, for the first few years of my life, I pretended I was a dog because I wanted one so badly. I would often run around on all fours, barking at people.
After years of begging, my family walked into a pet store and walked out with a medium-sized terrier mix, and I couldn't be more excited. We named her Penny, and she quickly became somewhat like a third daughter to my parents. She would spend time with our family a lot and was constantly included in family photos. I remember Penny was so quirky. She had a short little body, was mostly all black, was scruffy, a little overweight, and would bark all the time. She put up with my younger sister and me dressing her up like a princess and running around with her on a leash outside. Her favorite thing to do was go for car rides with my Dad. She would sit on his lap in the driver's seat and periodically press her paws on the steering wheel to beep the horn. It was hilarious.
Penny was our very first family dog, and as such was very special to me and my family. She had seen many birthdays and years come and go. She got along with all of the many cats we adopted throughout the early 2000s, would play and cuddle with them. I think Gracie, the gray tabby, was her favorite by far.
Years went by, and like any dog, old age came faster than we all would have liked. Her health declined, and after many attempts at treatments, it was decided to let her cross over the rainbow bridge. I was devastated. I had never known loss or felt the definitive feeling of death before. I was in so much grief. I was inconsolable for hours the day that she passed. As a young child in elementary school, I had never experienced a great loss in my life until right now.
I think we all have that moment when we realize what death really means. This person or animal we loved so much with no conditions just disappears in a sense. They go somewhere we can't see, and that can really scare us.
One evening I was sitting at our kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal before bedtime. I was alone, the family was elsewhere in the house, likely upstairs getting ready for bed. Penny had just passed, and I didn't know how to handle all of the emotions I was feeling. My chair at the kitchen table sat facing the kitchen, with the hallway leading to the living room behind me. I remember looking at my cereal and just thinking, I'm too sad to eat. I couldn't stop the tears from freely flowing; my heart was truly broken. The concept of death and “heaven” was explained to me, but I didn't understand it. How could Penny be here one minute and then just poof, gone the next?
Staring into my cereal bowl with tears flowing, I suddenly felt a rush of love come over me. For a moment, I wasn't feeling devastated; I felt almost like someone was hugging me but no one was there. I thought to myself, “that's strange.” I stopped eating and just sat there, feeling this loving and supportive rush replacing my sadness. I heard a voice say, “turn around.” So, I did. I turned around to face the hallway behind me. The light from the kitchen was shining into the darkness of the hall. As soon as I turned around, Penny, my scruffy black dog, walked through the kitchen light in the hallway. It was so clear. The light did not go through Penny's body; it looked as if she was still alive and was just walking down the hallway.
I didn't know how to react, but the tears were no longer streaming, and I felt oddly calm compared to the previous heartbreaking moments. Even though I didn't understand what just happened, I did feel better. Penny was somehow still in the house with us even though she had died hours earlier. I sat there confused but also reassured. I asked this voice that first told me to turn around, “what was that?” It said, “that was Penny, and she is just fine, she is still around you but you can't see her.”
I left the kitchen table and told this to my parents. I could tell it gave them some comfort, and they explained to me that it was Penny, and it was a sign. That night, I didn't cry as hard. This feeling of love and support was still very present from my strange encounter that evening at the kitchen table. Maybe death I couldn't understand, but I did absolutely understand that there is something after death, I just didn't know exactly what. Our loved ones go to a different place; we just can't see them. “Is this magic?” I remember thinking.
We kept Penny's collar, tags, and leashes for a very long time. But, I understood from that experience in my kitchen that Penny was all around me; we just couldn't see her. It eased my grief knowing she was still around, and I was very thankful for that amazing encounter.
She showed herself physically to me one last time as an act of healing my broken heart.
This life is physical, the next life is not.
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Much love!
Alexa,
