Bardo Thodol in comic format

A Comic Book Guide to the Tibetan Afterlife

The Gift

We are not going to let them down. We will live up to the gift we've been given.

Nine years ago, Harry dog joined our family after our old Sally girl lost the last of her siblings. Nine months later, Luigi joined our family. Sally was nine when Harry arrived, and with his caregiving, that big dog lived to 15.

Luigi had bad seizures all his life and Harry was always there for him. Harry would tell us when a seizure was happening and then stay by his boy until Luigi was back with us. When it took a while, Harry rested his head on Luigi. Luigi often lost his sight (and other senses) and Harry would be his guide dog. There were many times when Harry was ready to come back inside, but Luigi wasn't and so Harry stayed out. For his boy.

After Luigi died last month, Harry turned into an old dog before our eyes. A mass developed on his neck and grew quickly. His job was done. And he made sure his job was done. He made sure Luigi was taken care of before his own self. Luigi moved on. And now Harry has. They're back together, with Sally. The pack is back together.

The gift they gave was this: My wife and I have been having troubles. Outside stresses of life-- the usual stuff-- but troubles. Our hearts are now broken so wide open, with both our boys gone, being dogless for the first time in our 35+ years, that our troubles have been washed away by our tears. Our boys' last gift to us: each other. We won't let them down.

Here and There

The interactions between the living and those passed beyond is interesting to me. The times I see it most often are with our long line of the cats and dogs that have shared our lives. The recent example was with our dog Luigi, who entered our house as #3 dog to grande dame Sally and bridge dog Harry. Luigi and Sally had a special bond: Sally would bark and bark at Luigi, who would cock his head back and forth as he listened. Then he would talk back to her with modulated whines. Sally loved that Luigi respected her without kowtowing.

When Sally passed on three years ago, Luigi stopped talking.

Luigi had seizures all his life, generally a major one each week, possibly multiples. Little seizures would ripple through his body regularly. His senses came and went. He was often blind, though sometimes could see. His big Spinone Italiano nose didn't work sometimes. His hearing would come and go. But he was a spunky dude: fall down seven, stand up eight, though often with help.

We just put Luigi down. His seizures were getting worse. In the last two weeks, he had only hours between seizures, three major ones on his last day.

With all the seizuring at the end, he was very blind and a bit addled. Yet instead of walking broad-legged as a blind dog would do, Luigi single-tracked, like his beloved Tibetan Mastiff Sally. In his last days, he looked the spitting image of Sally as he moved toward me: head low, single-tracking, with a determined look.

I have no doubt Sally helped Luigi cross over. She's been here through so much of his dying process.

"Want to know your future life? Look at your present actions."

Go toward the bright light, Luigi. Feel the unconditional love. I know you'll have a great next life.