My Familiar

    -by Deannalynn Arzola

Familiar: A demon supposedly attending a witch, often said to assume the form of an animal. (noun)

This is how Webster's defines The Familiar. I have my own thoughts about Familiars and I am not alone.

French poet, Charles Baudelaire, wrote many a poem to his beloved cat, whom he believed to be his familiar.

Pierre A. Riffard, renown French philosopher and Professor defined the Familiar Spirit as the alter-ego of an individual and while it did not look like said individual, and had an independent life of it's own, it remained very closely linked to the individual and was oft in the form of an animal.

In the 17th century, those believed to be witches were hung, along with their beloved pets.

What I know about familiars I learned only after I had met mine...

Fourteen years ago today, a life changing event occurred inside on my home on Cove Landing, in Las Vegas, Nevada. My family's Labrador Retriever had a litter of pups. It was a typical hot, June, Las Vegas day. At about 7 in the morning, Cali started panting and walking circles in my walk-in closet. Prior to the blessed event, my husband, David, had constructed a whelping box for her in the third bedroom of our home, but Cali had plans of her own. She began to deliver her babies in slow succession, right there on the closet floor. Amidst a break in the delivery, David moved her and her pups to the whelping box. At about 7 that night, she had finally finished labor and before our eyes were eleven little miracles scrambling underneath her, to nurse. 

Now, please know, I have witnessed the miracle of birth first hand. It is amazing. But I read books and watched videos and was schooled by pediatricians, and when I arrived at the hospital, I was surrounded by nurses and doctors, and other than actually pushing my child out of me, they did all the work. When my daughter was delivered, a nurse quickly rushed her over to a table, where she assisted my daughter in drawing her very first breath. They cleaned her up, swathed her in a blanket and handed her to me and then showed me how to feed her.

Cali had none of these benefits, but somehow, she knew exactly what to do. She pushed out pup after pup, tenderly licking each of their faces to help them breathe. She cleaned them and did with their placentas what only animals do. She carried them with her teeth, softly enough not to hurt them, and placed them where they needed to be. She fed them and loved them and protected them with the veracity of a momma bear. She lit my soul flame. When you witness something like this, all three of you, as a family, well, it kinda takes your breath away.

About a week after the births, we began to allow the babies out of the whelping room, to explore their world on their own. My being the messy housewife I was at times, my Levi cutoffs were lying on the floor of our living room when one of the pups, having only two of his senses in tact at this point, smell and touch, found his way to them and decidedly curled up in a little ball of blonde fur and promptly went to sleep. I have this photograph sitting next to my bed. A couple weeks after that, I found myself alone in the whelping room with Cali and the babies. I walked over to the box and gently picked up one of them and returned to my seat under the soft glow of the lamp. I was holding up, in an almost exalted sort of way and looked into his eyes and began to cry. Right about this time, David walked in from work. "Momma, why are you sitting in the dark,  hold that puppy in the sky, tears streaming down your face? What's wrong?" "David", I replied, "Remember how I've been telling you for the past seven years that I have wanted a yellow Lab, you know, the one I've seen my whole life?" He's just standing there, in the door way, looking at me with this sweet, understanding face, and he says, "Yes..." "This is him, David. This is the one!"

David had actually bought Cali for me a year and a half earlier, for Christmas. He had a little purple ribbon tied around her neck, and everything. I didn't have the heart to tell him that Cali was NOT THAT LAB. When he saw me sitting there with Elvis in my hands that night, he knew.

I named my yellow lab Elvis for two reasons. Mr. Presley and I were both born on January 8, and it had taken me six weeks to come up with the perfect name. David and I were watching an old Elvis movie, as they were being shown around the anniversary of his death, and David and I just looked at each other and at the same time said, "Elvis".

Elvis was my best friend. He stood not beside me, but in front, as I weathered every storm. When I would visit my BFF in California without him, all I could think of was getting back home. He lived with me in three different states, traveling with me in my car every single mile. Surely he has logged as many miles on I-10 as I have. I'm gonna estimate, 5,000 of 'em.

He was with me when I left David. He made the very uncomfortable, heart breaking, gut wrenching drive with me from San Antonio back home to Vegas. A trip upon which I cried in agony for almost every single mile. He must have saved my life three times that year alone. He slept beside me, making the unenviable task of learning how to sleep alone again after 17 years a hell of alot easier. He protected our home and my grandson.

When he was getting older, and I could no longer handle the pain of divorce, we moved to the beach. And I do mean the beach. My rent was $1400 a month and I didn't have a job. I made David pay every penny of it!!!. Elvis swam in the Pacific Ocean almost every day and I slept with sandy sheets for the next year. He knew every sidewalk, stop sign and store in Ocean Beach and every vendor knew Elvis. 

One day, I was sitting on my deck watching him play when a green hummingbird came up to his nose and just hung there, flapping it's wings for what seemed minutes, and Elvis just stood there, face to face with it. A total Kodac moment, to say the least. He used to chase geckos in the morning glory bush outside my door. He brought me peace in the midst of my war. He taught me love in it's purest form.

He died in my arms on April 26, 2009. After the shock of his death wore off, I remember sitting on the wood floor of my apartment, alone, in the dark, without him and letting out the most primal scream from the deepest parts of my soul. My neighbors came running.

It was that day that I realized what true love really is. It is the kind of love you have for someone that is just as strong everyday after their death and for the rest of your life as it was the moment they entered your life.

Before I cremated my dog, I removed the charm from his collar, a charm we had bought together at a store called The Black on Newport in Ocean Beach and I put it on a silver chain and I still wear that charm. Hummingbirds, green ones, fly into my space and hang there for a while, as if to share a message. I miss him every single day. Even with his charm around my neck and his ashes beside my bed, but I know that he is with me all the time. I died a short time after his death. They brought me back from the brink and I was on life support for four days. It was as if he didn't want me to come to him yet. As if I still had things to do with my life, like see The Pacific Northwest, find love again, and spend Thanksgiving Dinners with my beautiful little family. It's as if he said, "Momma, don't be so selfish, and I won't be, either."

Today, my baby would be 14 years old. I wish him the happiest birthday because I know he hears my wishes.

He is my guardian angel and the love of my life. We found each other in this life and that is the greatest blessing there is.

He is my familiar, and it really doesn't matter whether you practice witchcraft or follow French philosophy, when you've had the magic of meeting your soulmate, you've experienced life at it's most beautiful.

Happy birthday, Bubby. Momma loves you so much!!!

Blessed be...