We love our pets and mourn their passing, sometimes not quite understanding why their deaths leave such an emotional void.
My eldest brother, Dick, recently kept a death watch over his longtime Labrador retriever, one of the best canine species on the planet (if you can overlook their incessant chewing for the first couple of years). They are great around young children, even hair-pulling toddlers. They will follow their owners into an inferno, they are that loyal. And they make awesome hunting companions, or so I’m told.
Dick wrote the following essay as a way to come to terms with his loss. I pass it on with one spoiler. I’m not the younger brother he mentions in the reflection.
Last Wednesday morning, as I attended Mass at church, I was in sorrow for the death of my pet dog, Betsy, a black Labrador who had been part of our family for 11 years. Five other individuals were there at Mass during which was read an epistle that stressed mourning.
As I prayed, I reflected on how Betsy had treated me for years as if I were her god, focusing and concentrating on me, always wanting to be in my presence. Wherever I went, she followed, keeping her eyes on me and wanting to know everything about my activity. It seemed that she truly loved me, and her love was unconditional. She was completely loyal and showed that she was happiest in my presence, and that I was more important than food, toys or other companions. I could consistently count on her being there by my side. However, when I was out of sorts or exhibited anger, not necessarily directed at her, she would slink off as if to wonder and be concerned as to whether she had done something wrong or offended me.
As the Mass progressed, I realized what a role model Betsy was for how I should act toward my God, which in turn revealed why I am not a saint and often feel the sinner. It may seem peculiar that our pet dogs, who are dependent on us, could exemplify how we should behave toward our own God. Does it seem that the time we take for Mass, the most important of my prayers, is an imposition? Do we spend time focusing on our God in other prayer, even 10 minutes of our day? My Betsy only had time for me. Do I set conditions upon God for giving Him my love? Do I make God my top and first priority in the way in which I always came first with Betsy, who wanted nothing but to be close to me at all times? How much have I worried in life about offending God and examining my conscience the way my dog seemed to wonder if she transgressed me? I would make a poor dog.
In the days leading up to her death, Betsy reminded me of what Jesus accomplished with His own death, which was bring us all together. My younger brother and I had been estranged for the last three years, not speaking to each other, our last exchange said in hateful anger. This brother has a great love for dogs, having several of his own. I shared with him my concerns about Betsy, knowing he had lost one of his own recently, which led to our commiserating with each other, emailing back and forth, eventually closing with the word “love.” We have made peace now and are acting like brothers who care for each other. As we are both old men, how sad it would have been for one of us to die and have that animosity be remembered as our final conversation.
I believe that God has His ways and uses all of His creation for His purposes, and so it is with a dog. Our pet dogs may be here to show us how we should approach our God. In the manner that I miss Betsy terribly, so I think it must be with our God when we willfully sin and depart from Him.
As to Betsy’s final moments, she died in her own bed in our home about noon. The sunlight was streaming through the windows as my wife and I sat next to her, stroking her fur and telling her what a good dog she was and how we loved her while she whispered her last breaths and departed this life. May God, in His mercy, grant me such a final departure.
• Contact Tim Kalich at 581-7243 or tkalich@gwcommonwealth.com.
