This morning, our dog, Dante, died. He was the best kind of dog. I should know--I've had lots of them. As the 20th-century, Pennsylvanian author A.S. Turnbull once said, "Dog's lives are too short. Their only fault, really." I agree. Dante's only fault was that he brightened our lives for only 14 years. Far too short. On the other hand, however, I must also concur with Sir Walter Scott, who noted, "I have sometimes thought of the final cause of dogs having such short lives, and I am quite satisfied it is in compassion to the human race; for if we suffer so much in losing a dog after an acquaintance of ten or twelve [or fourteen] years, what would it be if they were to live double that time?"
But, while grief ought to be the surpassing emotion of today, it isn't. Make no mistake, there is grief. After all, Dante was Peter's and my first child of sorts. Then, he helped raise the rest of our children. A favorite memory was the time our first was just a few months old sleeping upstairs in her crib (back in the days when she slept every now and again). I had burned some toast in the toaster and noticed that Dante was missing. While our other dog, Rocco, had run to the back door because he smelled the overheated toaster and wanted to hide outside (he tends towards cowardice), Dante had run upstairs. I found him standing guard over our baby (she was part his, he thought). He was simply staring at her while she slept.
Then there was the time that one of my kids was being a bit naughty and was sent to his room. Said child tried to sneak back out and come downstairs. Dante would have none of it. He herded that child right back upstairs where he belonged. Speaking of herding, when the kids were little, I couldn't let them play outside if Dante were loose. He would run circles around them, barking in an attempt to gather them to one side of the yard. Even last night, as we are camping, he slept at the doorway to the kids' room, guarding them from whatever dangers lurk inside a family-friendly campground. Yes, he was the best kind of dog.
Still, while my heart is sad, there is an underlying awe at the goodness of God. Today will be remembered as a day in which God answered so many of my prayers. You see, over the years, I've become bold in asking Him for things. Certainly, God is not my butler and has all power and authority simply to say "no" to any and all of my requests, according to His will. The thing I have learned about God, however, is that He wants to say "yes." He loves to grant us our hearts' desires.
A few years ago, when Dante's health began to decline, I prayed that God would take him for me instead of placing the decision to euthanize him in my hands. About six months ago, Dante was showing some definite signs of aging. Simultaneously, our family was entrenched in an extremely difficult family affair. I prayed that God would spare him until we could breathe again. God answered that prayer.
A few months ago, Dante began losing his appetite. While visiting the vet, I asked how common it was for dogs to die at home. She said that it was not common. When I pressed for a percentage, she guessed around 5%. Nevertheless, I prayed with faith believing, knowing the goodness of my Abba. God answered that prayer.
I prayed that God would take Dante when the weather was nice, so we wouldn't have to dig his grave in frozen soil, in the middle of the night, or during a rain storm. It was supposed to rain today, but it isn't. The weather is cool and breezy. God answered that prayer.
Finally, I prayed that Dante would not die alone while we were at church or out and about. I prayed that I would know when he was dead (I had visions of nightmares thinking I buried a live dog!). Dante died in my arms this morning. He was sitting outside with me and looked as though he were having a seizure. I picked him up to soothe him and sent a kiddo to fetch Peter. A few seconds later he calmed. I could feel him breathing calmly, his heart beating, and then I couldn't.
It may be tempting to think this post is about my dog, and perhaps in some ways it is. Instead, however, what I hope to convey is that the God of the universe, the very, very big universe, is also a very, very big God, yet He is equally the God of the small things. He is a God who cares deeply about His creation. What creator doesn't? Doesn't the artist have affinity for each painting or the author a connection to each story? Wouldn't it stand to reason, then, that the ultimate Creator, after Whom all other creators are imaged, would care enough about me and about my dog? After all, He created both of us.
If you've read this far, I thank you for allowing me to remember. I hope my memories encourage you to be bold in approaching the One who made you. The One whose words exhort: "Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need." (Hebrews 4:16).
We humans like to speculate about what happens to dogs after they die. I'm just crazy enough to believe, though, that they do go to heaven. I have no empirical data or irrefutable proof, but my conclusion is based purely and simply on knowing the kind of Creator who made all creatures. It makes sense that He would want to surround Himself with His creation.
