All dogs go to Heaven
By Tamson W. Burgess
Wed Jul 08, 2009, 10:00 AM EDT
“Dogs’ lives are too short. Their only fault, really.” - Agnes Sligh Turnbull
For years I tossed and turned at night, aggravated that my dog always insisted on sleeping against the back of my knees, regardless of where I chose to rest my legs.
This week, I’m finding it hard to sleep at all because the bed seems terribly large and cold without him in it.
A week ago, we made the heart-wrenching decision that it was time for the old boy to leave us, to be rescued from his pain and confusion. And it’s going to take some time to grow accustomed to his absence.
It is, after all, partly a matter of basic human guilt. First, you feel guilty about even having the power to make such a God-like decision on behalf of another living creature. Then, despite all the viable reasons and genuinely compassionate justifications, you wonder if you did the right thing, (though you know you’d have felt equally guilty if you’d let him suffer). Finally, you feel guilty about grieving over the loss of a pet when so many around you struggle with the loss of human loved ones.
But it’s still sad, and it still stings.
We enter into our most meaningful relationships intending them to be life long. Though there are always traumatic exceptions, we expect our parents and children and siblings to be part of our world as long as each has life. Though many end otherwise, we marry with the promise it will last “as long as we both shall live.”
But we’re talking about human life spans here. With good health and a little luck, our parents are with us till we’re 50 or 60, or even 70; our brothers and sisters grow up and grow old with us; our children, we pray, will long outlive us. But the dogs we welcome into our households and hearts have a much shorter lifespan. Depending on their size and breed, their forever only amounts to 10 to 15 years. As a result, our dogs become hallmarks of the eras in our lives.
One pup becomes ever connected to our youth, the dog with whom we shared our childhood. Another might become the mascot for our young adult years: your protector in that first apartment; your companion when you moved far from home. Then, of course, there’s your children’s dog – the one you brought home for them, to make sure they’d share those precious “boy and his dog” memories you treasure, the dog they wanted but you ended up taking care of. Then there’s the post-children pooch or the one who kept you company in your old age.
The average human lifetime has room for a string of dogs. But the day you bring that puppy home in your arms, a dozen or more years seems like a long, long time. When you finally have to let him go at the other end of his all-too-short life, it seems to have passed in a blink of the eye.
Oscar, the old fella we parted with last week, was my fourth dog, and (please do not wave this statement in my face 10 years from now if I cave and change my mind) he’ll be my last.
He was one of the long string of pets our children talked us into over the years. (I think the running total is now six cats, two dogs, one guinea pig, a parakeet, two turtles, a still undetermined number of lizards and an uncountable number of fish.) But while some folks favor kitties, the relationship with a dog is unique. Dogs don’t just share your house; they’re part of the family.
And part of the sadness in Oscar’s passing is realizing and reviewing the era of our lives his life marked.
The day he arrived in our home – small enough to sit in the palm of my hand – all our kids were still kids. Fourteen and a half years later they are all grown adults, building happy and successful lives of their own.
He was known and loved by so many people we lost during his lifetime. He lived with us in two towns and four homes. He was there at the door to great us after weddings and funerals, in sickness and in health, for richer and poorer, when the kids moved out (and when they moved back in). He made room in his kingdom for anyone who entered. He adopted every new family member and even learned to put up with the cats they brought with them.
And all this without question or judgment. He just loved us, wholeheartedly and unconditionally. I adore my cats, but – well – they just aren’t dogs. And even the one who thinks he’s a dog, won’t, can’t ever quite fill that gaping chasm.
Oscar’s departure from our lives has provided a sort of swan song for the era his life encompassed. Thinking back on his years with us forced us to think back on our years with him – days that were certainly already passed, but are now somehow sealed in history with his passing. I’ve seen it in everyone’s eyes. This pup had a knack for knowing who needed him most. Over 14-plus years he belonged, at different times, to each of us. He seemed to know without words which person most needed a friend, or a protector, and became their shadow.
In the end, it was he who needed us, and I only wish we could have done more.
In that regard, it seems, grief knows no species. Just as we worry about how we might have been a better child or parent, husband or wife, sibling or friend, when we lose a pet we can’t help thinking of all the things we didn’t do, the things we didn’t or couldn’t provide.
So, Oz, if I could do it all again, the yard would be bigger and the run a lot longer. Leftovers and chocolate would actually be good for you. The Beggin’ Strips would be endless, and the water bowl would always be full. We would take more walks, and you’d get more baths. The bed wouldn’t be as high, and there would always be room on the couch. Cats would always be friendly, and there would never be thunder or fireworks. I’d take you with me more often and come home three times a day just to see your delight. I’d be more patient, more understanding. (And I’d also do a better job of explaining about the chewing and the piddling.)
When I woke up last Thursday morning, I walked to the kitchen door, as I have every morning for decades, only there was no dog waiting to go out. And I found myself staring across the yard and waxing philosophical, thinking about my dad, who made no secret of the fact that he liked most dogs he met better than the people he met. I envisioned Oscar taking a long walk with him, no leash required, frolicking and rolling and running like the wind, as he did when he was just a puppy. Then I felt guilty again, knowing many folks would argue that Heaven is for people.
That’s when I started to grin, because if you believe in Heaven, it’s absolutely full to overflowing with dogs. After all, it wouldn’t be paradise without them.
Thanks for everything, buddy. And have a nice run.
Tamson W. Burgess is the editor of the Old Colony Memorial and wickelocalplymouth.com, and the senior editor in the GateHouse Media Plymouth newsroom. E-mail her at tburgess@cnc.com.
