Buddy: A Lake Dog's Journey

"All of the animals except for man know that the principle business of life is to enjoy it." - Samuel Butler 

Based on a true story.

Guardian.

Nobody knew where Buddy came from.

He was simply there, the way the lake was there, and the pines, and the long gold light that lay across the water in the evening. A lake dog. If you asked the regulars how long he'd been around, they'd scratch their heads and say, "Oh, Buddy? Buddy's always been here." And somehow that seemed to be true.

He knew everyone. He knew which cabins woke early and which slept late, which docks the fish liked best, which children could be trusted to throw a stick and which would only pretend. If you offered him a scrap from your plate, he would take it politely, with a small dignified nod, as if to say thank you — but he never begged. Not once. Buddy had his pride.

He weathered the seasons. Summer thunderstorms, the first frost, the deep hush of snow — Buddy met them all the way he met everything, without complaint, as though he had agreed to the terms of the world long ago and had no quarrel with any of them.

One summer I brought a new puppy to the lake, along with my older dog, who was very well behaved. The puppy was not. When he caught sight of Buddy, he lost his little mind entirely — bouncing and yipping and barking with the wild joy of someone who has never learned that the world does not, in fact, revolve around him.

Buddy did not bark back. He simply looked at me.

I have never in my life been so thoroughly told off without a single word. That look traveled straight out of his old eyes and into the middle of my chest, and it said, plain as anything:

What have you done? Why are you not parenting your dog?

I felt about two inches tall. I had disappointed Buddy — and somehow that mattered more than disappointing almost anyone.

Because Buddy was an old soul. You could see it in him. He had the patience of something that has watched a great many summers come and go.

For years, whenever I arrived at my mother's cabin, Buddy would appear to greet us. Never right away, and never for very long. He'd trot up out of the trees, look us over, accept his welcome — and then go on about his rounds. Because Buddy had rounds, you understand. A whole territory of friends to visit and quiet business to attend to.

We worried about him, out there on his own. But he never seemed to want saving. He kept to himself, turned up to say hello, and carried on. That was simply who he was: a free spirit, belonging to the lake and to everyone and to no one at all.

Then one of the locals — an older woman who lived down near the water — began to look after him.

Or perhaps he began to look after her. With Buddy it was always hard to say. Maybe they looked after each other. That happens, sometimes, between two old souls who recognize something familiar in one another.

And when the time came for her to leave the lake and move to a retirement community in the city, Buddy went with her.

It was sad to see him go. The next time I visited, the lake was still the lake — but there was an emptiness in it now. A Buddy-shaped space where a small gray dog used to come trotting out of the pines. We missed him. And we wondered how a lake dog, a free spirit, would ever manage the great change from open water and open sky to city rooms and city halls.

But I think Buddy knew exactly what he was doing.

Because he had always known where he was needed. And now he was needed there.

In the retirement community, they say, he became something of a legend. He did his rounds, just as he always had — down the long halls now instead of along the shoreline — greeting each resident, accepting the treats they were so delighted to give, never begging, always with that same small dignified nod. He gave them his quiet company. And in return he received something he had never quite had before: a warm place, a secure routine, and a whole new world of friends. His own retirement, earned honestly and spent with grace.

He had traded the freedom of the lake for a different kind of gift — being cherished. And he seemed to understand that it was a fair trade.

Buddy met his calling the way he met the seasons: with dignity, and with grace, and with that loyal, knowing heart that only dogs have ever quite managed to perfect.

And when at last his long life was done — when the old soul finally set off for wherever old souls go — I like to think he simply began one more round. A bigger territory this time. New friends to greet. New porches to sit on in the long gold evening light.

If I could reach up and pin the brightest star in all of Heaven onto one small, gray, wandering dog —

I would give it to Buddy.

And on clear nights at the lake, when the water is still and the whole sky is full, I look up and I find the brightest one, and I know exactly who it is.

Still doing his rounds.

Still watching over all of us.

Good dog, Buddy. Good dog..

Death is Not the End

“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?” – Albus Dumbledore, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

There is no “winking out” of existence. There is an everlasting essence, the true self, that shifts form when needed, physical to spirit, and back again. – The Nightlight Oracle

Spirit Prompts

After I got up to do the morning traffic, Andy told me he’d walked by the bedroom on his way outside with the dogs and heard something. He said it sounded like I was still in bed, softly snoring. When he came back in with the dogs, he heard the same sound again and stopped to look inside the empty room. Neither dog would enter.

Later, when I was in the room, I heard a sentence — clear as day: “I talk to the dead.”

Then I noticed the book I had started reading was open on the bed. The title: The Dead Have Never Died by Edward C. Randall. Source

I got the message. I’ve since included some of Randall’s insights as I share my own encounters with those who are “deceased but not dead.” One passage stands out: “The body that you see and touch is but the housing, or the garment worn by another body, the etheric or spirit body, which is just as much substance as the flesh, but so refined, intense and so high in vibration that the physical eye cannot see it or the hand feel it.”

In death, the etheric form simply becomes an inhabitant of that higher plane.

Randall also offered an important message about imagination, something we often misunderstand in the physical realm. Referencing a spirit source, he wrote: “You must know there is no such thing as imagination as that word is generally used. Your dictionaries define it as the image making power of the mind; the power to create or reproduce ideally an object previously perceived; the power to call up mental images. There must exist the sun before there can be the shadow. The real must precede the imitation, there must be an original before the copy, the subject before the photograph. One cannot imagine something that has no existence in Nature. The imagination must have something basic.”

“The etheric mental lines or waves of the mind ordinarily move at will in and about the unknown land, and through the sub-conscious brain get impressions and suggestions, usually intangible and indefinite. Such wandering of the mind not being understood, an entirely false conception is obtained of the mental operation.”

When thought is passive, the psychic sense is activated and one can see more than is possible with the physical eye. One can glimpse the mental sphere – thought realm. Etheric forms are fashioned and changed by mental operation alone. Mind informs the present.

Understanding this aspect of our consciousness, this spiritual intelligence, becomes more accessible as we evolve our awareness. As I’ve been inspired to remember: “Quiet mind, open heart.” When we are in harmony with our environment, we are better able to access the higher planes.

Through conversations with my guides, I understand that I’m being urged to present more information about dying, about the need for preparation in the mind, and how important it is to understand that death is simply a transition from one state of being to another.

There is no “winking out” of existence. There is an everlasting essence, the true self, that shifts form when needed, physical to spirit, and back again. [Some non-human entities are also quite proficient at this.] The body is retired, but the essence remains. With awareness and preparation while still in the physical, the transition can be smoother — with less fear, trauma, and confusion.

I asked my guides what would be most helpful to focus on for The Nightlight Oracle, and what might help others expand their awareness, their answer was clear. This guidance — practical and compassionate — is the result. And I have to admit, it resonates because of one undeniable fact: everyone dies. And yet, many still don’t realize that death is a doorway, not an ending.

Signs and Lessons

There are often subtle cues. Smells, for example. One morning, while out for a walk, I noticed a bad scent — sharp and unpleasant. At first, I thought it was coming from Cassie’s collar. Then I thought maybe Andy’s shirt. I smelled again — nothing. We planned to wash the collar. When we got home later, the smell was gone.

That reminded me of another experience, years before my nightlight encounters, when someone who had passed tried to get my attention.

[With my previous husband.]

We had just bought a duplex and, over time, I realized we weren’t alone. A ghost lived there — and he was irritated. Looking back at the signs, I can see he thought we’d invaded his space. He preferred things neat and orderly. I’d get flashes of images — a closet with hangers spaced perfectly apart, clothes arranged just so.

Odd things kept happening. A shelf unit detached from the wall and fell on me — but nothing broke. An antique pickle jar, a family treasure of my husband’s, hit me on the head, then bounced on the floor, and somehow didn’t shatter.

When we went on vacation, a friend cared for our cat. When we returned, it was obvious something had disturbed him — tufts of fur left clumped in one spot on the stairway between the upper and lower floors.

There was the time I came home to find the glass doors on the entertainment center open. Even though I knew no one else had been there, I still called my husband to ask if he’d stopped by. Then came the event that changed everything.

The Breaking Point

At night, things escalated. What I experienced seemed only to bother me. I couldn’t ignore it. One night, after throwing off the covers, I felt something touch my toe and bend it forward — gently but unmistakably. After that, I kept the covers on.

Other nights, or during daytime naps, I’d hear a soft chime — so close it was almost beside the bed. The most troubling experience was waking up choking. At first, I thought it was some odd sleep issue — that I’d forgotten how to breathe. To fix it, I started propping myself up with pillows. That worked… until it didn’t.

Then one night when I woke myself up choking, I realized I was also making a noise, a low, hollow moan. At that point it hit me: that sound wasn’t random. It sounded like… a ghost. That’s when I understood.

Our ghost was trying to use my voice, my body, to communicate.

Finding the Truth

We started asking questions. Why was the property such a bargain? Who had lived there before us? The neighbors knew, but we hadn’t thought to ask. The truth: the previous tenant in our unit had died there. Suicide.

With that knowledge, pieces started falling into place.

Over time, I learned that he didn’t know he was dead. He was still there, stuck and angry. He thought ending his life would release him, but instead, he was trapped.

The Release

For a while, he hovered in the background, following us even through two more home projects. It wasn’t until his frustration deepened that I started to notice odd smells. The odors didn’t last but the scent was unpleasant, indicating decay of some sort, impossible to locate.

When the fish tank inexplicably collapsed, I took it as my cue to finally ask for guidance. That’s when I heard it — a voice, loud and angry, berating me for ignoring him. He needed help crossing over, and I hadn’t understood. I called on my guides and asked him to focus on someone familiar, someone who could come to meet him. Three beings appeared, ready to guide him home.

He left — still angry, still grumbling about my delay — but gone. The beings were kind. I felt the warmth of their energy. One even thanked me. It was a profound learning experience. One I’ve never forgotten.

We get trapped by our beliefs. Reality shifts the moment those beliefs change. And when you feel stuck, when you don’t know how to move forward, the lesson is simple: ask for help.

The challenge and the reason for knowing the dead have not died?

“…their ability to influence “and in some measure control the thought and conduct of every individual.”

“In the afterlife time does not exist, and progress is eternal.” – The Dead have Never Died, Edward C. Randall

The takeaway: If I had understood the level of interference that is possible when the deceased (and others) roam between dimensions, I might have been better able to identify relationship issues that were triggered in the interim.