“Really, well, then what do people hire me for?”
“Oh, you help, for sure, but there’s a lot more going on than just what you do. Maybe the animal had other plans. Maybe the animal and their human are trying to learn something together.”
“Animals have plans?”
“Yes.”
“So, what am I supposed to do when an animal is not improving?”
“All you can do is pray for the animal and the people to receive the healing they want.”
I had trouble with this and thought Dana was a bit crazy.
Then she said, “Don’t judge the situation. Judgment is pain.”
Clearly, I had much to learn: about the realm of clairvoyants, about the “plans” animals had, and about how animals and humans learn together, but that had to wait for future meetings.
I decided to put what Dana told me into practice — to stop judging myself, others, and situations. The perfect opportunity presented itself several months later with Dawn, a lovely woman who first hired me to treat her horses, then to perform acupuncture on her six-year-old shepherd-mix named Apache.
It started when Apache jumped out of Dawn’s truck and ruptured a spinal disc, becoming paralyzed in the rear end. Dawn had rushed her to Albuquerque for spinal surgery, and she had called me from there the following day.
“The surgeon said I should think about putting Apache down because she has no feeling in her hind limbs. Karlene, what am I going to do? I can’t lose this dog.”
“Does the surgeon know you were once paralyzed?” I asked.
“No, I didn’t tell him.”
“And look at you! You’re walking around just fine. And you were paralyzed from the neck down.”
“Yeah, they told me that I’d never walk again.”
“Right, so we won’t listen to him,” I said.
We started electro-acupuncture on Apache right away — twice a week at first and then weekly — and after five weeks, post-op, Apache had regained feeling and movement from head to toe. She wagged her tail and had bladder and bowel control.
One day about this time, as I drove up to Dawn’s ranch to treat Apache, I saw her waiting for me next to the barn, a tall, slender redhead wearing a long, russet denim jacket and irrigation boots, looking like a model for a farm-supply catalog. She also wore a frown and was holding a lead rope connected to her mule, Candy. I knew something was wrong. It is common to have a client say something like, “While you’re here, doc, can you look at. . .,” and I will add another animal to the day’s schedule.
Dawn was worried that Candy might have “stringhalt,” a jerking motion of the hind limb caused by nerve damage. I started my exam by making friends with the mule and trying to lighten Dawn’s mood.
“Howdy, Candy girl,” I said as I rubbed the mule’s face. “You’re a good girl.” She rubbed her head against my hand. “You like me, don’t you?” I cleaned the sleep from her eyes.
“Horses must like us,” I told Dawn. “Otherwise, why would they put up with us? Some people think they only love us because we feed them. Well, it may be ‘cafeteria love,’ but how does that differ from men? They always say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I remember a time when I was in the Denver airport. A man on my flight kept staring at me with a hungry look, practically drooling. We boarded the small plane, and once in the air, he unbuckled his seat belt and came back to talk to me. He bent toward me and said, with a southern accent, ‘I bet you make great biscuits and gravy.’ I said, ‘I’ve never made biscuits and gravy.’ That was enough for him. He turned around, went back to his seat, and never looked at me again.”
Dawn curled the corners of her lips and rolled her eyes, not amused by my story.
“I reckon men are no different than any other animal. At least you guys know what you want,” I told the mule. “You like food and you like your face rubbed. Let’s see how you like it when I palpate your stifle joint.”
I slowly felt my way down Candy’s back to her hind limb, palpating the kneecap area. “Walk her around a little. See that clicking motion by the stifle? That’s not stringhalt. Stringhalt is when the limb jerks up toward the belly. This is upward fixation of the patella — the ligament of the kneecap is catching on her femur. It happens in horses with a straight-legged confirmation. You just need to exercise her to strengthen the muscles to hold the kneecap in place. Take her riding in the sand wash; that will tone her up.”
“I can’t go riding. I have to take care of Apache. She just panics if I get out of her sight.”
This is the challenge I was not taught in veterinary school — how to manage people’s lives. I had learned anatomy, microbiology, radiography, and surgery, but nothing about how to help people manage their problems. Dawn had good reason to be depressed with multiple ailing animals to care for. I really wanted to help. “How is Apache?”
“She’s okay. Come see her.” Dawn carried Apache from the front seat of her Dodge Ram and stood her upright on the ground in front of me. “Look,” she said, still not smiling. “She can stand.”
“Oh, that’s great!” Apache collapsed, and Dawn lifted her onto my tailgate, where I had a rug spread for a treatment table. “Hi, Apache, you look so good.” However, for the first time, I noticed a cowering expression in the dog’s eyes as she looked at Dawn, prompting me to ask Dawn, “What’s going on?”
“Oh, sometimes I think that she’s never going to get any better than she is right now.” Dawn sighed. She gave Apache a worried look, which made the dog cower even more.
Dawn was worn out, even though Apache had progressed significantly. “Dawn, you have to hold this dog in a vision of health,” I urged. I paused to think of a way to explain. Then I related a story that shows how animals think.
“My friend Betty has a big shaggy malamute dog named Harry, and each summer she shaves his hair short. She worried about shaving him again this year because he always hides under the table for a week. I explained to her that Harry hides not because he’s embarrassed by his hairdo. He acts embarrassed because everybody looks at him like he’s a geek and laughs at him. So, I told Betty that the next time she trimmed Harry, she should tell him he’s a stud. Well, that worked. She told him, ‘You look so handsome,’ and he strutted around the house proudly.
“During my years of practice, I have found that animals mirror us; they reflect our thoughts. How would you feel if every time people looked at you, it was with pity in their eyes, or if people told you that you were stupid every day? You would feel the way they think about you. You have to look at Apache like she is getting better and encourage her.”
Dawn replied, “Well, I need encouragement, too. I can’t do anything. I have to take her everywhere. My back gave out the other night when I picked her up. What am I going to do if she doesn’t get better? I’m really worried.”
I pointed out, “She has
