When I first went back to work, a coworker visited me in my office. He spoke quietly, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one else was listening. “I’ve had brain surgery too,” he said. “It’s not something I talk about. People look at you differently, you know. Like there’s got to be something wrong with you because a doctor has operated on your brain.” I understood exactly what he was saying. I knew that I’d have to work hard to show them all that the surgery hadn’t diminished or changed me in how I did my job.
As far as the spiritual element of my healing journey with Leaf, this was even more difficult to share with others. Everyone has his or her own beliefs. I respect that and have no desire to convert anyone to my way of thinking. For me, it started at an early age. My spiritual experiences and profound dreams, which were as meaningful as anything that occurred while I was awake, helped me understand the richness of my inner life. I recorded them in journals and attempted to understand dreams not only as coming from my subconscious but as spiritual messages for me to contemplate. They prepared me to accept as real what had happened with me and Leaf.
Not so for everyone else. Many people assume that these types of experiences or prophetic dreams only happened to holy men and women of old. Could everyday people today be touched by grace too? My theory was that if you had a spiritual experience, you didn’t talk about it for a number of reasons. You wanted to avoid ridicule. You discounted what happened because you couldn’t prove or duplicate it. Or you believed that others would think you were crazy. Linda once mentioned to a very pragmatic friend of hers that Leaf had saved my life. The man immediately quipped, “So was the dog in the operating room with Allen?”
As a matter of fact, he was in the operating room. I felt his presence there as clearly and truly as if someone had carried his wiggly body in to lick my cheek before I went under the anesthesia. But how could I talk to others about this without sounding insane? Being an innately private person, I knew it would take courage for me to trust that if I gave a talk about my healings with Leaf, I could be laughed offstage. But wouldn’t speaking in public about the assistance of my dog help others who suffered from the blows and tragedies of life?
I finally had to come to terms with the fact that my mission, should I choose to accept it, would be to shine light in dark places. If I were to keep the commitment Linda and I had made to spend the rest of my life bringing more love into the world, I had to tell my own story with conviction and detachment. Whether anyone believed it or not or thought my brain surgery had made me lose touch with reality simply didn’t matter. Through my story of Leaf, I had to at least try to convey the depth of love and richness of healing that could occur when a person and an animal bond at a deeper level.
To talk openly about my spiritual experiences with Leaf, I realized that I must get more creative. I decided to work from a side door and not confront audiences head on. People liked to be entertained. They needed to be uplifted in subtle ways with lightness and laughter.
I’d often visualize one of Leaf’s funny expressions as I gave a talk. This made me feel more at ease and less dependent on other people’s approval and acceptance. I engaged audiences by encouraging people with pet family members to share their own experiences, regardless of how they may label it. But often love and devotion from their pet was the driving message for their story.
Over the coming months Rotary Clubs and other civic groups embraced my messages that loyalty and devotion can create a bond between a person and his or her dog that can go beyond the physical senses. My talks gave validation to those who believed they were learning about many aspects of life, including spirituality, from their pets.
A high point was speaking about my brain aneurysm at the Minneapolis Convention Center. The seminar manager had to leave the area for a few minutes during my talk. When she returned she asked one of the people backstage, “Why are people laughing about Allen’s imminent demise?”
I’d learned that if I expected people to go on my journey with me, it was an easier ride if I laced it with humor. My story about “the Memo” was always good for a laugh, especially from the women. This allowed the audience to relax and know I am a real person—as skeptical, vulnerable, and confused as anyone else. The audience, after seeing what a flawed human being I was, could trust me to speak with sincerity. When I got to the nearly tragic parts of the story, they were rooting for Leaf to deliver my ticket to the Building of Life.
About six months later Linda and I gave a presentation about my miraculous experience at a spiritual seminar in Connecticut. Afterward we met a man who told us he’d been part of the original team that developed the IVC filter, which had kept the blood clots from reaching my heart. “I never knew anyone who actually got one of those filters,” he said. I gave him a big hug and thanked him.
Linda and I long ago joined together as what we called a “golden team.” Now when I spoke to groups, I’d ask if they’d consider how each of them could form their own golden teams. How could they make the lives of others joyful and bring more love into a world that sorely needed it?
I’d watch the thoughtful expressions on many of their faces as they pondered this call to give of themselves, to reap the unfathomable gratification of finding something they loved to do in service to others.
Telling my story has been one way for me to increase love and respect for animals. Talking about Leaf is a wellspring of tremendous joy. My hero, guide, and dear friend shows everyone that animals are sparks of the Divine and messengers of love.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
How Far Have You Come?
WHILE I HAD BEEN WRITING SHORT STORIES ABOUT LEAF FOR OUR BOOKS and newsletters, I hadn’t written the entire story of our journey together during the significant period in my life when I had my health crisis and recovery. In preparation for writing a book about a dog named Leaf and how we helped each other heal, I tried to observe my canine companion as closely as possible. Invariably there were some things I missed. I learned this when I started collecting impressions and memories from dear friends who had been there for us through our ordeals.
Leaf’s groomer Patty had been an especially important witness to his positive changes over time. When he first went to Patty, he’d been scattered and confused. But Patty had assured us that Leaf now was friendly and easy to groom. How did this happen?
One day I asked Patty what her secrets were to taking a dog with Leaf’s issues and transforming him into a calm client. “I’ve been doing this work for over thirty years. You have to like dogs to do grooming. It is not something you get rich from. Leaf was a biter,” she told me matter-of-factly.
Struggling to get my bearings, I asked, “Did this happen on his first visit?”
“The first year was hell!” she said.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I felt like someone whose spouse tells him, after years of wedded bliss, that she has a criminal past. Was Patty actually talking about my Leaf? Did she have him mixed up with some other cocker spaniel? Sure, he had growled at strangers who tried to approach him, but he’d never bitten anyone. I’d attributed these early incidents to his insecurity of being left with people he didn’t know.
Patty went on. “If we saw that he was scheduled to come in the next day, our hearts sank. He was so afraid that he peed on everything. He peed all over himself, in his crate, on the table.”
Images of my dog trembling and urinating in pure terror made me sick to my stomach, but Patty had more she wanted to tell me. “Washing his front legs was a traumatic thing for Leaf. He did not want to be touched. I muzzled him for some things. His fear outweighed everything else. I didn’t want to keep a muzzle on him because I wanted him to get used to things, to gain trust. I wanted him to be nice, but in that first year, his fear always won out.”
How often had I been in a similar frame of mind as my distrustful dog during that same year when Leaf had been acting out? Again, my dog had been mirroring me, even though Patty hadn’t known about my brain aneurysm.
/> “Leaf was cage-shy,” Patty continued. “If I put him into a crate without leaving his leash on, I’d have to catch hold of his collar. I didn’t want to risk sticking my hand in the cage to make him come out.”
“Why didn’t you say anything to us about all of this?” I asked.
“What would you have done?”
“I don’t know, but we’re responsible for him. You put yourself at risk. I feel very bad about that.”
“Leaf has so much personality compared to a lot of dogs we see here. The real Leaf has come to a better emotional place after a nightmarish first year.” Patty’s somber expression softened into a smile. “You’re nice people, and I knew you were trying to help the real Leaf come out with a loving, forever home. So I decided to continue grooming him, even though I didn’t want to let him come back after the first visit. What if I told you about the biting, and you had taken him back to the shelter?” she asked.
“No. I would not do that. I’d figure out a way to help him.”
However, I understood Patty’s silence. She cared about Leaf and hadn’t wanted him to lose his home. Aggression typically resulted in a death sentence for many dogs. Most people would return the dog to the shelter, where he’d be euthanized. If animal control was called on a dog, the outcome would be the same. End of story. End of Leaf.
“I wanted to help him be the Leaf I felt was inside him. I could see the good side of his nature trying to come out,” Patty explained.
What patience and compassion she had shown for our dog! My heart flooded with gratitude. Without ever expecting anything in return, Patty had been one of Leaf’s most valuable protectors and friends.
“After Leaf’s third visit, I didn’t know how I could keep letting him come here. I was driving home and saw your wife walking Leaf in the neighborhood. He was so happy, wagging his tail. Then I saw Linda bend down to pet him. She talked to him, and he had such a gentle look on his face. For the first time, I could see a nice dog was hiding somewhere inside the fear-filled one. Seeing him that way helped me believe I was making the right decision. He had a home with people who loved him. Love would turn him around. I just knew it.”
All this time, I had been congratulating myself that Linda and I were sticking with our commitment to Leaf. Because we had refused to give up on him, he had been there for me through brain surgery and my recovery. His heart had opened so fully with love for me that God was able to work through him to deliver my ticket to the Building of Life.
“It took twice the time to groom Leaf, because I had to take things one small step at a time and do them very slowly. I would tell him, ‘I am going to cut the fur on your front leg now.’ ” After explaining to Leaf what she intended to do, Patty would slowly move her hand to his front leg and begin grooming, as he watched. “Getting his permission helped,” she said.
This was exactly what Linda and I had discovered when we tried to get Leaf to do something new. Explaining what we wanted went a long way toward securing his cooperation.
I remembered that Patty had told us to talk to Leaf and tell him what was going to be happening at the groomer’s. So Linda sat on the floor next to him and held up each of his paws, saying, “This is what Patty will do. She’ll pick up your legs and cut your hair. She’s not going to hurt you. Patty is your friend.” After the first time Linda prepared him in this way, Patty told me that Leaf was much better and even let her cut his nails.
“I wanted Leaf to relate to me as someone he could trust,” Patty said. “I knew it would take a lot of time. He began turning the corner about a year after his first grooming. If I touched a part of his body he did not want touched, he started giving me a warning growl. This was a major breakthrough. In the past he’d flail back at me. I could see that the warning growl was a small step but a big improvement. Back then, Leaf was a dog too afraid to show his nice side, but I knew he had one.”
“How could you tell?” I asked, with visions of Leaf’s eyes filled with fear.
“He showed me that he was conflicted. Aggression was his automatic response to being touched. A moment later he’d try to kiss me. It took a long time to build his trust. But he started getting rid of the fearful devil inside that made him naughty. I could tell that he wanted to be good.”
As Patty talked, I wondered how to reconcile the Leaf who intensely poured his love into licking my cheeks with this dog I was hearing about today.
“All dogs are not perfect,” Patty said with a sigh. “They’re just not. No different than people. I knew that Leaf had to work through the emotional damage himself. He needed to relate to me. I saw you and Linda were people who gave him a chance. I wanted to give him a chance too. Leaf is an example of what love, patience, and a good family life can do. Turning the leaves is what it was for him,” she added.
Patty seemed able to sweep away Leaf’s past with the broad-stroked brush of her unconditional love. I have rarely seen anyone display such love for another being as Patty showed for Leaf, even during his worst times.
“For years now, he has been a friendly, well-balanced dog. He pays attention to other dogs, goes into an open crate, sits straight up, and watches all the activities until it is his turn for grooming. He walks around here without disturbing anybody,” Patty reassured me. “He is so intelligent and sweet.”
Now that was the Leaf I knew—intelligent and sweet.
“If you had gotten him as a puppy, the real Leaf would have always been there,” Patty said. “But he had the traumas of his previous experiences, without love or care, before being dumped at the shelter. This was the way it had to play out, so he would become Leaf Anderson.”
At home later that day, I bent down and gently touched Leaf’s nose with my forefinger. In my heart I knew he had moved on from his past. After all each of us had gone through, I realized the time had come for me to also move forward. Leaf was teaching me to brush off the dust of past failures and lapses in judgment, get back up, and be present. I knew I would always love Leaf no matter what baggage he carried. As he would me.
There was one time we had accidentally missed an appointment with Patty and brought Leaf to another groomer instead. I now knew why this had turned out to be a disaster for the groomer and our dog.
The next time Linda brought him in to Patty, Leaf didn’t want to get out of the car, but eventually she was able to coax him inside. Leaf sat on the floor and trembled.
Patty leaned over the counter. She looked directly into Leaf’s eyes and asked firmly, “Leaf, do you know where you are? Do you know where you are?”
Her voice and question brought him back into the present. He shook his head and looked around the room and then at her. He remembered that now, in this moment, he was safe.
It had been a profound moment for Linda. She told me later, “Patty reminded Leaf to be present. No matter what happened in the past, in the present everything is OK. I hope I always remember her question, ‘Do you know where you are?’ It will remind me to stay present when I’m anticipating the future. Or letting the past cloud my vision.”
After my surgery, when Linda and I took dance lessons, the master teacher had told us, “The test is for you. To find out how far you have come.” The test with Leaf was for him—and for me. My dog had come further in recovering from emotional trauma than I’d ever suspected. The power of love is the greatest healer of all.
A dear and wise friend I consider to be my spiritual teacher once told me that each moment in life is a snapshot in time. He said the moment is often gone before we are ready to see it. I was rushed when he told me this and didn’t at first understand the underlying truth behind his words. But I sensed his concept of life had meaning for the book I was writing about Leaf.
During a week of vacation, I wanted to think about how this viewpoint could apply to me, Linda, and Leaf. Inwardly I asked for a deeper understanding and how I might embrace it for the rest of my life.
Linda went to visit our children in Atlanta and then her mother in Texas. Every m
orning during the week while she was away, I took Leaf to our special place, the dog park next to the Mississippi River. As always, our visits were filled with adventure, while the two of us explored trails and riverside beaches. I noticed that Leaf would look directly at the faces of people passing by as if he were taking their snapshots. He’d lift his head high and focus his undivided attention on each person. Many seemed surprised that they were being acknowledged with eye-to-eye contact by a dog and made comments like “There’s a lot going on with that dog,” or “What an interesting personality—such a character,” and “His eyes are so beautiful!” Almost every person smiled at Leaf and then at me. Their eyes grew brighter. I could tell that their chance encounter with a little cocker spaniel had made them feel more alive.
There is a saying that “soul equals soul,” meaning that no matter what body we each have or our status in life, at the spiritual level we are all equal. Leaf and the people he passed had experienced that age-old wisdom, whether it registered with them or not. During a snapshot in time, their two souls met as equals. But then the moment slipped away, and the snapshot faded from memory.
I looked at Leaf and recognized him for what he is: a heroic soul from heaven in a small dog’s body.
Epilogue
SEVEN-YEAR-OLD LEAF CURLS UP NEXT TO ME ON OUR LIVING ROOM couch with his head propped on my knee. He has matured into a fine gentleman who is devoted and still incapable of hiding his happiness. If I lift up his ears, on their underside I can see threads of white hair mixed within the curly black. He’s getting older, and so am I. Each day I have been given to spend with him is a day I cherish. He is a fully well-adjusted member of our family.
Gently, I stroke the fur along his spine and whisper, “Leaf, you are the best.” Bleary-eyed, he looks up at me, and I feel his love. We are two souls who entered each other’s lives when we most needed the healing power of human-animal friendship.
A Dog Named Leaf: The Hero From Heaven Who Saved My Life Page 17