The Spiritual Nature of Animals. Karlene Stange
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by uncooperative horses and something unpremeditated has taken over me. Some kind of fortitude sparks a focused energy I send through my eyes and voice so intensely that it convinces those horses to stop misbehaving, and they obey me. Every veterinarian in practice is familiar with the fortitude required to face unfamiliar, growling dogs, hissing cats, and rearing horses.
Fortitude exists in all beings, human and animal, and does not arise out of an intellectual process. It springs from spirit, the invisible force we feel in ourselves and others. It emerges most forcefully when we face danger or a threat. Ever try to restrain an angry cat? Watch out! A cat can channel the fortitude to make two Doberman pinschers back away without touching the feline. The spirit flows through the eyes, and the voice tells those dogs to “back off,” and they do.
In other words, I’ve discovered firsthand that there is more to living beasts than fur and feathers and physical parts, and my journey to explore the spiritual nature of animals is in part an attempt to understand this important component of life.
I first discovered this spirit in myself through martial arts training. By the late 1980s, I had earned a red belt in karate, and I was looking for a new teacher, or sensei, to take me to the brown belt level. The man I hoped would train me was well respected by other karate students in town. He had a fourth-degree black belt in Shotokan karate and was a master of tai qi chuan. He had also been a mercenary soldier. I met him to ask if he would teach me, and he said he wanted to spar. I was not experienced in fighting, especially not against such a powerful man. He stood over six feet tall, with a shaved head and camouflage fatigues. Still, I agreed. Though we wore padded gloves, it still stung when he popped me in the forehead. The blow hurt my neck, which made me mad, and I charged at him with my fists flying. He crossed his arms in front of his face, laughing. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, okay, okay. . . . I’ll teach you. You have brown belt spirit.”
Spirit was the term my teacher used to describe the energy that moved me to go after someone I could never beat. That energy came from inside me without conscious choice. The same energy has exploded out of me at times when a horse behaves dangerously. In moments of intense fear, thought stops and something takes over me, just as it happened when my teacher hit me. I will look the horse in the eye and command, “You stand still!” in an eruption of intense, palpable energy that even frightens me — after the event. Amazingly, the majority of horses obey, stop rearing or pushing me, and I pet them and tell them, “You’re okay.” I understand that they are frightened, too, and they seem to bond with me as if I were their leader. My reactions feel like spirit that arises from some nonmental instinct rather than a learned skill, and it is directed through my eyes and voice, just like an angry cat.
Fear is our first opponent in a fight. It paralyzes us and must be overcome. In karate, I was taught to fight with “no mind.” Thought is too slow; during a fight, there is no time to think about what to do, so the body is trained with hours of repetitive moves to learn how to react when attacked. Furthermore, when I stop thinking, fear dissolves. Whenever I sparred in a no-mind manner, I did not remember what happened. The only memory I had was of the first technique after the command to start and of the last technique before the order to stop. The men in class would tell me how my opponent had me cornered, yet I landed a spinning back fist followed by a back kick, and so on, none of which I could recall.
I also observed my body moving in ways I never learned. Somehow my body defended itself when I was attacked. On one occasion a girlfriend jumped on my back with her arms around my neck, saying, “Okay, karate girl, what are you going to do?” I thought, Well, I’m not going to poke your eyes out; I’m not going to break your ribs with an elbow strike. I didn’t want to hurt her, so I gave up, and the moment I quit thinking, something took over. My right foot went back and my torso bent forward, quickly launching her over my head onto the grass. She looked as stunned as I felt. It all happened as if some force took over my body.
My sensei also called that force or spirit “qi” (pronounced “chee”). In karate class, we learned how to focus and direct qi for more powerful movement. Qi gives even small people, and cats, great strength.
Sensei said, “You can stop a fight with a look.” This is exactly what cats do, and it has been proven true for me on several occasions. Large men have backed away from me when spirit was directed through my glare. But again, I never intentionally think to do this. Fortitude just rises up out of me when danger enters my space. In short, something animates me that is not related to my conscious decisions.
Sensei’s spirit radiated at least twenty yards whenever he demonstrated a kata, a patterned series of karate moves. His face appeared serene. He moved smoothly as if he was swimming, yet I found myself backing away. The power that radiated from him was not physical; it was energetic spirit. The same spirit or power emanates from animals, especially in the wild.
One day, while cross-country skiing with two friends in Rocky Mountain National Park, we spotted a large herd of elk bedded down about a hundred yards away. The cows were startled and struggled to move off in the deep snow. Then a large bull stood and glared at us. The force of his gaze knocked me backward into the snow. He radiated his energy so impressively from such a distance that it physically struck me. My friends and I agreed to go another direction so we would not disturb the herd. From karate and this bull, I realized that nonphysical energy emanates from human and animal bodies.
Through karate training I learned to appreciate Eastern philosophies and the concept of how to move energy. I understood how to direct qi, and I could feel it from others. About that time, I felt burned out with my job. Animals acted like they hated me. Everything I did seemed mean: castrating colts, deworming, giving injections to foals that acted terrified, floating horse’s teeth. The animals lacked an appreciation for these procedures even though I intended to help them. Even more difficult for me was my inability to cure so many problems. Sometimes people could not afford the best treatments; other times the drugs I used made things worse.
Then I learned about an acupoint on the inside of a horse’s lip that changed everything. Pressure at this point causes horses to calm down, lower their heads, and lick their lips. (Licking tells me a horse likes what I am doing.) The stimulation of this point releases endorphins, the body’s own opiates. I came to use it every day.
One day a man called me to give his horse annual vaccines, deworming, and float his teeth. When I arrived, the man informed me that the horse could be difficult, maybe a bit mean, and that he hated needles. He thought a woman might have a better chance of getting along with the horse.
I approached the gelding easily, petting him gently and stroking his soft muzzle. I pressed my left index finger in the center of his upper lip until he seemed comfortable with my touch, then I slipped it in between his upper lip and teeth and pressed on a depression between the two front teeth where the lip meets the gum. The horse leaned against my finger, lowered his head, and licked. Then I gently but firmly pinched his upper lip with my fingers, digging the fingernails into his lip and the acupoint in the middle of the upper lip. His head came up a bit at first and then he closed his eyes, head lowered again, and licked more. I had a twitch (a foot-long metal pincher that looks like a nut cracker) on my left forearm and slowly slid it up to pinch the lip as I released my fingers. The man squeezed and wiggled the twitch as I easily administered intravenous sedation. I completed all the procedures without any fighting. I was happy to accomplish the job and stay safe. The twitch, used properly, is an excellent tool that stimulates acupoints causing the release of endorphins and other happy chemicals. It has kept me safe countless times.
This amazing acupoint made me want to learn more about acupuncture. Then I heard about the International Veterinary Acupuncture Society (IVAS), and I signed up to attend in 1994. There I discovered my natural aptitude for traditional Chinese veterinary medicine (TCVM). It resonated with me, and I felt at home with it. After an internship and an exam, I became certified as a veterinary acupuncturist in 1997. Then I started the IVAS herbology course and met Dr. Xie, a third-generation Chinese veterinarian who taught at the University of Florida veterinary school. Not only is Dr. Xie extremely knowledgeable, he is also one of the kindest people I have ever met. His students call him “Shen.” In TCVM, shen is the spirit that resides in the heart. That fits Dr. Xie. For me, the man is a sage — a wise, humble master. Whenever