Many years ago, before I learned to communicate with animals, I once interviewed several pet communicators for my company. Among them, one left a deep impression on me — her words have stayed in my heart ever since. We eventually lost contact, but I often wish I could have recommended her to more people. Only after I began taking cases to communicate with pets who had passed on did I truly understand what she meant. The answers that our beloved companions give are not always direct; sometimes they sound confusing, yet if we pause, reflect, and face our feelings honestly, the meaning slowly reveals itself with time.
I still remember how that communicator looked at a photo of my cat, Mantou, and said to me, "He says… you already know he's leaving soon—you just don't want to admit it." At that moment, I couldn't accept what she said at all. That day, Mantou was weak and trembling, but he had just been discharged from the hospital. I told myself, if things were truly that serious, the vet would never have let him come home. I even called the vet to ask how to take care of him. To spare Mantou the stress of another trip, the vet asked me to record a video of his condition and send it over. I never thought that video would become his last image. I planned to send it later that evening… but I didn't need to anymore. That very night, Mantou passed away.
It has been eight years, and I still have not found the courage to watch that video again. If I had known it was his final moment, I would never have made that choice. Yet when I recall the communicator's words, a part of me feels she wasn't wrong. That day was supposed to be my day off, but I went to the office anyway, staying late as if subconsciously delaying the inevitable. Looking back, maybe deep inside, I was trying to escape from facing his passing — all the while naïvely believing we still had more tomorrows. That night, around nine o'clock, I opened the door, and the familiar figure that always greeted me wasn't there. My heart went cold. Mantou had left… alone.
Because of this experience, when the brother of a Yorkshire Terrier named "Little Silly Dog" came to me for a session after his pet's passing, I could fully understand his pain. Though this case happened years ago, every time I think of Mantou, I also remember Little Silly Dog and his brother's story. His brother was quiet and reserved. When I asked if he was okay, he only said, "It was so hot last night… my eyes were sweating a lot," hiding his sorrow behind those words.
Little Silly Dog was fourteen years old, nearly blind from cataracts. A few months earlier, he accidentally injured his only seeing eye, plunging into complete darkness. Every day, he waited patiently in the room for his brother to return home from work. But one night, when his brother opened the door, he found only the still, cold body of his beloved dog. "When I held him, played chants for him, touched him, spoke to him — his body slowly became soft again," he said. He couldn't believe that the warm little body he held just hours ago was now gone. "When I saw him, his ears were still perked up, as if he was waiting to hear me come home." That image brought tears to my eyes. I couldn't help but wonder — was Mantou waiting for me too?
"I'm sorry… I wasn't there when you left."
This sentence isn't only what the brother wanted to say to Little Silly Dog — it's also what I've always wanted to say to Mantou.
During our communication, Little Silly Dog described what it felt like at the end: "My body started to grow cold from the bones, I couldn't breathe, it felt like my nose was blocked, and I didn't even have the strength to gasp. I kept listening, waiting to hear my brother come home. I was worried that when he arrived, he'd find the room empty and feel lonely. But I just couldn't hold on any longer. It was a bit sad that he wasn't there to hold me, but if he had been, I think it would've been too painful for him."
The brother's greatest concern was whether Little Silly Dog was doing well and waiting peacefully in line for reincarnation. The dog told him, "At first I missed you so much that I ran out of the line several times and had to queue up all over again. Brother, here we have to understand our soul's purpose clearly before we can move to the next stage."
Then the brother asked, "Did I do a good job as your owner?" Little Silly Dog replied, "No one could ever compare to you. You're not just my brother—you're my dad, my everything. I love being with you, being held by you, and waiting for the sound of your footsteps. It had to be you, not anyone else. We belong to each other."
Finally, the brother asked, "Were you happy, meeting me?" Little Silly Dog said, "I was very happy. But what matters most to me is whether you're happy. If you're happy, I am too."
To Little Silly Dog, who left this world years ago — may you rest in peace. And to my beloved Mantou, who's been gone eight years — may love continue to guide us, until we meet again.
