The inner encounters I have with animals—and will be teaching you to have— are exchanges of meaning.

Grieving the loss of a loved one—whether human or animal—is not only permissible, it is essential.

It is my understanding from an intuitive relationship with animals that it is complete folly to try to figure out what is right or wrong for humans by observing what other animals are doing. Observe any animal and you will quickly figure out that a hawk does not try to hunt like an eagle. The wolf does not try to be a lion.

To be sure, there are human abilities that other animals lack, but the more we learn about animals, the more abilities we discover that humans lack. Obviously, if animals were included in the Olympics, humans wouldn’t take home any gold medals. We can’t run as fast as a cheetah, swim as well as a fish, or lift as much weight as an elephant.

Every species embodies a solution to some environmental challenge, and some of these solutions are breathtaking in their elegance.

Animals in children’s literature always have a soul life because children perceive animals as having souls.

Animals suffer both emotionally and physically, but they don't suffer metaphysically. That is, they don't suffer about suffering, don't get thrown into spiritual confusion by it, or fall out of connection with the divine because of it.

Animals don't know exactly what will happen when they die any more than we do. In the absence of specific knowledge, they simply trust. They trust death the way they trust life: as participation in the Source. What will happen when they die must be okay because what is happening now is okay.

Animals remind us that all beings who walk, stand, swim, crawl, or fly are radiant, mysterious, and unique expressions of the Source. Every species, every culture, has it’s own genius.