I met Nano in a vet’s office many years ago. He looked like a rat, scampering about on the floor, running from one sheltering place to another. Then he saw me, stopped moving, barked at me once, and turned tail and ran under the table.  He was absolutely vibrating, and I couldn’t tell whether the vibrations were from fear of me, frustration that he was smaller than an average chicken, or cold because he had just had all of his fur shaved off.  What I could tell was that he wobbled because one leg was shorter than the others, that he was the skinniest little dog I’d ever seen, and that for some reason, my mother had decided that he was the newest member of our pack. Our pack of Aussies ~ any one of whom could trounce on Nano’s head and not even feel the bump in the road. But join us he did. Over the years, his fur grew in, he learned to dodge those other big paws by running around them or under yet another table, and he never stopped barking and vibrating at the same time. 

Nano was a very small dog, a Chihuahua/ Pomeranian mix, with a very strong survival instinct.  He came to us via an Animal Enforcement raid on a single family home where over 300 dogs lived in cages stacked one on top of another, multiple dogs in each cage, fighting for space, for food, for life.  His need for healing was multifaceted ~ he suffered emotionally, physically, and psychologically ~ and of all the ways he had been hurt in his first 8 years of life, only the physical pieces were healed when he crossed to the Rainbow Bridge after the second 8 years of his life.

The other day, as I was petting Steve’s belly and reflecting on Nano, I began to see healing in a new light, or rather, in a new dimension because healing takes place in space and across time.  It is not just multifaceted; it’s also multidimensional. It is physical, mental, emotional, spiritual, yes, but all of the hurts in each of these parts of a being intertwine, merge, and backtrack in ways that sometimes move toward healing, sometimes move back to hurt, and sometimes, just cancel each other out. The straight path we all assume is the arrow of time doesn’t always apply to the process of getting better. 

Now I know that none of this is new to anyone who’s worked with people ~ or loved people, or raised people. But it is new when you begin to watch and work with and love and help heal… sheep. Or dogs. Or cats. Or any of the other species that walk this Earth with pain.  

Take Steve, for example. When I came upon him the other day, he was stretched out on top of a stack of pine shaving bags, right in a slight breeze that was coming in the barn door. The barn ~ and everywhere that afternoon ~ was really hot, and all the cats were stretched out on the floor around Steve’s stack. I said hi to them as I walked into the barn, and Steve immediately responded with a “merppp” and a slow roll onto his back so I could give him a belly rub. Totally trusting, totally welcoming. Today. The next day, though, as I walked into the barn, he startled just a bit when I said hi, then he ran out the cat door, shooting me a few wide-eyed looks as he ran. 

As my mother told me long ago, micro-steps in nano-seconds. That’s how one heals the heart and mind and soul.

And then there’s Wilma. Everything about Wilma has calmed down since the week after Betsie died. Her eyes are calm, and her movements don’t reflect terror.  I spent some time with her a few evenings ago, and I was amazed at her transformation with me.  I had said goodnight to everyone in the Little Barn and was sitting in a chair outside the barn door enjoying the evening breeze and the company of the cats. Wilma, though, wouldn’t stop calling out.  I listened to her for a bit, expecting after every call for her to stop and settle in for the night. She didn’t stop, though, so I went back into the barn, grabbed a chair I keep near her stall, and went in a sat with her. She immediately stopped calling out. She watched me for a minute, then walked over to her hay and started munching ~ calmly choosing a piece here, nuzzling away a piece there. She ate, and I talked softly to her and to Mary, Cricket, and Bella in the stall across the aisle.  After about 20 minutes, I left. She never said another word. She just wanted a bit of company at the end of the day. She’s healing, too. 

 Some things don’t heal ~ I know this. Some things require only the effort of the one who’s hurt. I know this, too.  When it comes to helping our animals heal, though, I’ve found it much easier to learn how to administer an injection, to put cream into an eye, to wrap and bandage and wash a wound, then it has been to help Nano trust, to show Steve that he’s safe all the time, to convince Wilma that life isn’t terrifying. Maybe I’m just discovering the patience needed to give holistic healing the time it deserves and requires. Maybe I’m finally making conscious what I’ve been doing for years. Maybe, I’m finally getting it.

And this is the point when the Universe usually sends me my next lesson. I’ll keep you posted!