Last summer, our 12-year-old miniature schnauzer began to have seizures. She was placed on human seizure medication, and we were told that she should be all right as long as the seizures did not increase substantially in frequency or go over 15 minutes in length.
A few months later, standing with her in the kitchen, she wandered into the pantry and seconds later, I heard a loud thump. My heart fell as I ran into the pantry to discover Min lying on the floor in the midst of another seizure—stiff, eyes rolled back, foaming at the mouth while thrashing and banging her head on the floor. I jumped into what had become our normal seizure routine—turning on sound healing music and giving her Reiki.
The seizure passed the two minute mark, then it became five minutes. With each minute, I was beginning to get more anxious. We were now at eight. They had never gone this long. I called on my Reiki guides and angels for additional help, when all of sudden an unmistakably strong gust of cool wind blew into the pantry, encircled Min and I, lingered for a few seconds and left. (There are NO windows or doors in the pantry and NONE were open in the other rooms.) My first thought was, “Oh, no, I am losing her.” Then another thought immediately followed. My first Reiki teacher, Sue Marinelli, had said that very often when you are working with Reiki, you will be working with angels. I remembered asking how we would know, and she had said that it might feel like a cool breeze.
The seizure continued to 10 minutes and then, 15. I called the animal hospital and was instructed to bring her in right away. My daughter, who had just pulled into the driveway, joined me in the car and gave the dog Reiki throughout the trip. Min’s eyes never left me.
When we arrived at the hospital, Min was instantly taken from us as we were escorted into a tiny, windowless waiting room. We knew the situation did not look good. We called my husband.
In about 5–10 minutes, there was a knock at the door and the doctor entered. He said that they had given our dog medication to stop the seizures but her temperature was 107⁰. An hour had passed since I had called the hospital. At that temperature, he said, a dog’s brain typically turns to mush. He had also flashed light into her eyes and it appeared that there was no brain activity. His suggestion was that we put Min down. He then continued to say that at this large animal hospital, there had only ever been one dog that had briefly survived a similar situation. That dog had lived for 48 hours, then had bled to death. I thought for a few minutes and then wearily responded, “Is there any possibility we could have just six hours” (not really knowing why I said this)? He replied with, “ I can give you 12.” We thanked him, said good-night to Min and went home.
The next morning, while none of us wanted to call for fear of the response, my husband called and we were told that Min was awake, walking and seemed to be very upset that the dog in the compartment next to hers was given more food that she was. The doctor asked if they could keep her another 36 hours. We happily agreed. The following day, we brought Min home. Much to the surprise of the doctors and assistants, she had beat the odds—a extraordinary blessing from Reiki.