"Adina was my fellow creature, a child of God like I am, and a teacher of God’s grace as I pray I might be."

Larissa Kaye Batten (llbeara@aol.com) writes "Soul Food," a weekly column for SpiritSite.com.  

Larissa is a prolific writer whose work has been featured in several publications.  

You can visit Lara's web site at www.miracleanimalrescue.com (site will open in a new window).

I dedicate this article to sweet, sweet Adina, who loved me, who trusted me, who believed in me and who allowed me to love her and bless her by the grace of God our Creator.

"Ask the Creatures, they will tell you."  - Job 12, the Bible

Today I held sweet, sweet Adina, my dog, my friend, my teacher, as her soul slipped serenely from her body and traveled home to the welcoming arms of God.

Adina was my fellow creature, a child of God like I am, and a teacher of God’s grace as I pray I might be. Now, sweet Adina is a spirit flying free with the spirit of God.

Adina, one of the softest and sweetest dogs I have ever known, was petrified of men. For good reason – for the same reason I have been afraid of men for most of my life.

Adina and I were abused by men, and our bodies have always held the memories of the abuse so that it has been difficult, sometimes impossible, to discern which is a gentle hand and which might strike out to abuse us.

Adina and I, both shy and fearful for so long, needed to protect ourselves. Adina and I lashed out at others when we felt our safety was threatened.

There was but one difference between myself and sweet Adina. As a human being, I have had the opportunity to heal. As a creature of God, she did not have the same opportunity.

When I have felt threatened, I have snarled. But then I could go talk to my therapist, talk in a group of fellow recovering people, read a self-help book, pray and meditate, and glean support from my fellows.

When Adina felt threatened, she snarled. But nobody helped her. Nobody came to her rescue. No health insurance company sent her off to a rehab and paid for her anger counseling, and no social services agency referred her for help.

As a human abused by a human, I have had the opportunity for help.  As a creature who was abused by a human, Adina was offered nothing.

I take that back. Adina was offered two needles, yesterday. The two needles that put her to sleep forever.

I once wanted desperately to be euthanized to get rid of the pain caused by abuse. I drank and took pills and contemplated suicide for my own euthanization. But I had a choice. I had an alternative, and I chose that alternative.

Adina was given no choice.

Adina lived with my husband and me and our dogs and foster dogs for three weeks. The day she arrived, she curled up and cowered in the very corner of a huge room, petrified of anyone getting near her.

Slowly, so slowly, my husband and I helped her to learn to trust us. But that was not enough. When she was adopted by friends of ours, she became petrified again. When the man of the house came near her, she either cowered or struck out.

She struck out one too many times. She did not mean to hurt anyone. In fact, she never even bit. But she was aggressive enough to let us know it was only a matter of time before she bit.

And our society -- the same society that rarely, if ever, punishes human beings for abusing animals -- offers nothing to abused animals other than a few kind words and a couple of needles for those animals that turn to aggression.

Danielle, the daughter in Adina’s new family, and Adina bonded beyond words. They held each other, kissed each other, played with each other, slept with one another, took walks with one another, and learned to trust one another. But that was not enough to help Adina to learn to ever fully trust a man again.

When Adina tried to attack Danielle’s father, it was time to let Adina go. They drove Adina the 14 hours back to South Carolina to drop her off with my husband and me.

I knew there was only one answer, I knew it in my soul. I knew that Adina would never be given the kindness and patience and recovery tools that I as a human have been given.

She would never marry a man who would teach her how to trust the touch of a man’s hand again. She would never visit a therapist three times a week to get past the nightmares, the flashbacks, the night terrors, the addictions, and all the rest of the aftereffects of abuse.

Adina would only live on in her perfect physical health to feel the terror over and over and over again. And who knew when she would attack to protect herself again.

Adina, sweet, sweet Adina, who would cower under a petting hand, sink down low under a bathing hand, shake at the touch of a boy’s hand, would never be given the chance I would be given.

But there was one chance I could give her still. I could help Adina to answer God’s calling, and I could release her back to the loving and forever safety of God.

I, who continue to cry so rarely and so succinctly, cried for two days straight.  I continue to cry off and on and on again.

I, who was abused by a man like Adina, was the one to decide to give her back to God. I heard God calling. I heard his calling in my soul, and I knew I must let her go.

There are no rehabilitation facilities for abused animals, facilities with trained professionals to teach trust all over again, to teach how to release feelings in healthier ways.

I knew I had to let Adina go, but I was not sure I would be able.

When Danielle arrived at my house with Adina, I could not help but cry aloud. I cried and I cried and I cried.

Adina strode into our home with her yellow bandana around her neck, her rear end wiggling happily, her tail wagging because she was coming home to the safe place where she was fostered – and ultimately coming home to the people who would help take her home again to God.

I cry again now, remembering how happy she was to come back home again. Although she had been aggressive toward our dogs a few times and for that reason was a risk to us all, we knew her as sweet, sweet Adina.

She used to curl up on her favorite spot on our couch at night. She was not allowed into our bedroom with the other dogs, so she found her number one spot. She lounged there when she was alone, safe and serene, at peace.

I used to lie with her there, my hands around her, talking to her and praying with her. How I miss my sweet, sweet Adina. My mirror image in a dog, my fellow abused child of God, so afraid of men but so much wanting their comfort too.

She used to reach out to my husband for petting and at the same time hold back – just like I have with my own husband.

I grieve now, I grieve deeply. I could not help her to overcome all that triggered her memories of abuse. I could only hold and love her.

The morning before she journeyed back home to God, Danielle and I took her for her last walk. She was joyous, her yellow bandana flying as she sprinted through the woods.

She met her spirit there, in the woods, she felt her calling home.

When we returned to the house, she stood for a few minutes in the baby pool to get her little feet wet. My sweet, sweet Adina.

I miss her so much I can only hope my tears might reach her. But then again, I feel her spirit everywhere. I think of her now as I think of Granny and Opa’s dog in heaven.  Heaven is everywhere, spirit is everywhere, and Adina is safe.

Danielle and I cried on and off for days before we took her to the shelter for her final peace.

We had to walk her into the shelter, and I do not know if she knew what exactly was coming.

I cried openly in front of everyone, and I didn’t care who did or didn’t see me cry.

I felt sick at the same time, sick that I could be a part of taking a perfectly physically healthy and beautiful creature of God and and help her to go.

But I helped her to go. Danielle and I wrapped our arms around her, and I prayed with her all the way to heaven.

I told her about the angels and the peace and the healing, I told her about God and safety and how she wouldn’t have to deal with the threat of abuse again. I told her my spirit would be there with her, that her spirit would be here with me again.

But in some ways that is little consolation when I feel so much the physical loss. I cannot hold her physically in my arms again, though she is forever in my heart and soul. She is part of my spirit now, and I am part of hers. We are all one, and I am privileged to have been one of the angels that helped her home. I am privileged to have been one of her students.

I sobbed when her shots were administered, and I sobbed as she became limp and quiet in my arms.

I miss my sweet, sweet Adina in ways I could not have imagined. When we lifted her onto the table to let her physical body go and to turn around and leave, a piece of my spirit left with Adina, and part of her spirit came home with my own.

Sweet, sweet Adina, my fellow child of God, I love you with all of me. I am so sorry that you endured the tragedy of abuse and the only consequences our society knows just now.

Sweet, sweet Adina, I heard you thank me for letting you go. And I thank you for thanking me, and releasing me, too.  One day, sweet Adina, might we meet again. Or have we already?

Welcome home, sweet Adina. Welcome home to my soul, to God’s land, to the spirit world.

And may your spirit now know, finally and forever, the grace of an eternal peace – the sweet peace you have always deserved – the one that is yours now.

I love you, Adina. Sweet, sweet Adina. Thank you for all you have given me, and may you sprint through the woods forever now, forever safe, forever at home.

Amen.

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