Bishop Thomas Tobin |
My Dog Gone Problem
10/2/14
|
I’ve got a problem. My dog is gone and I miss her. As some of
you know, I lost my little dog Molly about three months ago, on June 19 to be
exact. She died at the age of sixteen from old age and recurring respiratory
problems. Molly had been with me since she was just eight weeks old. She was a
wonderful part of my life all those years, and now I miss
her.
I’m not a very emotional person. Too much
Irish-German heritage. But Molly’s passing has challenged my emotional
boundaries, unlike anything I’ve experienced before.
Just to be clear, Molly’s loss hasn’t thrown me into the depths
of depression or anything like that. It hasn’t affected my health, my daily
activity or my outlook on life. (At least not that I’ll admit!) But I miss her
constant companionship at the house and the little things that became part of
our routine.
I miss that when I come home from the office or a parish visit
she’s not there to run down (in her early years) or amble down (in her last
years) the hall to greet me.
I miss the click-click-click of her toes on the hardwood
surfaces as she moved between living room, dining room and bedroom.
I miss watching her stand at the closet door at the kitchen
waiting for her favorite treat, or appearing at my table expecting something
from my plate, barking to let me know she was there, as if I didn’t
know.
I miss the little walks with her around the property, first
thing in the morning, during the day, and last thing at night.
I miss having her sit with me on the front porch, watching the
traffic on the Wampanoag Trail, while I sipped coffee and prayed the
Breviary.
And I miss the constant conversation I had with her when I was
home during the day: “Time to get up, Molly . . . C’mon, let’s go outside . .
Here’s your treat, Molly . . . You’re a silly girl, Molly . . . Hurry up, Molly,
it’s cold out here . . . Someone’s coming, Molly . . . The Steelers are idiots,
Molly . . . You’re the best dog in the history of the world, Molly!”
The house is so different now. It’s quiet and empty.
When Molly died lots of thoughtful people offered me very kind
and helpful personal comments, cards, letters, and even gifts. Many of these
folks had pets of their own and understood the loss. I didn’t know that there
were so many creative cards designed specifically to express sympathy at the
loss of a dog.
One card has a constellation of stars in the form of a dog
against the night sky with the inscription, “Heaven is a little brighter now;
I’m really sorry for your loss.” Another has a picture of a little dog with
angel wings and says, “To make Heaven a perfect resting place for loved ones we
adore, God made sure those pearly gates contained a doggy door.” And one of my
favorite cards shows an old pickup truck speeding down a country road with a dog
in the passenger seat, head out the window braced against the wind, with the
inscription, “In Heaven, the car windows are always rolled down.”
In many ways, Molly is still with me. Her leash and now empty
collar are rolled-up in the kitchen closet where we kept her supplies. So are
the food and water bowls she used for sixteen years, along with the favorite
treat toy she played with all the time, even until the morning of the day she
died. On my phone I have a “selfie” with Molly and me on the couch, taken just
moments before we got in the car for her final trip to the vet. I think about
Molly just about every day; there are pictures of her all around the house, and
her remains are resting in a little mahogany memorial box on a shelf in the
living room.
I can’t escape her memory but I really don’t want to. Every so
often, as I travel around the diocese, someone who didn’t know about Molly’s
passing will ask, “And how’s Molly doing?” It can be awkward, but I don’t mind.
I’m grateful that they remembered her.
And at least a hundred times someone’s asked me the big
question: “So, are you going to get another dog?” The answer is always the same.
“Maybe someday. I’m open to it. If God wants me to have another dog, he’ll
provide.”
So, I might get another dog someday. But I don’t want just any
dog. I want a dog that’s not too big or too small; a dog that’s alert but not a
yapper; a dog that doesn’t shed and is neat and clean; a dog that’s smart,
playful and really good with people; a dog that’s just a little bit feisty but
also obedient; a dog that’s attentive to me but is also comfortable being alone.
In other words, I want a perfect dog. I want Molly.
One day after Molly died, I came across a newspaper article that
asked the question, “Do dogs go to heaven?” The article explains that
traditional Catholic theology would say no, because animals aren’t created in
the image and likeness of God and don’t have immortal souls.
I don’t know if all dogs go to heaven. But I know one who did.
http://www.thericatholic.com/
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