A Conversation About Dogs and Heaven
A few weekends ago my daughter sat on the arm of the couch next to me and engaged in what has probably been the most intentional conversation we have ever had. She is presently five years of age.
“Daddy, how old is Mac and Mace?” This is the type of question that an answer changes with the passage of time. In this family, dogs have been part of our lives for over a decade now, before my wife and I were married.
“Well, they are very old, they are 13.5 years old.” In human years, their age is supposed to equate to about 94 or so, well above the average life-span of humans. The reality of their age is something I have had to come to grips with this past year. Both of the boys have started to really slow down and show their age, Mac having shown his age by 11, and Mace quite recently starting this past summer.
Our home has a pretty sizable backyard for being in the suburbs, and the previous owner built a dog run in the west lawn. Every day, for most of their lives I would leave them in the backyard to run and just be themselves with plenty of water. A tree in the northwest corner provides ample shade and it was just really a perfect place for them to burn energy, or lounge in the shade. Mac very often, I would find just sitting by the tree, while his brother Mace would play sentry. In 2019, unbeknownst to me I let them out for the day on what was the hottest day of that summer. When I returned home from work, I ventured out to the back yard to get them inside and to my grave realization saw that Mac was laying down as though he were asleep. My heart dropped, because I knew that something was wrong. Mace was excited as usual as I approached the run, so he was okay, but Mac needed help. I picked him up, and carried him into the house where I began to rub him down with a wet towel, and then grabbed one of our portable fans to blow on him to try and cool him down. He became responsive, threw up the gloopiest yet clear liquid I’d ever seen. He was still not okay, his back legs were weak and unsteady, so I took him to the vet where they immediately put him on fluids. He was on fluids for a few hours, regained his strength but was obviously tired. He had more fluid therapy the next morning and we had to wait for him over the next few days to improve or make the decision to euthanize. Heat stroke in dogs is remarkably fatal, but heat exhaustion/stress is sort of that window of time where dogs can still recover. Mac was fortunate to never have reached the stroke stage, his vitals improved and his blood work returned to normal.
“Daddy, I’m going to be 13 someday. How old will they be then?” The question stung me a little bit, because now I had to wrestle with that protective parental lie, or I could be matter-of-fact and just give her the bad news.
”Well, by then Daddy will probably have to take them to Heaven.” I opted to be matter-of-fact with a touch of perfidious protective parenting. The wet works began, my daughter understood my context as it being a one-way trip for them.
”But I don’t want them to go to Heaven, I want them to stay down here!” she cried. The gravity of this conversation immediately became clear. This was my moment where we talked about death.
”Sweetie, Mac and Mace are gifts from Heaven that Daddy was trusted to take care of while they are here on Earth. I have to give them back someday.”
”Why?” she challenged. ”Is God not strong enough to take them by Himself?” My own emotions started to emerge even as I tried to process how this became a question of God’s strength. What I had written off as naive thinking from a five year old ended up being something deeper than I could have expected.
”He is strong enough, Sweetie, but this is something He is going to let me do because of how much I will miss them.” I said, believing in it in spite of how outlandish it was beginning to sound. I felt that this would be enough. I hoped that this would be enough. I had reached that parental wit’s end where anything else would simply conclude with a because-I-said-so. Olivia, still processing our conversation with tearful emotion was not finished.
”Will you come back down?” she asked.
November 2014, my wife was in labor and I was observing the whole process. Olivia entered the world, and while the doctor clamped the umbilical cord, I prepared for the traditional cutting of the cord. The doctor handed me the scissors, and instructed where the cut was to be made. My daughter, still in her first minute of breath was the chaotic newborn processing the lights, the space, the weightiness of her own limbs. As I moved to make the cut, her leg got in my way. I took my free hand, instinctively grabbed her leg and held it in place while I cut her umbilical cord. That first contact did not register until a few moments later when the reality of her presence became increasingly familiar, and I became stunned. My first touch was an act of protection. Protection from me.
“Will you come back down?” she asked. “I don’t want you to stay there.”
The question stunned me. I know what I said. I know what I communicated to her, that I would be the one to take Mac and Mace back to God. The phrasing was intentional to let her know I would handle it, and that it would be because I love my pups. However, what I did not anticipate, in the same way I did not register the first touch immediately, was the stun. I had seemingly with success, maneuvered through the conversation that goes with losing a pet, right into an existential inevitability that I too will have to go back to God someday, and my daughter won’t want me to stay.
“Yes, baby. I will come back down for you.”
”Ok.” She got down from the arm of the couch and made her way back into her childhood.
***
In recollecting this story, I had to find a way to include a small message about the Gospel. When my daughter asked me if I would come back down from Heaven after taking Mac and Mace there (when it’s their time), it made me consider the fact that Jesus did come down. I realized that in my love for my daughter, and my desire to be her Dad, that to tell her I would come back for her is ultimately a promise I cannot keep forever, but one that I’m willing to make and break because of how intense my love is for my kids.
This is almost like a parable, but Jesus came down from Heaven and through His work on the Cross, delivered you and me from the penalty of sin, our separation from the Father — God so loved the world… you.
