Loving Wide Open
This morning, I sat beside Chonkie, a big 75 pound Am Staff and looked at his sweet face.
His knee surgery is tomorrow.
As I sat with him in the quiet of the early morning, I was reminded to trust.
Trust that surgery is the right choice.
Trust that the surgery will go well.
Trust that his recovery will go well.
Trust that Chonkie and I can handle the two weeks of bed rest that will follow.
I see this experience as a very direct message from Spirit:
Slow down and take care of this sweet soul.
He needs me.
There is another message here too.
I am not in control.
I cannot change the condition of his knee. I cannot perform the surgery or guarantee exactly how his recovery will unfold. I cannot make certain that he will never feel afraid or uncomfortable.
My heart hurts when I think about the pain or fear he may experience.
I feel scared.
I feel sad.
I feel concerned.
And then I return to trust.
I trust that my guides and Spirit will be with Chonkie and me throughout the entire process.
I trust that Spirit will guide the surgeon’s hands.
I trust that Chonkie will feel minimal pain.
I trust that his body will heal in its own perfect time and that he will once again be able to run, hike, play, and do his joyful zoomies without pain.
There is so much love here too.
I love this sweet, kind, loving creature with my whole heart.
I am discovering that I can feel this immense love while also feeling frightened, sad, and concerned.
One feeling does not cancel out the others.
Spirit is showing me that trust, love, slowing down, leaning in, and letting go are all possible—even at the same time.
What Chonkie Is Teaching Me
Chonkie is teaching me that love does not require me to have every answer.
Love does not give me control over another being’s body, healing, or journey.
Sometimes love asks me to make the best decision I can, seek the help that is needed, and then release what was never mine to control.
That does not mean I am letting go of Chonkie.
It means I am letting go of the belief that I must control everything in order to love him well.
Chonkie does not need me to know exactly what will happen next.
He does not need me to pretend that I am not worried.
He needs my presence.
He needs me to slow down, stay close, listen to him, care for him, and help him feel safe.
His recovery will require rest, patience, observation, and a different pace.
Those things are not interruptions keeping me from what I am supposed to be doing.
Caring for him is what I am supposed to be doing.
Once again, an animal is becoming my teacher.
Chonkie is showing me that trust does not mean fear has disappeared.
I can feel afraid and still trust.
I can feel sad and still believe in healing.
I can release control while remaining fully present and devoted to his care.
I am reminded of something my guides have shown me before:
“Trust is not the reward after certainty—it is the path that allows the journey to unfold.”
I don’t have all the answers, and I can’t control any of the outcome.
And that’s okay.
Love isn’t about those things.
Love is about simply being, trusting, and loving wide open.
You May Be Wondering…
How can I trust when I am frightened for my animal companion?
Trust does not require you to stop feeling afraid.
When an animal companion is facing surgery, illness, pain, or uncertainty, fear may naturally be part of the experience.
Trust means allowing the fear to be present without letting it become the only voice you hear.
You can feel afraid and still make a thoughtful decision.
You can feel sad and still believe healing is possible.
You can seek help, provide care, ask questions, and remain deeply involved while accepting that you cannot control every part of the outcome.
Your animal companion may not need you to know exactly what will happen next.
They may simply need you to stay beside them.
Present.
Listening.
Trusting.
And loving them wide open.
May you see the world through the eyes of love, remembering that we are all part of one living, sacred whole.
