Daisy

 

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Daisy passed away last Tuesday morning. I have been too heartbroken to write. Now that I feel somewhat up to writing; I think that I have to tell this story first, before picking up where I left off at my second official exorcism. I realized before beginning to write this, however, that there are two versions of this story. Of course they bleed together; but I'd rather tell them separately. So, here are both versions of the story of my last days in this life with Daisy.


The Beautiful Version

I'd only noticed that she was sick about two months ago. The cancer took her quickly. For these past few months, I'd been trying to spoil her. We went on "dirt road trucking" excursions, because she loved to ride in the truck. On some of those occasions, we ended up at that chapel she loved so much, or we played in the river. She went "trick-or-treating" at my parents' house often; which, for Daisy, meant simply that we ring the doorbell and get a treat. One night, after trick-or-treating, she stopped on the way home, and laid down on the grass. The stars were shining brightly overhead, and she looked up at them. She seemed happy; so I gathered that she was okay, and merely wanted to pause and enjoy the view for a while. I sat down with her. I didn't rush her.

I discovered that, while she would not watch TV, she loved to listen to me reading aloud; so I read her stories. I tried to read them dramatically and humorously. She'd be lying on the floor, by the sofa in the living room. Often she would not be feeling well, and would have her head resting on her paws. I'd be kneeling beside her; with the book upon the seat of the sofa, using the sofa as a sort of desk. I'd begin reading, dramatically, and adding commentary.
"That guy! He said that stuff!" I'd tell her, jabbing the picture with my index finger for emphasis. Before too long, she would raise her head, interested and alert. Her ears would be perked, as if to say,
"Oh, wow. This must be important. I'd better pay attention."
Not long after that, she'd be resting her head on the seat of the sofa, so that she could see the pictures up close.

That Saturday night, only two days before she died, we went outside to use the bathroom, or so I thought. Instead, she walked me across the road, to my parents' garden and laid down on the grass once more to look at the stars. I was on my phone, but she nudged me slightly with her paw, and I put it away. I felt that she was telling me to stop for a minute and simply enjoy the view with her. So, I did that. We sat for a long while, star-gazing together. When she was ready, she stood up and led me back to the house.

She was very sick during the last two days, and all I could do was comfort her. I offered her water, kept her clean, and tried my best to entertain her with stories. I had already prayed for her a lot; for her to be healed, or for her pain to be eased, whatever the outcome. I prayed for her a lot more during that time, even dedicating an entire rosary to her. On Sunday morning, I lit a candle. It was a plain white beeswax votive candle that had been blessed by a priest. Lynette had sent it in her care package. Sometime Sunday night, as we were reading stories, I looked over at the candle and saw a glowing cross near the bottom of the glass. It had not been there before. 

I was amazed; but still, my first thought was that it might have been something in the wax, perhaps something that doesn't become visible until the candle burns down to a certain point. Upon inspection, however, I saw that the cross was actually formed from wax, and was on the outside of the glass. The vertical line is pointed at the top, and looks almost as if it could have been formed by wax running down the side of the glass. But, no wax had overflowed. No wax ran down the side of the glass; and even if it had, how would the horizontal line have gotten there?
I asked Lynette about it later, just to make sure that the candle didn't come that way. She confirms that it did not. She has other candles, purchased at the same time, which do not feature a waxen cross on the votive.

 

Early Tuesday morning, Daisy had a bad episode. I could tell that she was in pain. I feared the worst; that I'd have to make that dreaded appointment with the veterinarian, who would not even be open for hours yet. All I could do for Daisy was comfort her. I knelt on the floor beside her, held her, and told her,
"Baby girl, I love you so much, and I'll love you forever. Do you understand that? This love is forever. I would never be separated from you, not even for a minute, if it was my choice. But, I would see you smile again. I don't want to see you suffering. I think that you need to go on; so you can get better, so you can feel like going dirt road truckin' again the next time I see you."
Still, she struggled and whimpered.
Finally, I prayed,
"Heavenly Father, Please help my baby. Please ease her pain, or convince her to come on with you, because I think she's fighting this..."
And Daisy died right then, in my arms, before I could even finish the prayer with,
"...Thank you for her life, and for sending her to me in the first place. Please take care of her... well, I know you will. She's a good girl. Thank you for having mercy on her."

I felt a presence --a different one, not the regular haints who hang around here-- for a while afterwards. I saw nothing; but I sensed a male presence, standing right beside us. It was a powerful energy, and not exactly something that I would describe as comforting; but it was benevolent. It was something new; something I had not sensed before. I felt very "watched." As I positioned Daisy's body, gave her farewell kisses, and cried and cried on the floor beside her, I felt someone silently watching me. I didn't speak to him. I was too shocked, saddened, and quite at a loss for words. I didn't pick up any particular emotions, or any images or words from this presence, and I'm not used to that. I'm used to these demons, who I can read like a book. This was something else. I think it was an angel. And, since I have to guess, my guess is that he watched me for a while to make sure I'd be okay.

I've been working on the section of our family cemetery that I have designated for my pets. I've been decorating Daisy's grave. I promised her that I will still read stories to her; and that I will always look up at the stars and think of her. 


The Horrific Version

While Daisy was sick, right up until her death, the evil comments from demons steadily flowed. There was, and still have been, a lot more commands of,
"Cut your breasts off!"
They also told me during this time that they do indeed hang around death scenes, but it's not in order to drag people to Hell, as I had theorized. They said that instead, they hang around hoping to get an opportunity to "make use of the corpse."

They definitely tried to ruin my last days on Earth with Daisy. The demons did their sound-effect trickery to make me hear their words through her breathing. This is the same phenomenon that I experienced early on, when I heard their words through rhythms, or through pretty much any sound. As she panted, they made me hear things, as if she had said them. Things, such as,
"Help me... kill me..."
"Get a handgun and end it..."
and once,
"Fuck your church!"

That Sunday night, the same night that I noticed the cross on the candle, I saw one of them when I stepped out onto the porch to smoke. It peered around a large shrub in my yard, crouching, and waved at me. It acted as if I was not supposed to see it, making some sort of comment, like,
"Son of a bitch! Your powers have been upgraded!"
But, that could have been just another trick as well. I ignored them as much as possible. My focus was on Daisy. Still, they poked me at night, and jerked me awake as soon as I fell asleep. I was already careworn, having lost sleep tending to Daisy. They seemed intent on further inhibiting my ability to provide adequate care for her.
"Love these bastards," some exorcists will tell you.

There are a few demons who still act nicely, at times. They turn evil eventually, however; saying nasty things and then claiming that Satan told them to say that stuff. They have always portrayed themselves as being "assigned to my case," and they carry on as if Satan is their supervisor who checks in every now and then for a progress report. Some of the nicer-seeming ones did say some kind words, just to be fair. Some of the things they said are,
"I'm sorry..."
"She's a beauty queen, if ever one has been seen,"
and,
"We love her too."

At the moment when Daisy died, I sensed power; "the power of God" is what I thought it was. Of course, I was shocked and saddened by her death, which was very sudden; and that certainly clouded my discernment. I almost felt as if the swiftness of her death (...I mean... the words were barely out of my mouth...) was meant to show me that God does answer prayers; perhaps because I have complained about prayers not being answered. I almost felt as if it was a punishment. I felt a little bit rebuked. I have, unfortunately, seen enough death to know that Daisy's death was an intervention. She was not quite "there" yet. I'll spare you the details of how exactly I know that. It's a sad thing to have to know. Once you know the signs, however, they're unmistakable.

But, all of that happened within the span of a few seconds. That was before I sensed the presence standing there in the room, the presence which lingered for a while, and which I decided upon reflection, must have been an angel. Once I began to perceive this presence; two things happened. First of all, the demons, who had been chattering away, quietened down significantly and moved to the other side of me. One of them whispered,
"That should have been on television!"
But, other than that, they shut the hell up. I don't usually see them either, but I sometimes sense where they are; and I sensed that they had moved to the opposite side of me, thus placing Daisy and I between them and this other presence.

I already said that I didn't pick up any emotions, images or words from this presence, but that might not be entirely true. That was the beautiful version, after all. I didn't want to ruin it. Actually, I thought for a moment that I sensed anger. To me, at the time, that sort of went along with my feeling that Daisy's death had been too sudden, and that it might have been a bit of a punishment. I wasn't sure, however, who was actually feeling this. Was someone angry at me, or was I angry with myself? Could it have been merely that I was angry that she died? I will say, however, that this perception of anger also only lasted a few seconds. After that, I perceived nothing except quiet benevolence.
It only just occurred to me today, five days after the fact, that possibly that anger was the angel's anger at the demons; or the demons' anger at the angel, or something like that. It might not have had anything to do with me at all. Also, I have decided that Daisy's intervention was an act of mercy. I think it took me a while to process all of this, which is probably understandable.

When I finally went to bed, near daybreak on Tuesday morning, I was able to sleep peacefully. I had heard a few peeps from demons here and there, so I knew they still were not completely gone; but they were much quieter, as if they'd been exorcised.

We have a family cemetery, as I mentioned. It is on my family's property. When my first dog --well, the first one I'd had, as an adult-- died eleven years ago, I picked out my plot, and we buried him beside it. Since then, I've buried eight others; Daisy being my ninth pet to die, and the third in the past nine months, I might add.
They were all my children. I don't have any human children, but I'm certain that I could not have loved a human child that I birthed myself any more than I have loved every one of those pets. So, now, I have a rather sprawling "baby graveyard" around my original plot that I chose for myself.

My mother is a fairly skilled carpenter, and she usually makes a box, or coffin of a sort, while I help my father dig the grave. Another sad thing to have to know is that, when someone you love dies, putting them in the ground is the hardest part. It's probably even harder when you're digging the grave yourself. Every shovelful, every root to hack out of the way, every layer of sandstone to bust through, is a reminder that this hole is where you're going to put your baby. You're going to have to seal your precious baby up in a box, and put it in a hole, and throw dirt on it. I could never bear the thought of throwing dirt on my babies, so my mother has always made a box.

We didn't get Daisy buried until Wednesday afternoon. After I slept a while on Tuesday morning, I had to go out and buy wood. Mom started on the box, and Dad and I started on the digging, but we didn't get finished before dark. We had to finish all of that Wednesday morning, and then bury Daisy that afternoon. Tuesday night, I slept well again. I experienced a lot of ringing in my ears during those few days, however; and while my father and I were digging, I had demons taunting me constantly.
"You ordered her execution!" they'd say.
Shit like that.

Wednesday night, when I laid down in bed, completely exhausted --physically, emotionally, and spiritually exhausted-- I had demons taunting me and poking at me. They kept "showing me" images of Daisy's dead body, and of Daisy in her coffin. They said things like,
"That's very arousing to Satan."
They kept talking about "desiccation."
One of them said,
"She'd only been dead about a year!"
As soon as that was said, the ringing in my ears started, and it seemed to drown out their voices. The voices faded away, and I fell asleep.

I took Thursday off from everything, to rest. I'm not saying that the following statements are true, but some of them might be partially true. One of the nicer-seeming demons told me on Thursday that Saint Michael was the reason I'd been getting to sleep. They said that he had declared that I needed a rest; and furthermore, that he didn't like them dishonoring Daisy by saying nasty things about her. My thoughts flashed to the "She'd only been dead about a year" comment. The demon speaking said,
"That. Yes. You should not have had to hear that. This demon is sorry that those other demons said that. Those other demons are not here; Saint Michael kicked their asses across the road."
I was outside at the time, and I instinctively looked towards the highway that runs past my house. The demon said,
"Not that road. It was Highway 10 in Louisiana."

On Friday and Saturday, I worked at the cemetery, packing the dirt and whatnot, and starting to decorate the most recent grave. I have hauled truckloads of rocks from the river to encircle all the graves, and I worked on placing the rocks around the borders of Daisy's grave and packing dirt around them to ensure that they settle into place. I stopped for a break at one point, and sat down just looking over all the gravesites. Most of my family is dead too; and my closest relatives are buried there, in the lower part, while my babies are on a hillside. I looked over my babies' graves, recalling each of their sweet faces. I thought about this line from Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, that has always haunted me:
"The first of those sorrows which are sent to wean us from the earth had visited her, and its dimming influence quenched her dearest smiles."
Although it's not the first time, but rather the ninth time; I always think of that when I'm in this state where I can't be happy about anything, and it seems that my eyes have sprung a permanent leak.

I looked over my grandparents graves, and just wished that I could go back... back to when they were still alive. Wasn't there a time, somewhere, sometime long ago, when I was a child, and no one had died yet, and everything was just... okay? Wasn't there some sunny place, way back in the past, where there weren't any problems? Wasn't I a child once? A child who didn't have all these problems, and didn't have demons on top of all these problems?

As I cried for about the thousandth time since Tuesday morning, I felt my right hand being squeezed. One of the nicer-seeming demons said,
"But you can't go back, can you? No, you can't. You have to keep moving forward in this world..."
I looked up for a moment, glancing back at my grandparents' graves. The demon continued,
"That... was Satan. Satan is the reason your family died. You should never have had to see this... nine babies. Bless your heart. You have been sorely abused in this world.
That... is why you should love the sky people...
This is what hurts the most; losing your loved ones. It's the sorrows that wean you from this world, just like Mary Shelley said. That's true. Mary Shelley might have been more spiritually-gifted than this demon realized. And, see? By the time you reach a certain point in your life, all your friends are up there, and you want to go. Isn't that right? You've said that yourself...
Yes, demons don't even like Satan."

It was getting dark, so I stood up, dried my eyes, and went over to pack the dirt on Daisy's grave a little bit more before calling it a day. As I was doing so, the same demon said,
"Yeah, way to go! Put her in a tomb! There you go! You can have your own room! That right there is a mound for a hound!"
I'm quite accustomed to this abuse, so it doesn't really surprise or bother me anymore. I did sense some insincerity in these words, however, so I said (in my head),
"I guess you're going to tell me that Satan made you say that."
The demon replied,
"Yeah, he gets pissed when we act beautiful to beauty queens. He is a stupid demonic entity. Demons really don't like him either. Write about that."
So there. I did.

They don't deserve the last word, however, so I'll also add this:

Daisy's smile was a blessing to everyone who ever saw it; and I truly believe that everyone who ever met her is a little bit happier because they did. I know she's lighting up the sky; but I miss her.