He came to me on the wings of the wind, in the belly of a great silver bird. My eyes looked west, eager and anxious, worried. He was so small, so very small, and traveling alone. It was March, and it was cold. I shivered in the airport cargo lot, and the man behind the counter cast an agitated glance my way.

“It will be at least a half hour before that plane is unloaded, Miss.”

I nodded. “I know, you told me. I’ll wait here.”

My neck strained as I stretched to see past him. A glimpse of asphalt showed through the back door of the office–acres and acres of pavement. Why was the cargo area so far from the main terminal, anyway?

The phone rang.

“Hello. Yeah, yeah.” The eye once again shot in my direction. “No kidding. I’ll be right over.”

He hung up and, without a word, left his post. In a moment a tractor hauling an enormous flatbed chugged past the back door. Ten minutes later I could see it returning–trailer empty except for one item. An airline dog crate.

Before it was halfway across the lot, I could hear him. He howled, screamed, cried like a tortured soul. A cold hand of guilt gripped my heart. How could I have had a little guy like that shipped, alone, all the way from Illinois to New York? Poor puppy–he sounded terrified, maybe even hurt. I began to tremble, wanted to break all the rules and rush out into the lot to meet the tractor. What could have happened to him on that plane to make him scream so? The trailer drew nearer; his shrieks grew louder. As it pulled up at the back door, the man’s muttered curses mingled with the puppy’s cries. I envisioned the worse–a broken leg, terrible diarrhea plastered all over him, a toenail torn from the roots because he caught it in the mesh door. . . .

The man hauled the dog crate roughly through the door and slid it over to me. I looked inside. Silence.

He was fine. No diarrhea, no blood, no exposed broken bones. Just a pair of dark brown eyes peering at me, frightened, from a little white face.

“Hi, there, Yoda. I’m your new mommy.”

The long tail, tucked tight between his legs, wagged tentatively.

“Little monster screamed all the way from Illinois,” the man grumbled and stuffed a clipboard and pen into my hands. “Sign here and take him home, please.”

The friend who had accompanied me drove home. Yoda rode in my lap. Bad form, unsafe, he should be in his crate, we’re setting up a bad habit here . . . the words went through my mind all the way from LaGuardia to Yorktown Heights. But his head was on my shoulder and his rat-like tail was wrapped around his haunches and his bones were poking me in the bladder–and I couldn’t deny him this small consolation.

I’d waited ten years for my own Saluki. And now at long last he was in my arms. So soft, so small, so vulnerable–and all mine.

I was right about the bad habit, though, for it was another six months before I could drive without a long, gangly sighthound in my lap. If anyone ever tries to tell you that Salukis will take advantage of every chance for comfort–believe them.

For thirteen years, Yoda was my constant companion. Everywhere I went, he was with me. Attached. Connected–spirit, soul, and quite often even body, for he enjoyed the subtle contact of my loving hand. Friends, family, and even casual acquaintances just assumed that if Gayle was there, Yoda would be, too. And he was always welcome.

Yoda was an ambassador for his species. He changed lives–not just a few, but every life he touched was blessed in some small way by the contact. He was quiet and gentle. He took up little space in the home, but filled every corner of the heart. Love shone from his eyes, and the soft touch of his muzzle against my cheek sparked more emotion than the most furious tongue-lashing from another dog. Affection from Yoda was a privilege that had to be earned. Although he never showed any sign of shyness, he was respectfully aloof until he decided you were worthy of his love. Once that decision was made, he never forgot you, no matter how long a time span passed between visits.

We worried about jealousy when I married, but by the time the first of our children arrived knew there was nothing to worry about. Whatever was all right by me, was fine by him. His complete trust in me gave him the ability to accept whomever I accepted as a part of his family, a part of his life. Children, cats, and even the black Saluki puppy that invaded his later years were gently taken into his heart.

“Kind”, my husband’s uncle called him. “I don’t know why, since “kind” isn’t really a word you use for dogs, but this dog is different. He’s a kind soul.”

He is gone now, my kind soul. For over a year, I have lived without an essential part of my spirit, and have no expectations of ever outliving the pain. I wake at night and reach for him. I sit up in bed, my hand stretches out, and finds contact with a soft, lean, chiseled head. Not white . . . not quite right. The head is black, for the black dog moved into the sleeping place vacated by the white upon the night of his death. Even dear Jai could not bear to see that spot empty.

He’s a good dog, this black one. Sweet and enthusiastic, affectionate to a fault. He clings to me with desperation, trying to fill the void in my heart. I love him dearly, and thank him for his loyalty every day. But he is not Yoda. None can replace the one that is gone–each one to come will have to make a special, separate, place of his own. Yoda’s place will remain empty.

Death came swiftly, for even death had respect for the gentle spirit named Yoda. That dark demon, cancer, took him without the torture it usually inflicts. He had no discomfort, no weakness, until just before the end. Then everything went at once–the pain moved in, the legs would not hold him up. The end came fast, and he passed on with all the dignity he had known in life intact. He lay in my arms on the vet’s table, as she took away his suffering, and closed his dark eyes one final time. I recalled an ancient Native American custom, and cared not who was watching, as I breathed his final breath into my lungs. Capture the dying breath of your most treasured one, the legend goes, and their spirit will become a part of yours forever.

Yoda continues to bless in death even as he did in life. More than one person has heard me speak of Yoda and had their life changed for the better in some small way. When a house burned down around a litter of nine-month old Salukis, it was Yoda who sent a little survivor my way. WindDancer was named in honor of him. I am sure he is her very own guardian angel, for it was a miracle that the dogs survived that fire.

At night I stand beneath the diamond-studded sky, my eyes turned upward and often filled with tears. Those tears are not always sad, although they are always lonely. I miss his touch, I miss the sight of him–but I know that his spirit is still here with me. It courses through my veins as it leaps among the heavens. He is gone now from the earth, but shall always be my connection to the starlight.

Jai, who is now gone as well, and sorely, bitterly missed. He was taken from us in the prime of his life, a healthy happy young dog of four years old. No cause was ever found.

Related posts:

1. Essay: Dance With The Wind
2. Essay: Moon Journey
3. Kids’ Story: Twinklestar

They say that strange things happen when the moon is full. Many cultures are peppered with legends of werewolves and shape shifters. The word “lunatic” comes from the long-held belief that people, and other creatures, go a little crazy when the moon shows her full face to the earth. I don’t know if there is any hard scientific evidence to this thought, but ask anyone who has ever worked in a hospital emergency room whether things get lively and interesting during this phase of the month.

The moon itself is the subject of magic and myth dating back to the very beginnings of human history. Peoples of all cultures have used her phases as guidance to plant and harvest their crops, and celebrated the seasons in time with the changing of the moon. The silvery light of a full moon stirs the soul of the most skeptical 20th century human; who can stare at her bright face and not feel the touch of mystery?

The night of June 30th, 1996 was not only the night of the full moon–but of a “blue moon”. We’ve all heard the phrase, “Once in a Blue Moon”, but many people don’t realize that the term refers to a second full moon in a calendar month. Some say that the blue moon brings even stranger events, stronger “moontides”, than a regular full moon. Certainly, this particular moon had been growing from new to full with some unusual plans in mind for our little family.

I woke up as usual on the morning of the 29th, the day before the full moon, and prepared to feed my cats. I opened the cat food cabinet, and everyone came running. Except for Pree. Well, she was sleeping soundly, I supposed, and went about putting down food for everyone. I called for her. No answer. I looked in on my daughter’s bed, where I was sure I’d find her snuggled up and sound asleep.

You know that strange feeling you get, when the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and your stomach ties itself in a knot? When Pree wasn’t in bed with Jess, I knew that something was terribly wrong. It wasn’t till that moment that I returned to the kitchen . . . and saw the hole. There had been a small tear in the kitchen screen, one way too little for a cat to fit through. The night had been warm, so we’d left the window open. The tiny hole now went all the way to the frame at the bottom, and then across to form a cat-sized rip.

Pree was gone.

We live on a mountainside, surrounded by miles and miles of forest. There are a few neighbors on our road, and the two on either side of ours. They all got phone calls, and were put on alert to watch for Pree. None knew her, as she’d never been outdoors before, and I discovered how difficult it is to describe a tortie-point Siamese to someone who’d never seen one. We combed the woods that day, as did several of our neighbors. And the next day, and the next . . . and on and off again periodically after that as the days turned to weeks. Soaked from the rainy summer we’d been having, and tearful, we’d come home with hoarse voices from calling for her. Where could she have gone?

The posters went up all over town. The ads went into the newspaper. All the right people and organizations were called. We traveled the roads nearby, searching under roadside bushes with the hopeful fear of finding a body. Even that, as terrifying as it was, would have been better than not knowing. We talked to neighbors, near and distant, many of whom we’d never met before.

One call came through the following Saturday, from a woman who’d seen our posters. She had seen Pree–tortie points are unique enough that there is no mistaking that description–about a half mile from home. When she opened the door to try and coax the cat into her car, Pree had run off into the woods. That was the only sighting we had.

The month crawled by, leaving a growing void in our lives. The full moon was approaching once again. Our family held to scraps of hope that were getting dimmer with each passing day. Family and friends were divided on whether or not we should keep hoping–or give up and go on with our lives. We’d begun to think the latter group might be right.

And then, the night before July’s full moon, the phone rang. It was Mrs. O’Gorman on East Hill Road, who’d spoken to my husband the day the cat disappeared. She lived about two miles from us as the crow flies, perhaps three if one took the roads. She had been driving to work that morning, running late, and saw a little Siamese cat lying dead on the side of the road. She stopped on the way home . . . but the body was gone. There are very few Siamese in our rural township. The chances were very high that it was our Pree.

I held back my tears and called her neighbor, whose house the cat had been seen in front of, but the Hannan family had not seen her. I called the town garage, but none of their workers had cleaned up the body of a Siamese cat that day.

The next day was my husband Joe’s day off, and he searched the roadside fields and woods near where she had been seen. Mrs. O’Gorman came out to help. Joe spoke with the people who lived around the area. No one had seen the body. We came to the conclusion that an animal had probably dragged her off.

We had come so close, so close to bringing her home. Now we would never be 100% certain that the cat seen on East Hill Road was Pree. We’d go through the rest of our lives never knowing for sure. The heartbreak was as intense as the day she’d vanished.

That evening, Jess was invited to the movies with a friend and her mother. Shortly after she left, Joe and our son Devon took the trash to the collection station, and I was left home alone. The phone rang. It was Mr. Hannan.

“Mrs. Nastasi?”

“Yes?”

“My labrador just chased a cat under our front porch, and I think it’s yours. My wife says it’s a Siamese, and it’s got a couple of white toes.”

Adrenalin struck. By the time Joe and Devon returned from the trash drop-off, I was in the driveway waiting, cat carrier and freshly opened tuna in hand. I never even let them get out of the car–we were out of the driveway in a near-panic.

“We’ve got to hurry, we don’t want her to run off again!”

Mr. Hannan and his son, Robbie, were in the yard waiting for us. “She’s still there,” he called.

He didn’t have to. From the car I could see a tuft of mottled tawny fur and I knew without a doubt that it was Pree. And she was alive!

I got onto my knees and looked under the porch. There sat a skeleton of a cat, covered with fur, dehydrated, starving. I still thought she’d been struck by a car, so was terrified that she might have broken bones or internal injuries.

“PreePree?”

“Maaaaa!” Her voice was harsh and raspy, but loud enough to let me know she recognized me at once. She was crying out for help.

I was afraid to touch her, not sure how badly she was hurt. I reached under, and she lay still and let me stroke her, continuing to cry loudly. Was it pain, or desperation, that caused her to meow like that? Would I get bitten if I tried to move her–or worse yet, cause her injuries to be worse?

I had no choice. After stroking and talking to her for a moment, I grasped her firmly by the scruff of the neck and pulled her toward me as gently as I could. Once I could reach her with both hands I was able to support her better, and I eased her into the crate. She never struggled.

We got her home quickly, contacted the vet’s emergency service, and within half an hour were out the door again. Our veterinarian met us at the hospital. Her veins were in such terrible shape that he couldn’t get an IV into her, but gave her subcutaneous fluids, antibiotics, cortisone . . . and food. She ate a little. Miraculously, he could find no broken bones, no sign of injury–he did not think she’d been hit by a car after all. She was just, quite simply, nearly starved to death.

Then he admitted her and told me to call in the morning. She had about a 50% chance of making it through the night. We stayed there for a little while, talking to and petting her, and reluctantly went home without her.

That night I stood out under the full moon, saying a prayer of thanks. The sky was overcast, but the clouds parted right around the moon, giving me a good view of the silvery orb. A bat was flitting around in front of it.

The next morning, when I called the vet, I was greeted with the fact that she was eating and doing much better. Her chance for survival had risen into the 90th percentile.

I cried.

By the time we visited her that afternoon, she’d been given the gold seal of approval, and was allowed to come home with us. She has a long road of recovery to travel . . . but it certainly won’t be as rocky or dangerous as the road she’s been walking the past month. She is eating, little bits at a time and in frequent doses, and drinking. Her water has to be warm, and running, and she prefers home made chicken broth.

Make home made chicken broth just for a cat? No problem. The important fact is that she’s drinking fluids well, and improving just a little bit each day.

She weighs two and a half pounds.

I sit for hours with my little wanderer asleep in my lap, watching her twitch in her dreams. What nightmares are in her mind, to make her slash her tail that way? Where has she been, what has she seen? And most of all, what force possessed her to tear her way through the screen that night a whole moon ago? I wish that she could speak human words, or that I could understand cat. She talks to me constantly, as is her very Siamese habit, but I’m not intelligent enough to decipher her meows. I’m sure she has many stories to tell, many lessons to teach. If only I could understand them.

I may never know just where she had been during her moon-to-moon journey. But I know where she is now, and that is what is most important.

Pree is home.

Pree after she came home

The Followup:

06 February 04: Talking with Pree
Pree came to me this morning, as I was in the kitchen and about to head in to do a session with a client’s kitty (who is also currently “gone walkabout”). She jumped to my lap and said she was aware that I wanted to talk about her journey, and she was ready to do so. I let her know that as soon as I was done with my scheduled session, we’d talk. She was pleased. After my session was done, I came out to the living room and sat on the sofa, and had no sooner settled than Pree rounded the corner and hopped into my lap.

I asked what she could remember about her journey.

She said she remembers that the moon was out there, bright, beckoning. She thought she saw creatures of moonlight in the woods … She showed me an image of a unicorn. Surprised, I asked if she’d actually seen a unicorn, and she said no, she didn’t think so, but that is how it felt. The shapes and images the moon was creating felt that magical, and she knew that the moon was calling to her, to teach her something important. So she tore through the screen and followed.

Once out in the wild, though, most of the time her thoughts were taken up by survival. One of the first things that happened was that she was chased by — or at least thought it was chasing her — a large owl. The storm that came the following day was terrifying, she wanted to go back, but couldn’t. She was hopelessly lost, turned about, and had no idea which direction was home; the storm had washed away any lingering traces of the path she had taken. She also somehow knew there was more “out there” that she needed to see, do, and experience.

I reminded her of how the one lady had been so sure she was dead on the road, and asked her if she thinks she had actually died.

She told me she wasn’t sure specifically about “death”, but does remember a sense of being “separated” from herself, of drifting out of conscious thought the awareness of a great, vast sense of being. She said she thought there was an eagle watching her, high, high above her, too high to approach. Her sense is that the eagle was keeping her from wandering too far from her body, but she could never get close enough to really see or talk to the eagle.

She remembers the dog that was there to chase her under the porch, and how he agreed to draw as much attention to her as he could. Once her body woke up, she knew it was time to get back home, and that was all she could think of. She wanted her Mom. The dog helped, he did a good job, and together they made sure her Mom came to get her.

I asked her what she learned while she was out wandering, what she thought the purpose of the journey was.

Her first response, with a chuckle: “That there’s no place like home.” (We laughed together.)

She said, though, that that really was part of it, and it’s why she’s never so much as looked at an open door or been tempted to go through the window again since. Some animals come into this world to fully and entirely experience the bond with other species’. Wild creatures, those who struggle daily to survive, move in celebration of their own species bonds, and those arrangements and love relationships they make with the predators and prey that interact with them. Other animals come to be farm animals or service animals and explore those specific incredible bonds with humanity as a part of their earthly walk. And some come to be household companions, friends, teachers, and spiritual guides for the people they are destined to love. Since she has come home, the depth of that relationship with the humans and other species within her household has grown to incredible depths and heights, and she believes that she needed to wander, experience danger, and starve to the doorstep of depth (“Bugs don’t taste very good! I’m not a very good hunter — [laughing] — so much for the myth that all cats are the ultimate predator!”) to fully understand and experience that bond. She has become a better teacher, better friend, better healer…. She has been privileged to work with me, as well as with other humans, in helping people and animals to strengthen the bond and understanding between them. She has done healing work and been an anchor and support for me, as well as doing much work on her own, in a way that she doesn’t think would have been possible without having experienced her journey.

I ask if she thinks that part of the reason for her journey was to help me along on my path as an animal communicator.

She says, “Of course. We all come together to help one another along our paths. Some of us just do it more dramatically than others.” [laughing] As far as how her journey affected me, Pree believes that perhaps, in part, I needed a true, inarguable miracle in my life at that moment to prove beyond doubt those things my heart hoped and tried very hard to trust were true.

Pree is and shall always be my true, inarguable miracle.

Related posts:

1. Essay: Dance With The Wind
2. Essay: Yoda’s Story

Saukenuk Kara Jyotana (12/12/80 – 12/7/93)
Jai (5/27/92 – 9/7/96)

Copyright Gayle P. Nastasi, 1993

A Saluki is not a creature of this world. Every human who has had his life graced by the presence of one of these ethereal beings suspects that truth. The Saluki is something of myth and fantasy; he belongs in the heavens, racing alongside Pegasus and hunting at Orion’s side. He knows the secrets of the magic of the air. He dances the dance of the wind. Somewhere along his road through the starlight, he falls in love with a special human and decides to grace a brief period of that person’s life with his magic.

A Saluki in motion is living proof of this. With each stride, with every reach and thrust of his long legs, he meets that point in space when he is just about to break the bonds of mortality. It would take only an instant of magic to burst forth from the earthly boundaries of gravity and substance and take to the skies. When we watch our Saluki race across the land, we know that we are witnessing the borderlines of mortal existence. We are a brief thought away from watching him leap effortlessly along a trail of moonbeams to the skies and capture the wind.

The time is so brief that our lives are blessed by the special magic of being able to touch a creature of fantasy and take him into our homes and hearts. When it is time for the Saluki to leave us, he is never truly gone. We have lost the substance and form only, but the spirit remains with us forever. We see him in every glimmer of starshine; hear him in the soft whisper of the wind; feel him in the cool touch of the beams of moonlight that fall across our dreams at midnight. We never quite lose a Saluki. He has simply broken the bounds of mortality that have tied him to this earth and returned to the heavens to dance forever with the wind.

Related posts:

1. Essay: Yoda’s Story
2. Essay: Moon Journey
3. Poem: Magic