The Old Blog in the Desert

When I was a boy, I asked the preacher if dogs went to Heaven. He gave me a long answer that included a few verses, some metaphors, and a lot of shrugging. I took that as a “probably not,” which didn’t sit right then and doesn’t sit any better now.

See, I’ve known dogs better than I’ve known most people. I’ve loved a few, buried a few, and cried over more of them than I ever let on. I’ve watched them grow old on the same porch I grew old on, with their gray whiskers catching the morning light and their bones popping like old floorboards when they stood up.

And when the day came—the day that always comes—I’d hold them while the vet did what needed doing, and I’d whisper some nonsense like, “It’s okay, buddy,” though it never felt okay, not even a little.

Now, I don’t pretend to know the secrets of the universe, or what’s waiting past that last breath. But I do know this, wherever the good dogs go, I want to be. That seems like the only place worth heading to.

Men chase all kinds of foolishness in their lives. I’ve done it myself—ran after ambition, burned up time trying to be impressive, fell headlong into love with the wrong woman once or twice, though she’d probably say it was the other way around. And when it’s all said and done, none of it sits as warm on your heart as a dog resting its chin on your knee, just happy you’re there.

You can holler at a dog, forget to feed him, leave him behind on a fishing trip—and he’ll still look at you like you hung the moon. Not because you deserve it, but because he decided a long time ago that you were his, and that was that.

I think that’s about as close to grace as we get on this side of the grave.
Some folk imagine Heaven as mansions, choirs, and halos, and maybe it is.

But for me, I’d rather it be an open field just after a summer rain. One of those places where the grass grows long and soft underfoot, and there’s a good dog just ahead of me, tail wagging, tongue out, turning back now and then to make sure I’m still following.

If there’s a God—and I believe there is—I figure He knew what He was doing when He made the dog. No ego, no lies, no agenda. Just love, and the quiet willingness to stick around even when things get hard.

So when my time comes, please don’t put too much fuss into it. Just find a shady spot under a tree somewhere, and let me lie down beside an old friend.

Let the dirt be warm, and the breeze soft, and the silence kind. And if someone asks what happened to me, say, “He went to the dogs.”

And that’s all I ever wanted.